by Anderson, S
Which makes it five times scarier than something as violent as a bullet.
Maybe that’s why I prefer to shoot things. I like to give someone the heads up that Death’s on their back. Sure, it’s barely a second. They die before it really registers with their brain. But it’s announced and clear. There’s no bullshit about a bullet. It cuts through skin, rips open tissue, and spills blood in its wake.
I like that. No bullshit.
This crap that they feed into my veins here is pure Grade-A manure.
I count seconds in my mind and watch the ceiling. I don’t know why I do it. I don’t even pay attention to the number of seconds. It has to be a side effect of the drugs. When I finally stop counting, I find myself seated on the floor in the white room, no awareness of being moved.
The door opens and closes, and Nikolai is looming over me with a glare.
I hate this part.
“Not today,” I say. “Please. Not this. Not today.”
He huffs. “You knew if you came back I wouldn’t go soft on you.”
“Sure,” I say with a nod. “Let’s do it again.”
True to form, he’s across the room, tossing me to the wall like I’m a shoe and not a grown woman. I don’t fight him. This isn’t real. There’s no point in fighting him.
I feel bones break in my chest, feel the sting and taste copper in my mouth as my nose bleeds.
He’s shouting about how pathetic I am, reminding me that I’m nothing to no one. I’m useless. I’m a waste.
I should put everyone out of their misery and just kill myself.
That suggestion triggers a response in me.
He throws me again, and I see the silver revolver on the floor by the door. It’s so clever to show up right when I need it.
I crawl to it, ignoring his shouts of protest.
He told me to do it.
I press the barrel to my temple, closing my eyes.
“Mak!”
The sound of Heinrich’s voice cuts through the room. It stalls me. I open my eyes and see only Nikolai in the room with me. There are no speakers in here, unless they blend into the walls.
I don’t think the simulation is over, but Nikolai isn’t trying to kick my ass anymore. He’s on his knees, breathing like his lungs are stuck on 90 mph. His eyes terrify me. The contempt is gone—replaced with fear.
He watches me with so much horror that I lower the gun.
That settles him a little. He glances around. He reminds me of a kid waking up from a nightmare.
“This one was real,” he says. It’s low, mumbled more to himself than anything else.
This one was real.
I almost really shot myself.
Goddamn, I can’t catch a break.
The door opens and closes, and Heinrich is standing inches away from me in the next second.
He’s smiling.
I feel sick to my stomach.
“Wonderful job, Subject B,” Heinrich says.
I hate it when he praises me.
He walks to Nikolai, inspecting him. He shines a light in Nikolai’s eyes, and my own narrow as if it’s my eyes he’s surveying.
“Excellent as always, Subject A,” Heinrich says. “I think it’s safe to say the damage from your previous mission has been corrected.”
Damage. Corrected.
I didn’t damage Nikolai by trying to break him from this spell. This isn’t right. Everything about this place is wrong.
Heinrich returns to my side, holding his hand out. I’m half tempted to use the gun and shoot us all. I toy with the hammer.
“It’s not loaded, Subject B.”
Teasing asshole.
I drop the gun into his waiting hand. “Thank you. Now please stand.”
I follow his command. I don’t know any more if it’s real compulsion or if I’m just incapable of coming up with my own thoughts.
I wipe the blood from my upper lip, shocked to find my nose doesn’t hurt.
Heinrich must notice my surprise because he laughs. “Side effect of the chemicals.”
That’s why Nikolai healed so quickly.
The door opens again and hands close around my arms, steering me out into the hall. I stare at the ground. Just like counting the seconds before, this isn’t something I consciously tell myself to do. I’ve somehow been conditioned to do it.
He doesn’t want me get a layout of the building.
Heinrich walks in front of me. I see his shiny black shoes for a few seconds, and then he rushes forward out of my sight.
I shuffle on bare feet, thinking that the floor is cold.
I can hear voices ahead of me in the hall. Heinrich is speaking.
The man loves to hear himself talk.
“Whoa.”
My attention is drawn to that low exclamation. I peek up as the guys in white suits lead me around the corner, seeing a face I never expected in this place.
Marko.
Everything inside of me stalls.
I’m seeing things.
Heinrich is in my head, making me see things.
He knew I was protecting Marko that night in New York. That’s how he knows I would recognize his face.
I’m forced down another hall before I can really process what just happened. That couldn’t have been Marko standing there, talking to Heinrich like they were old pals.
Marko has nothing to do with this world.
Marko’s the only safe place away from all of this.
Isn’t he?
It’s midnight in the middle of Paris. Snow’s lightly falling. I’m watching the white flurries attach to the tips of the iron gate in front of me.
I’m not sure how I ended up here.
I remember the plane ride, the walk along the river, even the mission that sent me to this city, but there’s this empty spot inside of me that’s eating up the reason why I’m here.
Focus, Poppy.
I keep my hands tucked in the pockets of my black trench coat. My right hand grips the .45 glock I was issued this morning by Ace.
“They want it brutal,” he'd told me. “As public as possible.”
I know he meant the discovery of the body needed to be public, but I’m momentarily lost in the idea of killing in the midst of a crowd.
It would be thrilling.
The control, the focus, knowing everyone around me trusted me while I took one of their lives.
You’re a sick fucking person, Penelope Vincent.
A light melody of laughter echoes from a distance to my left. I hear several pairs of high heels click against the cobblestone road.
What’s it like being out on the town with friends, having fun?
Doesn’t matter. I’m not here on a social call. I don’t really have any friends.
I check my watch—five more minutes until I go into play.
The group of girls gets closer, and I see two men in between four girls. I watch them, daring them to see me.
Convert means you were never there, Poppy.
They cross behind the car I’m standing beside. And the two girls closest to me trade space with one of the guys. He cuts his eyes my way just as I look to him.
He sees me.
I’m not concerned he’ll remember me. It’s dark, and the black silk scarf wrapped around my head conceals me.
I continue to stare at him as his company turns down the small alley across from me. He glances back a few times, even misses a step as one of the girls grabs his arm.
Poor kid must find me attractive.
I spare a few seconds to consider his looks. He’s gorgeous, no two ways about that. He’s also very young, barely in his twenties, if that. He wears expensive clothes, probably has a trust fund that would make a girl’s head spin.
As if, Junior.
I check my watch again.
Game time.
I walk to the gate, watching the area on the other side. It’s a typical park—grass, benches, and trees. The walkway curves onto a small bridge over a
duck pond in the center.
Hope that’s public enough for them.
I assess my objective and walk through the archway at the center of the gate. I opted to not use a silencer. It’ll make getting away without being seen difficult, but it’ll also guarantee this thing gets noticed immediately.
I pass a collection of stone benches, imagining families sharing a picnic in this park. I wonder if Vixen ever came here as a kid. She grew up in Paris, after all. This could’ve been one of her family’s regular stops.
Vixen’s family.
The memory of another silver star added to the wall of no names fuels the anger I need to tap into for what I’m about to do. I’ve only done this two other times and both of those were with rifles from rooftops.
This time is different. Not just because it’s face-to-face. Not just because I was given the mission only twelve hours ago. Not because it’s in the snow instead of the desert. And not because it’s not some political official I’m gunning down.
This one is personal.
My heart pounds so hard my hands shake with the release of adrenaline.
Get that under control, Poppy.
I walk to the end of the bridge and wait, counting my breaths. It doesn’t help to calm my nerves.
Nothing can do that now.
“Who wants it?" Secretary Williams had asked. We all sat in a semi-circle, digesting the news of Vixen’s death. “If we find the bastard who killed her, who wants the kill?”
My hand was in the air before I realized it.
One year later, and I’m standing in the freezing cold, waiting for a murderer.
In the distance I hear the faint sound of footsteps. I continue to count.
Five.
Ten.
Fifteen breaths later, I watch as a hulking shadow stops at the other side of the bridge.
The cover is easy. I’m here to sell him intel on some agents investigating a newly formed terrorist cell, massing across Europe. It’s what Vixen was assigned to. At least, that’s what Ace told me.
What’s the range of your gun?
The glock has a fifty-five yard effective firing range. That’s nothing compared to what I’m used to. I could probably shoot from here and take him out. But I know this guy can’t be stupid enough to just let himself get shot.
I don’t have to see it to know he’s got a gun trained on me, too.
He got the drop on Vix. That’s enough to warn me that I have to control this situation.
I take a deep breath.
One step.
Two steps.
Three. Four.
He matches my strides, meeting at the center of the bridge in six steps.
I don’t want to notice anything about him, so I focus on his eyes. Every part of me is covered except for my eyes. It seems like a good balance to ignore every other part of him.
He’s nothing. He’s just a target.
My stomach knots, and I taste acid in the back of my throat.
Stay down, lunch.
“The terms,” he says, holding up a briefcase that I see out of the corner of my eye.
I never take my eyes off of him.
I’m surprised that he has an American accent. I don’t know what I expected. I don’t have a defined vision of evil. We’re all evil in some way.
The gun is cold in my hand. Our breaths create fog in the air between us. There’s no light except that from the half-moon above us.
Focus, Poppy.
“I…” My voice cracks as the reality of what I’m about to do sets in. “I could only get you one name.”
His eyes narrow as anger creeps into his stare.
My heart’s thudding so hard I can’t hear anything besides my own pulse. The gun catches on the corner of my pocket.
“It better be a good goddamn name, then,” he says.
I know right then that I’m going to die. If don’t shoot him, he’s going to kill me. He wants the name and then to back out of the deal.
I start to speak, and I taste the bile in my mouth. I swallow, hard, finally working the gun free.
Get your shit on lock, Poppy.
He’s impatient, huffing like he might just shoot me without the name.
“Oh, it’s good,” I say, taking a deep breath. The world slows down, everything narrowing to his eyes as I pull out the gun. I aim, saying, “Monique Lacroix.”
His eyes grow wide just for a second. In the next, I pull the trigger.
I see the bullet slip through his forehead in slow motion. I see dark blood and chunks of his head splatter away from behind him. It falls like the snow as he drops to the ground.
I never look at the rest of him. My knees shake, and I lose my battle with my stomach. Luckily, I make it to the edge of the bridge and puke into the water. It’s half-frozen, and the vomit sits on the surface like a sign of my weakness.
Dunno that I’ll ever get used to this.
Sirens are already wailing. A woman screams. And I’m running. I tear the scarf from around my face, tucking it in my pocket. I’m out of sight, ducking down the alley the kids strolled through earlier, before the police are on scene.
I don’t have an exact exit plan. This isn’t a sanctioned assassination.
It’s a vengeance hit.
Ace told me to lay low and sneak out of the city tomorrow morning. It’s not really the best idea, but it’s all I’ve got.
I get a few blocks away and wipe down the gun with the scarf. I toss it in the next trashcan I pass. It’s quiet down this block, practically empty. I keep moving.
The key to staying alive is to keep moving, Poppy.
My eyes sting.
I tell myself to push through it. Dwelling is only going to get me in trouble right now. The sirens stop, and I know they’re inspecting the scene. Soon they’ll fan out and look for anyone suspicious.
I hear laughter ahead of me, followed by the loud lump of bass. Picking up my pace, I find a nightclub with a crowd that looks like clones of the kids from before. I have nothing on me but my coat. No money. No ID.
I’m fucked.
I move closer to the club, weaving through the small groups of people, standing around talking and smoking. The bouncer at the door is huge. I see him turn two people away before I give up on the idea of sneaking past him. I work toward the edge of the crowd, keeping my face down.
The sirens have started up again. They’ll drive by soon.
I watch the street, my heart thumping to the beat of the techno music spilling out from the open door. I catch the glimmer of blue lights in the distance and turn away, slamming into something solid. “Whoa, easy sweetheart.”
That voice.
It stalls my heart. “Nick?”
I look up. Snowflakes land in my eyes, and I shake my head to clear my sight.
Not Nick.
He’s tall, and pale, with dark hair. In the right light, he might be Nick—long ago, long before I knew him. He has the same accent.
I blink a few more times, clearing Nikolai’s memory from my mind, and realize it’s the kid who was staring at me near the park.
He smiles. “I’ll be whoever you want me to be, my dear.”
The siren cuts through the noise from the club, spurring me into action without thinking. I rise up on my tiptoes and kiss him. If he’s stunned, or offended, he gets over it fast, throwing himself into the exchange with eagerness. My head spins a little. The adrenaline is still pumping through me, and I’ve been on edge from the second Secretary Williams told me they’d found Vixen’s murderer.
I groan when he wraps his arms around me, deepening the kiss. He feels like Nick. Our height difference makes me feel small in his embrace. He even smells like Nick.
It’s been four years. I haven’t even fooled around with a guy since then.
What am I doing?
I pull away from the kiss, keeping my hands around his neck as I try to catch my breath.
“They’re gone,” he whispers in my ear.
&n
bsp; “Who?”
He presses his lips to the side of my neck. “The police. I’m guessing you were running from them, right?”
He leans back far enough to look me in the eyes. He’s a cocky son of a bitch. I can tell just from the smirk on his face.
I want to slap that look away.
This is stupid. I fucked up. Not only am I in the middle of a crowd of people, but this kid can also place me at the scene before the shooting, and he can identify me as hiding from the police after.
I need to kill him.
My tactics shift immediately.
I lean my weight into him, smiling that smile that I know always worked on Nick as I ask, “You got a room nearby?”
Junior is even prettier close up, especially when he flirts. His hands slip south of my waist, forming to my ass. He’s got impressively long fingers.
“Just so happens I own the hotel up the road this week.”
He owns the hotel up the road this week. What in the hell does that even mean?
“Can I request a private tour?”
Of all the agents, I ranked lowest in the art of manipulation by way of flirting. Vixen and Ace tied for most adept at taking down their mark with their charms. I could never pick up the knack for it, but for some reason, the kid agrees to take me to his hotel.
He keeps his arm wrapped around me as he steers us down the block. Thankfully, we escape unnoticed by any of the other patrons. I have enough blood on my hands tonight. I don’t want to add more needless killings on top of it.
It’s going to be bad enough to kill this kid.
We walk in a straight line for five minutes before crossing the street to a small but expensive looking hotel.
“There are only twenty rooms in this place, can you believe that?” he asks as he swipes a keycard at a terminal by the front door. The lobby is empty as we walk to an elevator a few feet from the door. I keep my head down, angling away from any corners that might contain security cameras. “Last time I let my father talk me into coming to Paris.”
I don’t ask him about his father, or why, or how he can buy out an entire hotel. I don’t want to know anything about him.
I just need to kill him.
He punches the number three—the top floor. It’s a short ride, made to feel longer by the intensity in his stare. He doesn’t ask me my name. He doesn’t ask to know specifics about what I was doing, or what we’re about to do now.
