The Swan & the Jackal

by J. A. Redmerski

  “She’s the girlfriend,” Victor says and then looks at me. “And the reason he’s coming out of a daycare center is because he just dropped off their eighteen-month-old daughter.”

  A series of deep sighs moves lightly around the table.

  “I don’t like this already,” Izabel says. She leans against the back of her chair and crosses one leg over the other, afterwards her arms.

  “Are both parents targets?” I ask.

  “No,” Victor says. “Just the man. His name is Paul Fortright. The girlfriend, Kelly Bennings.”

  “OK, but why do all four of us need to take care of this?” Dorian asks. “I’m pretty sure any one of us can handle this one guy.”

  “And you could,” Victor says. “But we’re not the only organization that the client employed to get the job done. The one to pull it off first is the one that gets paid.”

  Niklas’s face spreads into a grin. “A competition. That’s my kind of work.”

  “Hmmm”—Dorian rubs the underside of his chin with the edge of his index finger, in thought—“so because the stakes are so high, does this mean we kill whoever gets in our way? Rival operatives included?”

  “Especially rival operatives,” Victor confirms. “The payday is twenty thousand—not a lot—but the money isn’t why I took on this job.”

  “You took it because of the rival organization,” Izabel assumes. “It’s the perfect opportunity to draw them from the shadows.”

  “Precisely,” Victor says.

  “What happened to recruiting members of other organizations?” Dorian asks. “Don’t we need numbers?”

  “We have numbers,” I speak out and Victor nods, confirming that I’m on the right track. “And if recruiting is the only thing we demonstrate, other rival organizations will begin to fear us less, leaving only the leaders and their right hand men and women looking over their shoulders.”

  “Yes,” Victor says. “It’s time we start taking entire groups out and sending a message. In the past year after taking over the black market orders that we have, we’ve come across too many who have no loyalty. They’ll sell out their leaders and their entire organization at the drop of a few thousand dollars. I want future recruits to want to work for us, not because of how much they’re paid, and not only because of loyalty, but because they know we are the most dangerous and the most intolerant.”

  All heads around the table, including Woodard’s, nod simultaneously in agreement.

  Victor stands from the chair and straightens his suit jacket.

  “There is a kill preference,” he says, “though ours is different from our rivals. It’s how the clients will know which of us got there first.” He pushes his chair underneath the table and stands behind it. “A single shot to the back of the head,” he adds.

  “Well, that counts me out,” Izabel says disappointed. “I’d love to kill me some child molester.”

  “Sorry, Izzy,” Niklas taunts, knowing she hates his nickname for her, “but you’re not the best shot at the Round Table.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Niklas,” she snaps. “I could always practice on you.”

  Niklas smirks and places the unlit cigarette between his lips again.

  Victor’s eyes shut momentarily, appearing as though he has suddenly acquired a mild headache.

  Then he looks over at me.

  “The offer stands,” he says. “You can be notified if you’re needed. They may have no problem finding Paul Fortright without the girlfriend. She’s just a backup plan that likely won’t be utilized.”

  I shake my head. “I’ll go just in case,” I say and stand up as well. “Besides, I’ll feel better about already being there if I’m needed, especially if we have competition.”

  Victor nods, accepting my decision and probably agreeing with it. It strikes me somewhat odd that he would leave this decision up to me with so much at stake. That’s not like Victor Faust. While although he’s not a selfish, tyrant leader and he takes our well-being into careful consideration at all times, it’s still not like him to allow me such freedom on a job like this.

  “All the information you need,” Victor says, looking at each of us in turn, “is in the envelope. Keep me updated on all events. I’ll see you in no more than three days.”

  Everyone else stands from the table, all except for Woodard who isn’t sure what to do. His beady eyes dart around at all of us, taking in what’s expected of him by watching, and finally he follows suit.

  “James Woodard,” Victor says and jerks his head back subtly, “come with me.”

  Woodard swallows nervously again and stumbles around his chair as he walks away from the table. That guy’s going to have to grow a pair soon if he expects to survive with us, even if all he’s destined to do is sit behind a computer screen and be our eyes and ears over the information waves.

  By midday, I’m on a plane to Seattle and although normally I would be able to think of nothing but the anticipation of a possible interrogation, Cassia is all that’s on my mind.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cassia

  Greta retrieves my empty dinner dishes and sets them aside on the bottom step of the concrete staircase. She’s a wonderful cook. A wonderful person who has treated me with nothing but kindness since Fredrik introduced us. I think she worries more about me than I worry about myself.

  “Would you like dessert?” she asks. “There’s a fruit bowl upstairs in the fridge. I made it just how you like it, with honey and coconut.”

  I lay on the bed on my side, my hands fitted between my knees, the soft memory foam pillow crushed against my cheek. The chain around my ankle dangling over the side of the bed.

  I smile at Greta. “No thank you.”

  She approaches me with that motherly look she always gives when she’s about try to get me to open up to her. The bed moves gently as she sits down beside me. She brings my favorite blue and white tapestry quilt up from the end of the bed and drapes it over my exposed legs. The palm of her hand pats me lightly on the hip before sliding away.

  “I didn’t tell Fredrik,” I say in almost a whisper.

  “You didn’t tell him what?” Her voice is soft and kind.

  Staring out ahead of me, I let the memory move across my eyes again before finally telling Greta.

  “That I remember I used to love Connie Francis,” I say and suddenly my face breaks into a warm smile the more I picture the pieces of my old life. I laugh gently under my breath. “And my friend who lived across the hall—I think her name was Lanie—she thought it was funny I listened to that old stuff.” I adjust my head so that I can see Greta next to me. A bright smile has etched deep lines around her mouth and drawn out crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes.

  She pats my hip again.

  “I love Connie Francis,” she says, beaming. “She’s one of my favorites. Do you remember what made you start listening to her?”

  My gaze falls out ahead again. “No, I don’t remember that much. But I can’t help but think it’s more than that. Maybe I didn’t just listen to her music, but that I might’ve…,”—I blush inwardly at the thought—“That I might’ve performed it somewhere. I don’t know. It’s ridiculous, I’m sure.”

  “Hey, maybe not,” Greta says, “I don’t see any reason why that couldn’t be true. Surely you can sing.”

  “What makes you think that?” I ask smiling in an unbelieving manner.

  Greta shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. Just a hunch I guess. Maybe you’ll sing one of her songs for me someday.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” I say and feel my cheeks warm with a blush.

  I hear the central heat hum to life amid the sudden silence between us and then the warm air filtering through the two vents in the ceiling.

  “Why didn’t you tell him?” she asks quietly.

  The smile fades from my face as I stare out ahead, thinking only of Fredrik now.

  “Because I wanted him to tell me more about his life. And he did. But it was
n’t enough.” I pause and sigh deeply. “I wanted him to tell me about Seraphina. Anything about her. I think he owes me that.”

  “Did you ask him again?”

  Shaking my head against the pillow I say, “No. In fact, I even told him I didn’t care to know about her anymore. I guess I had hoped he might have a change of heart if I…it was stupid of me. I just don’t understand his…obsession with that woman. And I don’t like it.”

  “Cassia?” Greta’s voice is careful and motherly. “I don’t mean to question your heart, but why do you care so much for him? A man who took you from your life, who keeps you chained in a basement. I guess I just have a hard time understanding your mindset.” She lays her hand on my hip again but this time doesn’t move it away. “I understand Stockholm syndrome. And for a long time I thought that you were a classic case, but…”

  I feel her eyes on me and I look over at her. When she doesn’t continue right away, I raise my body from the bed and sit upright, looking directly at her with a feeling of impatience in the pit of my stomach.

  Another moment of quiet passes between us.

  “But Fredrik employed me only a week after he brought you here,” she finally goes on, “and you weren’t afraid of him, Cassia. Even with Stockholm syndrome, there’s usually still a lot of fear that early after a kidnapping. You showed absolutely none. At least not toward Fredrik.”

  “What do you mean?” I peer in at her with curiosity and determination. “I was afraid of you?”

  She nods. “At first, yes. Cassia, you were so traumatized when I first met you. You talked in your sleep. You mentioned Seraphina’s name.” She looks away from me and I get the feeling she’s deciding whether or not to tell me anymore, as though she’s already said too much.

  “What is it, Greta? What are you not telling me?”

  Her bony shoulders rise and fall underneath her light pink button-up top. Her weathered hands move restlessly within her lap.

  “Don’t tell Fredrik that I said these things to you. Because I’ve never told him any of this.”

  I shake my head, eyes wide with anticipation, my heart pounding in my fingertips as I eagerly await her words.

  “I believe you were very close to Seraphina,” she says and it wrenches my stomach. “I don’t know how close, but you know her and you know her well. And you’re terrified of her. I think it’s why you’re not afraid of Fredrik, or of being imprisoned here.” As her words, which I feel deep inside of me to be true, are sinking into my mind like missing puzzle pieces, she asks, “You don’t want to leave here, do you, Cassia?”

  Absently, I shake my head, my mind still trying to accept all of these things she’s saying to me.

  “No,” I admit, “I’m afraid to leave this place. I feel safe here. I don’t know why, but I do.”

  Greta nods and then pats the top of my bare foot pulled up onto the bed.

  “But why wouldn’t he want me to know these things?”

  “I’m not sure,” she says distantly, “but I think in a way…he doesn’t really want you to remember. Fredrik has something with Seraphina that he needs to settle. I know this. I’ve seen that look in a man’s eyes before. Nothing is going to stop him from finding that woman and taking care of whatever it is he needs to take care of. But…Fredrik also has another look that I’ve seen in a man before.”

  She stops.

  “What look, Greta?” I lean toward her, eager for her to say it. I place my hand on hers. “Tell me. What look?”

  Her lined blue eyes appear conflicted as if she still isn’t quite sure of it herself.

  “The one when a man knows he’s going to have to give something up that he doesn’t want to, for something else.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  And truly I don’t. For a fleeting moment, I thought maybe she meant that Fredrik was falling in love with me, and that he knew he’d have to let me go once he found Seraphina because she is the love of his life. But I quickly realized that I was wrong as something dark and sad appeared in her eyes and has been lingering there since, making me believe that the truth is something far more terrible.

  “I’m not sure, but I think that’s why maybe he doesn’t want you to remember,” she goes on. “As if in the beginning, you were just a means to an end, but now things are different. Very different.”

  She forces a smile and stands up from the bed.

  “Honestly, I don’t know, Cassia. All I do know is that I don’t like it that he keeps you down here. But I’ve never seen him hurt you. It’s very evident to me that he’s protecting you. He knows what Seraphina is capable of and if he didn’t keep you here, you might be dead. But at the same time he needs you to find her. He’s protecting you, but he’s using you, too.”

  My hands have been shaking lightly and I’m only now realizing it. I cross my legs Indian-style on the bed strategically so as not to hurt my bound ankle, and I fold my hands together in my lap to steady them.

  “She tried to kill me the night Fredrik took me from the shelter,” I say distantly. “I know in my heart she set the building on fire. But I got away by climbing down the fire escape. I vaguely remember falling a short distance and hitting my head. I remember seeing her. She even spoke to me. But she couldn’t kill me there because I was out in the open.” I run my hands through the top of my hair, feeling mentally exhausted by all of this.

  I stop. “I hate thinking about this stuff.”

  Greta changes the atmosphere in the room with that big smile of hers and a look of excitement in her eyes.

  “I’ve got an idea,” she says, holding up a bony index finger.

  She leaves me sitting on the bed and moves her way across the room toward the staircase. “I’ll be right back,” she says just before she heads up.

  A few minutes later, the giant television on the wall across from me comes to life. I feel the smile flee my face in an instant and a metaphorical fist collapses around my stomach. My breath hitches and my hands begin to shake and all I want to do is curl myself up neatly into my favorite corner. All of this is the initial reaction to whenever that television comes on because of the things that Fredrik sometimes forces me to watch. But reluctantly my body begins to calm, and instead of seeking out the corner, I get up from the bed and walk toward the television instead, the chain around my ankle shuffling nosily on my way.

  The screen freezes on what looks like a web page. A few seconds later, light from the hallway on the upper floor spills out on the steps as Greta opens the door and descends them. She’s carrying some kind of flat electronic device on the palm of her hand with a brightly lit screen that illuminates the colors and lines in her face amid the surrounding darkness of the staircase now that the door has been closed.

  “Fredrik uses this thing sometimes,” she says looking down at the screen somewhat uncertain about her ability to use it properly. “He told me never to touch it, so let’s keep this between us, OK?”

  I bring my hand to my mouth and press my thumb and index finger together making a zipping motion horizontally across my lips. “Not a word,” I say with a smile.

  Greta moves her finger over the device and the television screen changes. She types in ‘Connie Francis’ in the YouTube search box and a row of videos appears. Immediately, I know what Greta’s intentions are, and instead of making me nervous like it did before, my chest tingles with excitement and spreads outward through all of my limbs like a rush of heat.

  I practically squeal when she clicks on Fallin’, and I have no idea why.

  Greta’s smile widens when she looks at me.

  “I won’t take no for an answer,” she says and I know exactly what she wants me to do.

  “Let’s have some fun for a change,” she adds, setting the device on the bottom step just after hitting play.

  And as if I’ve performed this song time and time again like a professional, the second the music starts playing loudly through the speakers in the ceiling, my body and mind fall right into it without h
esitation.

  Fredrik

  Music begins to stream loudly from my pants pocket and every pair of eyes, including Kelly Bennings’, who we apprehended less than an hour ago, turns my way.

  Dorian looks at me with a curiously raised brow.

  “Really?” he mocks. “That’s your ringtone?” Laughter ensues.

  A knot lodges in the center of my throat. That’s not a ringtone, but I can’t tell anyone here that. And all I can think about is what the hell is going on back in Baltimore and how I managed to begin an interrogation without turning my phone to silent beforehand.

  Izabel, trying to keep a straight face and doing a horrible job, walks up to me and glances momentarily down at my pocket with the humorous skirting of her eyes.

  She cracks a smile and purses her lips. “I knew you were a man of class, Fredrik,” she teases me, “but I didn’t know you were that classy.”

  I’m glad Niklas isn’t inside the warehouse to add to their banter.

  Dorian bursts into laughter as the song—and Cassia’s stunning voice matching it—carries on like a beacon in my pocket, alerting everyone to my dark secret and precisely where to find it.

  “Better answer that, man,” Dorian chimes in. “Might be your boyfriend.”

  I really want to torture that guy. Just for fun.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Kelly says from the wooden chair we tied her wrists and ankles to just moments ago. “Who are you fucking people?!” she shrieks. “Answer me!”

  Everyone ignores her just as we’ve been doing since we kidnapped her from the parking lot of a grocery store and stuffed her in the trunk of our loaner car.

  I feel Izabel’s hand rest on my arm and I look over at her. She’s no longer smiling, maybe because even after their jokes, I’ve shown no indication of finding any of it smile-worthy. She tilts her head gently and looks at me in a concerned manner.

  “Why don’t you take a break,” she suggests, nodding toward the door that leads outside. “Answer that call and deal with whatever you need to. This can wait a little longer.”