by Eve Langlais
The interior of the church vestibule had a musty smell. Age. God. Judgment. All in one place, weighing her sins. She had quite a few. Would the Christian God smite her for defiling this holy place?
She could hear organ music playing beyond the vestibule area. To the left and right more doors, two labeled with the universal signs of a man and a woman. Washrooms. The other said only Office in French. Another pair of doors beckoned straight ahead. They swung open, and she almost shot the man who peered out at her.
“You must be the bride.” The man inclined his head. “Everyone’s inside waiting.” He thrust a bunch of flowers at her. “Darren said to give you this.”
A bouquet of orchids. Her favorite flowers. He’d remembered.
She clutched them, wishing she could instead hold a knife or a gun. A weapon wouldn’t make her hands shake like these flowers did.
The man, an American with dark skin and short, curly hair, held open the doors and waited for her to step through. Time to stop dithering. She entered and immediately paused as she saw Darren standing at the head of the church in front of an altar covered in white cloth, wearing a tuxedo that fit him perfectly. The man looked good. Damned good. Especially when he smiled at her. It made her stomach roll.
This is really going to happen.
There was no one to walk her down the aisle. She could have used a helping hand. But admitting to weakness was never an option. She held herself straight, tried to remember to breathe. She barely heard the music over the roaring in her ears just as she played scant attention to the audience, a failure on her part. She should have been taking note of faces and posture, yet she only had eyes for Darren.
He loves me. And he’d arranged this marriage because of it. This wasn’t a plot for him. He wanted to do this.
Panic tried to claim her. It clawed, seeking a crack. Almost found one when the priest asked if anyone objected. What would happen if she raised her hand?
A ring, a cold band of metal he’d managed to acquire, slipped onto her finger like a vise that cut off circulation. She felt dizzy. Sick. She heard herself speaking words as if muffled underwater. “I do.”
There was more talking after that, a blur of color and sound, then a kiss. A toe-tingling kiss that made it all the more horrifyingly real.
She opened her eyes and saw Darren watching her. It was done. I’m his wife. People clapped, a few even whistled. More than expected.
Turning to the crowd, she looked out upon the two-dozen or so that had managed to come. Friends of Darren’s. Very few friends of hers. People fooled into attending a sham.
Does it have to be a sham?
He loved her. She loved him, too, even if she didn’t want to. Fought it. Because she knew that love would die.
Today. In a few minutes. Along with a few people most likely.
I could stop it.
There didn’t have to be blood spilled today.
There were papers to sign. As she wrote her name, her true name, in a big, sloppy scrawl on the document, a cake was wheeled in, a towering monstrosity with thick loops of icing and many plastic-looking flowers.
Darren entered his signature alongside hers.
It was done. They were married. She tucked the paper into her cleavage with a false smile. “Better keep that safe.”
“A treasure for me to discover later,” he murmured, wrapping his arm around her waist.
“Egads, look at those disgusting lovebirds,” someone said.
Her stomach churned.
“I have to use the ladies’ powder room.” Marina fled before Darren could say anything. Averted her gaze from that cake and its sugary coating. Fled past all those people, even the ones she knew, who pulled out cigarette packs and planned a group smoke. She swept past the indicator for the washroom, pausing only before a door marked Exit.
She looked back in the direction of the church proper, where Darren stood waiting.
Waiting for me. Once again, he’d wait for a long time because she wasn’t coming back. He was a job, and she’d just gotten it done. But could she really go through with the next step?
Sergei won’t understand. Sergei also didn’t have to live with the consequences.
With a sigh, she yanked the fire alarm, causing a siren to go off loudly. Only then did she exit the church.
A car waited, and she jumped into the passenger seat.
As Sergei sped off, he asked brusquely in Russian, “Did you sign the certificate?”
“I have it right here.” She tugged it out of hiding and almost ripped it as the bomb went off behind them.
Chapter Twenty
The moment the alarm went off—screaming its strident warning—Darren knew they had little time. Their plan to draw out the enemy had worked. Something had happened, perhaps not inside the church, maybe not even yet, but it was only a matter of time before danger struck. And he’d lost Marina.
I have to find her.
It didn’t matter that she could take care of herself. A man didn’t let his new wife face danger alone.
Darren raced down the church aisle, ignoring the audience. Unlike a civilian wedding, these people didn’t stupidly look around asking, “What’s happening?” or screaming. They moved with quick and quiet efficiency, scattering in as many directions as there were exits. If this were a trap, they stood a better chance in small groups. He also saw more than one gun come out. He had to wonder how many of them suspected that this wedding was meant to act as bait and trap. How many operatives had Harry posted outside?
Darren trusted that those present could figure shit out and chose to go find his new bride. Every second he didn’t see her reappear in her shimmering silver and black dress—which, while not traditional, did at least sport a billowy skirt—was a moment of miniature panic. Was she hurt? Dead?
He slammed into the woman’s washroom and paid no mind to the possibility of anyone being in there. “Marina!” he yelled, not receiving a reply, and the room with its handful of stalls was not big enough to hide her. The window was too small for her to use as an escape.
Where is she?
Harry poked his head in. “Get out. Now.”
He wanted to argue, but his friend’s intense order had him striding then running, following Harry to the red Exit sign at the end of the hall. They shoved out into an alley between the old cathedral and the building beside it. A wide space large enough for a single car and not much else.
“We should—” Harry never did finish his sentence. An explosion sounded. The building shook, and stray bits of masonry fell from above, deadly missiles that had them both plastering themselves flat against the wall.
In moments, the rain of destruction ended, but the alarm kept ringing and ringing as a hint of smoke perfumed the air.
Darren pushed away from the wall. “Holy shit. That was close.”
“Too close,” Harry agreed with a grimace. “Thank goodness for that alarm.”
“No kidding. A good thing you had your men do a sweep and found that bomb, or we’d be meat chunks right about now.”
“Wasn’t my guys. We were all in the church with you.”
“Tell me you had rooftop snipers in place.”
“Was I supposed to? Because you never said shit to me.”
“Because I assumed—”
Harry held up a hand. “Hold on a second. Why would you think I’d have people sweeping the church and setting up stations outside?”
“Because this was a trap.”
“You told me this was a real wedding.”
“So that any moles listening would be fooled. Marina and I hatched this wedding to draw the person targeting us into the open.”
“More like draw a bunch of us to one place and eliminate us in one shot. What the hell were you thinking? And why didn’t you run this by me?” Harry clued in a second later. “Holy fuck, Darren, you didn’t actually think I was a mole, did you?”
“Someone’s been leaking our movements.”
“And you
assumed it was me or the gang at Bad Boy? They’re like fucking family.”
“I know.”
“Then why…” Harry’s expression hardened. “She made you think that.”
“No.” Yes. He shrugged. “We couldn’t be sure, so we set a trap. One that netted far more than expected. I need to find Marina and get out of here.”
“She’s gone,” Harry stated.
“What do you mean gone? Did someone see her getting kidnapped?”
“Wake up and smell the fucking reality. She’s gone because she’s the one who tried to kill us.”
Darren shook his head. “No, she wouldn’t. We were working together.”
“Were you? Or was she just stringing you along?”
“The person attacking me almost killed her, too.”
“Or did she make it seem that way?” Harry headed to the mouth of the alley, the distant sound of sirens a sign they should leave or get caught up in a police and paperwork nightmare.
Darren kept pace. “Marina’s been protecting me.”
“Protecting you so well, you keep almost dying. Seems kind of hinky to me, or hadn’t you noticed how all of her side of the church left only seconds after she excused herself?”
“You think Marina had a part in this?” Darren gestured to the church now sporting cracks in its century-old façade.
“I don’t think, I know. Wake up, Darren. Look at the facts. This was no coincidence.”
Much as Darren wanted to deny it, Harry appeared right. She tried to kill me.
No, not Marina. Sergei, he’d wager. That bastard must have done this, and she’d known of the plan and tried to save him by setting off the alarm.
“Where did she go?” he asked.
Harry shrugged as they moved away from the church and the crowd gathering. “No idea. I already told you we didn’t have any eyes outside.”
“How could you have no one watching?” Blaming Harry wasn’t fair, and yet it was all he had.
“Because you didn’t give me enough time. Or warning. It was all I could do to ensure you didn’t get married alone.”
Darren tugged at his tie and loosened his shirt. “The whole point of this wedding”—a sham of a ceremony because it turned out she’d played him all along—“was to draw out the enemy.”
“You mean the one you were sleeping with?”
“Marina wouldn’t kill me.”
“The woman is a Russian operative.”
A scowl twisted his face. “No need to remind me that I’m an idiot.”
“Apparently, there is. I remember how wrecked you were the last time she left you.”
“It was different last time. She was hired to spy on me.”
“And this time, you hired her. But she was playing you all along.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“I have a ruin of a church that says otherwise.”
“I don’t think she wants me dead.” He did, however, believe she was caught up in a situation.
“At least you found out about her treacherous heart now rather than after a real marriage.”
“Actually, it was real.”
“Say what?” Harry swerved to look at him.
“It was real. We thought the whole wedding bait wouldn’t work if we didn’t get a real priest and stuff.”
“Are you insane?” Harry shouted. “You married a Russian assassin.”
The incredulity made Darren wince. “Yes, but in my defense, she’s really hot.” No blood to the brain when she was around.
Harry sighed. “Dammit. I’ll have her taken care of.”
“No.” Darren shook his head. “I don’t want her killed.”
“After everything she’s done? Why the heck not?”
“She pulled the fire alarm.” Stated even if he didn’t know for sure. “She warned me.” It had to mean something.
“You are under this mistaken idea that she cares for you. I think it’s pretty clear she doesn’t. And I can prove it.”
“How?”
“By putting you in the hospital.” Harry took out his knife and came at Darren.
Chapter Twenty-One
The echo of the explosion rattled around inside her head. It wasn’t the first time she’d abetted a bombing. Yet this was the first time she worried about the repercussions.
More specifically, she worried about one person. Had Darren made it out in time?
Is he alive? Let him be okay. How could she know for sure?
She wanted to tell Sergei to turn around and go back so she could see for herself. She dug her nails into her palms, the sharp pain reminding her to bite back that request. Sergei wouldn’t understand.
As it was, he grumbled that the job was botched. “I can’t believe someone pulled the fire alarm. Probably teenagers. Always pulling pranks.”
Sergei didn’t believe in Occam’s Razor. He failed to see the most obvious reason.
Which suited Marina just fine. “You were probably seen.” When guilty, place the blame on someone else.
“I was most certainly not seen.” The big man seemed rather insulted.
“Well, someone figured out something and tried to warn them.” Sergei had yet to make the Marina connection. If he did, she’d lie, lie, lie. Only an idiot would admit her responsibility. Sergei had a bit of a temper.
Meanwhile, she still didn’t know if she’d succeeded in rescuing Darren. If she did, then that meant she was still married, but for how long? Darren wouldn’t hesitate to divorce, especially after her most recent actions.
Sergei tried to show optimism. “Maybe they didn’t leave right away. The bomb might have caught a few. We will have to check the news and see how many died. We might be the number one story tonight, eh?”
Even she had to wince at the sacrilegious fact that they’d used a bomb in a church. In the damned cake, close to the altar! Not only had they blown up the Bible and any religious artifacts in the area, they might have gotten the priest, too. Would his death count as two sins?
“Even if the bomb didn’t get anyone, it’s not a big deal. Who cares if Darren lives? We got what we needed.”
Brown eyes set under bushy brows perused Marina as Sergei took his gaze off the road. “The marriage might not be enough. Next time, I will go for something simpler, like a bullet to the head.”
A sniper shot to end the only man to make her regret the choices she’d made? She couldn’t let that happen. “I don’t want you killing him.”
“Why not? I thought the whole point of the plan was to make you a widow.” Because a widow without a prenup would inherit everything her husband had, including the academy of misfits he ran.
“He doesn’t have to die for this to work. I’ll just request the academy in the divorce.”
“Which could take years.” Sergei glared at her. She felt the heated laser of his stare even though she’d dropped her glance to the fine stitching holding the panels of black satin together. The right color for a funeral, not a wedding.
“What is a few more years at this point?”
“What is happening to you? We had a plan. Why are you diverting from it?”
She rolled a shoulder. “Things change.” She’d changed. Sergei’s brilliant plots no longer appealed. She’d gone into this for revenge. But now…how much more of her life would she allow it to consume? Should the sins of two people long dead taint anyone who ever came in contact with them?
“You are obviously on your period,” Sergei grumbled. That was his answer to Marina whenever she did not behave as expected, which was why he didn’t die. “Let me know when you are thinking clearly again.”
That was the whole problem. She’d not had a single clear thought since meeting Darren. The media often joked about how men couldn’t think around hot women because of a lack of blood to their brain. She’d say the same applied to women.
Darren confused her. The very fact that he affected her ability to reason was enough to kill. If he were dead, the problem would be s
olved.
Let Sergei shoot him. Wipe her hands clean.
I don’t want him to die.
The song on the radio finished, and she heard a roaring white noise that muffled the host, but only after she’d heard the news. A male had been taken to the hospital with serious injuries after a church bombing. A man in a tuxedo.
It took forever to book into their hotel. Two rooms. Longer still for Sergei to settle down, finally snoring in front of the television in his room. Only then could she sneak out.
A taxi got her to the hospital quickly, because she had to see. See the man in the tuxedo and reassure herself that he lived.
She told no one she was going. Sergei, especially, wouldn’t understand. He didn’t have to know. In the morning, they’d board their flight to Russia and let lawyers begin the process of acquiring the academy. A piece in the puzzle of revenge.
So close to being done. At last.
She couldn’t wait to pour a glass of vodka and celebrate their most recent win. She’d be home within the next day. Just one more night in a hotel. So why was she skulking out of her room and taking a taxi to the hospital? She hated them, the antiseptic smell a reminder—
Beep. Beep. All around things flash and scream. Machines with tubes and lights.
—of a little girl shuffled into a corner, eyes wide and watching.
The place is mostly white. White coats. White walls. White floors. All the better to see the red spray of arterial blood.
There is someone moaning. Her mother is on the rolling bed. And she is the source of the blood.
The little girl sucks her thumb. Watches with wide eyes. Still a bit deafened by the sharp crack of the fired bullet.
She would never forget the look of shock in her mother’s eyes or her pleading to spare her child. Spare my daughter. Please. Have mercy. They showed none.
