His Sword

by Holly Hart

  “I will talk to uncle about it. Maybe he will pay me commission, eh?”

  I grin back at him. “And maybe then you’ll pick up a check once in awhile.”

  He laughs and takes another swig of vodka.

  “And take away your chance to show everyone how generous you are?” he says. “Why would I do that to you, tovarishch?”

  Maks kicks off his Givenchy loafers and stretches out on the full length of the sofa. From the breast pocket of his sportcoat, he produces a small fabric sleep mask that he slips over his eyes. Finally he clasps his hands behind his head and is snoring softly in less than a minute.

  I chuckle and turn to look out the porthole at the cloudless sky. Of all the people I’ve ever met, precisely one carries a sleep mask on his person at all times.

  I half consider a nap myself – it’ll be a long day in New York, especially with the time difference – but I know sleep will elude me. The Chase keeps tugging at my mind, like an exposed wound, taunting me.

  Surely it can’t really be a thing? Perhaps Maks – half-drunk – completely misunderstood an overheard conversation. Surely that’s a far more plausible scenario?

  Sleep eventually creeps around the edges of my consciousness as I ponder the Chase, until it finally overtakes me and drags me down into its depths.

  I dream of a redheaded girl who’s smarter than me and makes my heart soar.

  Chapter Seven

  7. CARSON

  The scent of her shampoo is strong in my nostrils as I run my tongue around her earlobe. It’s a special kind, made specifically for kinky-haired redheads, she always tells me. I tell her it’s actually for women who dye their hair red, not for real redheads, and she just sticks her tongue out at me.

  That’s circular reasoning, she says, but only because she’s distracted by my attention to her ear.

  It’s a logical fallacy, yes, but not circular reasoning. I can’t be bothered to point it out right now.

  I know this is a dream, even as it unfolds. This never actually happened. Cassie and I made out, yes, and we had Socratic arguments, but never at the same time. I hold onto the feeling of being close to her as long as I can, burying my face in her neck, hearing her hot breath against my ear.

  But it doesn’t last.

  It never does. I always end up back here, in this empty living room, with this stupid corsage in my hand. I look around the room at the emptiness there. In the dream there’s dust on the wood moldings and the windowsills, cobwebs in the corners. That’s not what really happened, either. It’s just my mind painting a portrait of the loneliness I felt when I walked into that deserted house.

  When I discovered she was gone.

  And, just like always, I’m back in the gym at good old Oak Grove High, surrounded by kids in their best suits and the prom dresses that their parents can’t really afford. They’re all laughing at me, laughing at the brainiac kid who got stood up by his brainiac girlfriend. Couldn’t even get the geekiest girl in school to come with you, huh?

  Now, just like always, I come to the realization that all my success, my money and my body and everything that came after high school, was just a dream. I’m going to sign up for the army and be just like Dad, marching to orders and moving to every fucking Podunk town in America. This is my life, forever and ever.

  And Cassie wasn’t even real, she never existed, I just made her up. That’s why she disappeared that night. There was never a girl who understood me, who stretched me in every advanced placement class, who shared books with me and told me I was handsome and held me so tight that I actually believed that maybe, someday, everything would turn out okay.

  Nothing but an empty living room on prom night, and a corsage that I bought for someone who wasn’t there.

  My stomach drops suddenly and I’m back in the Gulfstream, clutching the arms of my leather seat.

  “Sorry about that, sirs,” Patrick says over the intercom. “Just a little turbulence from a squall off Nova Scotia. That should be the worst of it.”

  I breathe deeply, taking in as much recycled air as I can fit into my lungs before letting it out slowly. I’m shaken, and not from the bumpy ride.

  The dream again. The one where everything I have today is just a teenage fantasy and I’m trapped in the life my father lived. It always takes me several minutes to shake off the effects and remind myself that yes, I am Carson Drake, billionaire playboy.

  I’m not that kid that everyone laughed at on prom night. Nor the boy who was abandoned by the girl he loved.

  I’m different now. Better. And everything will be all right.

  I sigh and run my hands down my face, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes.

  “Whuh?” Maks grunts from the sofa. He sits up and pulls off the ridiculous sleep mask. “Are we home?”

  “Close, but not quite,” I say.

  He lets out a huge yawn and reaches for the vodka. “I dreamed that I was the king of England,” he says.

  “Maksim.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I want to find out more about what we talked about.”

  He brightens. “You are sure?”

  “I’m sure,” I say.

  Let the Chase begin.

  Chapter Eight

  8. CASSANDRA

  “What are the three greatest words in the English language?”

  It’s not exactly the greeting I’m expecting when Tricia opens the door to her apartment, but I can play along.

  “I don’t know,” I say as she ushers me in. “I love you?”

  “Please,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Wine. Sweatpants. Popcorn.” She counts out each one on a separate finger.

  “Let me guess: you have all of them?”

  “In spades.”

  She leads me into the living room. Her place is a lot like her: bold and funky. The furniture is an eclectic mix of antiques and garage sale chic. A Matisse print and a portrait of dogs playing poker share space on the wall of the dining area.

  In another place, in another time, it would look tacky. But not with Tricia.

  Here, now, it fits.

  I take a seat on an ancient sofa that sinks almost to the floor as it accepts my weight, leaving my knees almost under my chin. Tricia flops down in an overstuffed armchair that’s covered in a material that resembles fur, assuming there are pink-haired mammals somewhere in the world.

  “I hope you’re okay with pinot grigio,” she says, pouring us each a glass of the straw-colored liquid. “I’m a sucker for a sale.”

  “If it’s cold and it has alcohol in it, I’m okay with it,” I say, offering up my wine glass in an ironic cheer. “Besides, our days of buying wine on sale are rapidly coming to an end.”

  Tricia pulls her oversized plastic bowl of popcorn into her lap with childlike glee.

  “Does that mean what I think it means?” she asks, eyes glowing.

  “It does indeed. Miranda Winthrop said if we can put up $3.5 million, Tate Capital will put up the rest for a two-thirds stake.”

  She lets out a long breath and shakes her head. “It just seems like so much. I mean, all I have is a little equity in the building and what I have in retirement savings. That’s not even, what, two hundred thousand.”

  “I told you to leave it to me.” I tilt my glass back and feel the chill glide down my throat, taste the fruity tartness on the back of my tongue. That’s the stuff.

  “It’s easy to say that. It’s something else to do it.”

  “I also told you I have someone on the hook who’s looking to buy the goodwill in my consulting business. My client list is worth $3 million on its own.”

  That’s a flat-out lie, but Tricia never needs to know. I’ve been telling lies for a living for almost eight years now; I’m an expert in it.

  But I am – partly – telling the truth. I will have the money soon; it just won’t be coming from the sale of my business.

  After all, how could it? The business doesn’t exist. It never did, outside of a P
O box address and a phone number that goes straight to voicemail.

  “Besides,” I say, lifting my glass in a toast. “Miranda is absolutely gaga about your shop.”

  “She said that?”

  “Well, not those exact words, but the sentiment was there.”

  She grins and drains her glass. I follow suit and pour us two more. We both stuff a handful of popcorn into our mouths and chew noisily, then giggle like girls.

  “So,” I say. “Are you ready to be a big shot?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I mean, I come from a working class family. My parents freaked out when I told them I wanted to open an ice cream shop. To this day they think I should drop it all and try to find a government job.”

  Government job. My stomach cramps a bit at that. I’m currently in the process of leaving a government job, even though my name isn’t officially on any government records. Anywhere. No 401K, no benefits package.

  “My dad works for the government,” I say. That much is true.

  “There’s something to be said for a steady paycheck and job security.”

  Job security only works when you know you’ll be home safe at the end of the workday. I never knew from one day to the next whether I’d even be alive, let alone still have a job.

  I munch on some more popcorn and wash it down with more pinot. “I think there’s something limiting in that, though. You give up something in exchange for that security.”

  “What do you mean, give up?”

  “Jobs are about conforming to standards and following rules, especially with government. You give up your creativity, your individuality.”

  She nods. “I see what you’re saying. I can’t picture you ever working for government. You’re way too smart to make a damn fool move like that.”

  I’m terrible at taking compliments, always have been. And, like always, I’m still blushing. But Tricia’s right: a government job that wasn’t in the CIA probably would have driven me around the bend. Using my wits is what makes me happy, gives me purpose. Makes me feel like I’m doing something important.

  The problem with the job, of course, is all the horrors that are part and parcel of trying to keep America safe for democracy.

  Tricia gives me an appraising look. “I wonder what you were like in high school,” she says. “I bet that gorgeous red mop and your big brain made you the most popular girl in school. Am I right?”

  I smile ruefully. “You couldn’t be more wrong. We moved around a lot, so I was always the new girl. And despite what you may think, the other kids tend to hate you when you blow the grading curve with your scores. And this?” I take a handful of my curls. “It was a lot redder and a lot frizzier in those days. And I was built like an artist’s model.”

  “You mean curvy?”

  “No, I mean like one of those featureless wooden figures that they pose into different positions. Calling my breasts mosquito bites would be overselling them.”

  Tricia giggles and takes another sip. I down the rest of mine in a gulp. Thinking about those days always makes me feel uncomfortable.

  “Did you have a boyfriend?” she asks, leaning forward and putting her elbows on her knees. “Give me the dirty details!”

  I break eye contact and look away. Suddenly my heart hurts.

  “For awhile,” I say. “But there wasn’t anything dirty. And it didn’t last.”

  “So you two didn’t…?”

  I blush again. “No. I’ve never actually… you know.”

  Her eyes widen. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “I just never had the time for a relationship,” I blurt. “And I never found the right guy again.”

  How the hell did we end up in this discussion? This is the absolute last thing I want to be talking about right now, given my circumstances.

  “Again? So you’re saying High School Boy was the right guy?”

  “Look, can we talk about something else, please?” Anything else.

  Tricia gets out of her chair and sits next to me on the sofa. She takes my hands in hers.

  “Honey, the ‘losing it’ part is no great shakes,” she says. “But once you get that out of the way, it’s amazing what can happen. I mean, ah-may-zing.”

  Once you get that out of the way. I won’t be in suspense much longer in that department. I guess that means I’ll be able to move on to the ah-may-zing part sooner. That’s a positive thing.

  Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I’ll start to believe it.

  Chapter Nine

  9. CASSANDRA

  My apartment is a study in contrast with Tricia’s. Where hers is all kitsch and kook, mine is all wood and glass.

  Functional. Modern. Sleek. Efficient.

  It’s funny how a home can be a reflection of its occupant.

  The clock said midnight the last time I looked, and the buzz of the wine has long since worn off. I’m pretty sure Tricia had two glasses to each of mine, judging by how dozy she was when I left. The train ride home was enough to sober me up and get me in the right mindset for what I have to do.

  I chose this apartment – or, I should say, it was chosen for me by my father – because it has a so-called panic room. It’s a secure space that’s not noticeable from the outside, designed for paranoid people who are worried about home invasion.

  In my case, it’s my office. Read into that what you will. At least my office until I decided to leave work behind two months ago.

  I reach into my bedroom closet and tap the back wall, activating a spring-loaded switch that causes the false back to slide into the wall. Anyone watching me from the outside would see me disappear into a wardrobe that shouldn’t be big enough for me to fit.

  The office itself is purely functional, without a hint of style. It’s about eight feet square, with a simple metal desk, an office chair, my CIA laptop and a thirty-six-inch monitor affixed to the wall. The walls themselves are covered in soundproof panels made of foam wrapped in dark gray fabric.

  It won’t make the cover of Style At Home, but it serves its purpose. Hopefully it’s not as much a reflection of me as the rest of the apartment.

  I boot up my computer and open a Tor browser – a special program designed to access the “dark web,” a part of the Internet that even Google can’t find. Usually for good reason – they’re often used to sell drugs, weapons and… well, other things you don’t need to know about.

  I call up a text-based site I discovered through a dark web search a couple of months ago, and open a file marked “Chase.”

  I’ve read it half a dozen times already: there’s nothing new. General information, rules, contact names. I tried to trace it back to its source a few weeks ago in an attempt to find out who was behind it, but I just got bounced from one ISP address to another. Whoever set up the site had serious online security credentials.

  There’s no point going through it all again; I won’t learn anything new, and I wouldn’t change my mind if I did. So instead I call up the message board I’ve been instructed to use. I hit enter and green letters appear on a black screen: Your answer?

  This is the point of no return.

  Yes, I type.

  My finger hovers over the enter key for a full minute before I finally take a deep breath and press it.

  A green circle comes on the screen and spins for about thirty seconds. When it stops, another prompt: Enter account information. I type in the number of a bank account I set up in Grand Cayman, a haven for money that people don’t want to be found. Another green circle appears when I hit enter, another thirty seconds pass.

  More text on the screen: Account will be credited $250,000.00 USD per day until Chase is complete. Maximum term: 14 days.

  Now what?

  As if in answer to my question, a video file suddenly appears on the screen and auto starts. The camera is focused on a stunning blonde with long, satiny curls and bright red lipstick, sitting in a well-appointed parlor. Her dress probably cost more than I make in six m
onths.

  “Hello,” she purrs. She’s worked very hard to erase her Russian accent, but it can’t escape my trained ear. “If you’re seeing this, it means you’ve completed your registration for the Chase. Congratulations.”

  Thanks, sweetheart, I appreciate your sincerity.

  “This year’s Chase will begin at precisely 12:01 a.m. on July 30. You’ve already read the rules and obligations, so I won’t go over them here. You are required to submit the information requested within twenty-four hours. Please note that your registration is considered a binding contract by the administrators of the Chase.”

  She cocks her head slightly and leans closer to the camera.

  “Failure to meet your obligations will be considered breach of contract and will be dealt with accordingly.”

  Of course it will.

  People who offer you large sums of money, deposited into offshore bank accounts via the dark web aren’t exactly known for their laid-back attitudes over breaches of contract. I understand the consequences.

  “The Chase will end at midnight on August 13. If you avoid capture until then, the prize will be auctioned among the contestants. The proceeds of the sale will, naturally, be credited to your account.”

  The prize.

  For better or worse, that’s what my virginity is now: a prize to be won by someone with more money than common sense.

  The thought makes my stomach sink just a little bit. But I knew what I was getting into when I pressed that button.

  As for prizes, I’ve got my eye on my own, and I’ll win it with the help of the Chase.

  The blonde leans back in her chair and folds her hands on her lap.

  “You will be contacted on July 27 with more information.”

  She smiles, and as she does, I grab my phone off the desk and snap a photo of her on the screen. I don’t know why; instinct, I guess.

  “On behalf of my associates, I wish you luck.”

  The screen goes black.

  That’s all I’ll get until the twenty-seventh.

  Three days from now.