by Jade Hart
Tonight I would kill.
Chapter Nineteen: Callan
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
Why did I put myself through that? Did she feel nothing?
Heartless woman. Ice cold—yet so hot and enticing. Touching her made every part of me go hard. Breathing in her wild scent, even mixed with the antiseptic stuff on her face, made me want to nuzzle her neck; her injuries demanded my arms wrap around her and protect. I couldn’t understand why she was so angry. What the hell did I do? One thing was for sure, I’d never been so totally shot down in all my life. My ego was bruised beyond redemption and the only thing I could think of was bolting. I wanted to run as far away from the humiliation as possible.
So unbelievably fucking stupid!
“Chicken or beef, sir?”
I glared at the air hostess. Her manicured eyebrow cocked condescendingly.
“Chicken.”
She handed me some foil wrapped crap, asking, “Anything to drink?”
Hell, yes. I wanted to wipe away all thoughts of Ocean Breeze and my mortification. Never again. Never would I put myself out there to be kicked in the balls and sent packing. “Beer. Export Gold.” And because that wouldn't be enough, I added, “And a vodka and orange.”
The air hostess pursed her lips.
“Please.” I smiled. It stretched across my face. I hoped it didn’t look fake, because it was.
Her lips twitched into a semi-smile and handed over my booze.
I inhaled the vodka in an instant from the tiny plastic cup, and I wrinkled my nose at the over-nuked excuse for food. Shit, this was a waste of time. Never ever again. Ocean could jump around killing people for all I cared. There was nothing left in her but murder and revenge. That bloody profile report was right. Love was not an option for her. She proved that quite eloquently.
Well, good riddance.
My ego was slightly mollified to know the cost of this flight was on her. Then I felt like a jerk for using her money. Who knew what horrific things she had to do to get it? Blood money. I needed to return it to her.
How? I was past caring. I’d figure it out later.
*****
My eyes wrenched open when heavy tires hit tarmac. Hong Kong. Officially half way. I trudged down the aisle with the rest of the sheep-like passengers, ready to join my next flight.
I went through the transfer and security procedures on autopilot. My mind couldn't stop replaying those brief moments with Ocean. I could've sworn she felt something too. Went to show how much I knew about women. I was an imbecile.
My mobile vibrated in my pocket. International roaming was good for receiving calls, but it was bloody expensive. I toyed with the idea of not answering.
I didn't recognize the number, and cursed myself hoping it was Ocean. I needed to get laid. Get her out of my system. I’d go insane at this rate.
“Hello, Callan speaking.” My voice was rough.
“Yaw bo seh yo,” a voice said, then chuckled. “You fired. Yes?”
I should’ve guessed I’d receive a phone call. I wasn't surprised that Mr. Kim spied on me. “You calling to offer your sympathies, Kim?” I laughed, settling into my chair in the departure lounge.
“No. I call to be excited!” A rustle of noise sounded in the background. “You no work now. Perfect for me.”
Was I ready to be sucked back into the world of secrets and covert assignments?
Of course I bloody was. What was I gonna do? Pine after a woman who didn't care about me and wallow in my apartment? No thanks.
“What are you offering?” I watched the twinkling lights of the Hong Kong skyline. Excitement built in my bloodstream. Anything would be better than the mess I’d created for myself. At least Captain Gray never brought up criminal charges for my tampering. I was free to make a fresh start. I couldn't wait.
“You in Hong Kong. I change your ticket.”
“What?” Did these Korean hackers have no limits? “Is nothing private with you?”
“No.” Mr. Kim laughed again. Shit, I hadn't heard him this giggly since I started working for him in Bali. “You come to Korea. You go to gate twenty-nine, depart in one hour.”
They really did have no limits. “And if I say no?”
That laugh again. “Why you say no? You want freedom? You want to work for agency with skills? Why you even think to say no?”
Good point.
“You got me. Where should I go when I arrive in Korea?”
“You no worry. We collect you.” More noise in the background. “I see you soon. Very excited to work together again. I think you will like.”
Mr. Kim hung up.
It looked like my life was no longer in my control. And that was fan-bloody-tastic with me.
*****
Arriving in South Korea was like a homecoming. I spent three years of my youth here. The airport had had a facelift, but it was still the same mass of spotlights, glass, and shiny metal extravaganza I remembered.
I grinned, walking toward a small Korean man holding a plaque with my name on it. “I'm Callan Bliss.”
The man bowed and took my single suitcase. I followed him out of the arrivals hall and toward a sleek limousine.
I fell asleep as we weaved through traffic. Unable to recall the last time I slept. My body was a wreck.
The limousine door opened, and I jerked awake. We were here. Where here was, I didn't have a clue.
The building was tall, sleek, and grey, blocking out the twilight sky with a pillar of concrete. I recognized downtown South Korea by the heavy shop signage, manicured plants, and futuristic, gleaming glass buildings. Mr. Kim never brought me here when I lived with him.
I was ushered inside and escorted to the penthouse level.
The elevator doors opened and I stepped into a blank room furnished only with a mahogany desk and a large purple and gold painting.
A pretty Korean girl smiled. “Mr. Bliss. Our pleasure to have you.”
A grin spread across my lips. This couldn't get any better. I was in my own movie—might as well give me a number: Double-0-Super-Cool, because that was how I felt. “Thank you.”
The girl waved away my driver and opened a streamlined door behind the desk. “You follow me, please.”
I did as instructed, appreciating the view of her tight skirt and feminine figure. Of course, Ocean still paraded in my head. Even covered in cuts, her face all puffy, I still found her sexier. Damn it all to hell.
The room she took me to held nothing but computers, computers, and more computers. Men in black suits darted between modems, printers, and screens the size of large windows. The smell of plastic and hot wiring buffeted me.
It was pure heaven. A geek's paradise. A hacker's fantasy.
“Callan!”
I spun to find Mr. Kim jogging toward me. He looked the same—a sprinkling of grey in his neat black hair, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He bowed to the young receptionist, then jerked me away from her, heading toward a glass office. “You here. Very good to see you. How you been?”
For a little man, his strength was surprising. I rubbed my arm once he shut the office door, blocking out the drone of technology. It was cooler in here, the air conditioning working overtime. “I'm good, thanks. Happy to be here.”
Mr. Kim bounced to his desk, pulling out a red file. “This for you.”
Accepting it, I sat in the clear Perspex chair in front of the desk. I took a deep breath. Marked on the top of the file was a big CLASSIFIED.
I shot Mr. Kim a look. “If I read this, will you kill me if I try to leave?” I was only half-joking.
“Yes.” Mr. Kim cackled. He waved his hands. “I joking, Callan. Read it. This your work now.”
I cracked open the file. And fell head-over-heels in love.
No Jurisdiction. Above the law. Unchecked power to detain, and arrest. Untapped resources. Power over governments. Manipulation in corrupt politics in Korea and abroad.
Sheets and sheets of paper listi
ng what powers were granted. What methods and resources were at their fingertips.
It screamed ruthlessness. Power.
My eyes shot to Kim. “What does this mean? What is this place?”
Mr. Kim puffed his chest with pride. “We are the Korean Central Intelligence Agency. We are own law. We report to no government or police. We are police. You one of us now.” He came around the desk and shook my hand. “You are Agent Callan Bliss. KCIA Abroad Intel. Welcome.”
My stomach soared. Excitement bubbled triple-time. “I’m a what-now?” I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face. Secret agent was a stack better than foot cop.
“You work for KCIA now. Come with me.” Mr. Kim shuffled, lightning-quick, out of the office and down a mirrored corridor. I followed quickly, listening to the hum of computers all around us. What would I give to have access to their database? I smiled. I could—this was my work now, too.
Mr. Kim held open a door. It was an operating room. Whoa. Hang on a sec. “Are you going to explain before you hack me to pieces?” My eyes landed on a large syringe in a crisp wrapper; beside it were antiseptic wipes and gloves.
“You accept new position. Yes?” His eyes behind his glasses were feverish with excitement.
“Depends what you mean to do to me.” I swallowed. That needle was nasty.
Kim snapped on the gloves and ripped open the needle packet. “This is tracking device. It has chip with unique identification and password for linking to network.” He cocked his head. “You not able to access database without scan of this.” He waved the needle.
They wanted to tag me like a dog? Track me wherever I went? “Can I take it out if I quit?”
Kim narrowed his eyes. “Why you think of quitting? You haven’t started.” He motioned to the surgery table. “Sit. Take off shirt.”
Hell. Did I want to do this? This truly was a movie. What if they could trigger my death with poison in that thing? I rolled my eyes. Seriously, my imagination was running rampant. It would be fine. A small prick, and I’d be inducted into the KCIA. No problems.
I scooted onto the metal table and wrenched my shirt off, bracing myself. The fight-or-flight reflex kicked in as Kim rubbed my under forearm with alcohol. I wanted to punch him in the face when he flicked the needle. “Ready?”
“No.”
Kim grinned.
My jaw clenched hard as the needle broke my skin. Fuck, it hurt. It was huge.
Two seconds later, I had a hard node under my skin. No way was I touching it. My arm flared as Kim slapped a Band Aid over the wound. “There. You now official KCIA.”
He deposited the God-awful needle and came back with a scanner. It beeped when he waved it over me.
He showed me the screen.
Operative CB00199. Location: Seoul, Korea. Level of Security: Unlimited. Password: xx4598329079480jd0. Status: Alive.
Status: alive? Of course I was bloody alive.
Kim patted my uninjured forearm. “Congratulations. You part of many secrets now. You above the law.”
And just like that, the pain of being tagged was gone. My heart flew.
Secrets. Power. Freedom.
Chapter Twenty: Ocean
I noticed two things when I arrived, with a flash of agony, in the middle of the game reserve. There were a large number of tents arranged in a circle around a large bonfire, and ebony skinned men lurked in the velvet darkness, armed with machetes and rifles.
I crouched in the thicket of bushes and watched.
Men of all nationalities hovered by the blazing fire. Some were withered with disease, almost on death's door, while others were healthy and vibrant. I counted twelve so-called purchasers—at least most of them had the decency to be nervous. Different colored eyes darted to the tents, to each other, and then into the black void surrounding them. There could be lions or hyenas lurking in the pit of night, untouched by the glow of the fire and no one would know until it was too late.
Each man was naked from the chest up, his skin painted with ochre in voodoo designs.
I liked the idea of being surrounded by predators. I was a lioness. They wouldn’t know I was there until their blood was spilled. I’d give them a voodoo tale to remember—grim reaper style.
My eyes narrowed. By the light of the fire, I counted four guards. Each wore a hat and black khaki gear. They’d be the first to die.
I sucked in courage and strength, batting away my lingering migraine to focus on my task. I would have to move quickly, but surprise was on my side. If I performed my role as ghost, the purchasers wouldn’t hear a thing. I cringed as one man—a leader in charge of the ceremony—slit the throat of a chicken and drained its blood. I’d killed my fair share, but never an innocent animal. If that made me weird, so be it. Sick ritualistic pricks.
My palms were slick with anticipation. How many lives would I take tonight? What would happen to the black splodges on my spine? Would I suffer more temper flashes and murmurs of thoughts that didn’t belong to me?
One of the armed guards walked toward me. I froze, before slinking further into the shrub. I bumped up against something warm and furry. What the—? Whatever animal I disturbed bolted from the undergrowth with a whoop of alarm. Dammit!
The guard jumped, walking faster, clasping his rifle into firing position. It was now or never. His time on earth was up.
I charged from my hiding spot, my black Lycra pants and top shrouding me with the night. I ran low, my arm held outward, my gleaming blade ready to be bathed in blood.
The man's eyes went wide as my machete collided with his flesh. A loud gurgle sounded as his heavy body slid toward me on my blade, blood streaming from his open lips. I sliced his oesophagus.
He was dead.
It was a simple matter of pushing him off me. I smiled at the heavy thud of his carcass against the ground. One down. Three to go.
On tiptoe, I ran behind the tents, whispering through the shadows to launch predator-quick, onto my next victim. A slash to his jugular and he was dead. No sound. No warning. A life stolen in silence.
What would Callan think of me now? Would he see a ruthless woman saving sixteen girls from rape and illness, or a criminal committing mass murder? I shouldn’t care what he thought. But I did. I shouldn’t still be thinking about him. But I was. Ocean, focus!
I was a midnight silhouette as I bolted for the third guard. He suffered a full arm swing; my machete sliced his head clean off. I’d have to thank Maurice for such a sharp weapon. Maurice was so useful, even if he was a secretive old man. He granted me the knowledge of languages, gave me a home, and an ultra-sharp arsenal. God, I loved that man.
I collapsed.
The wet grass seeped into my Lycra clothing as I huddled into a ball. Blazing heat burned my spine. One, two, three pinpoints of torture branded me. Scorching me with new marks. The heat morphed into bone-chilling cold as it seeped from my spine to my soul. It was as if ice cubes were inserted into my very essence—perpetually cold, never to melt, clanking around inside me, slowly growing larger and larger into the Icelandic wasteland I would finally become.
The branding was over as soon as it began.
I clambered to my feet, breathing hard through my nose, wiping away rogue tears on my cheeks. Three more pieces of my soul were taken. I wanted to scream and curse. What was happening to me?
The last remaining guard walked away from his post across the fire, weaving between tents, patrolling. If he found his fellow soldiers dead, he’d raise the alarm. Clenching my machete, I stalked him; dancing behind blocks of shadowy tents, closing the distance between us with stealth.
A lion roared somewhere in the blackness. The guard spun on his heel and came face to face with me.
I smiled. “Hi.” I swung my blade in an arc of steel and it lodged sickeningly in the crease where his neck met his shoulders, severing his arteries, inducing instant death. A spray of warm scarlet splattered my face. Swiping it away with my hand, I cringed at the metallic stench.
I did
n't wait for the burning of the fourth-scorch mark. Instead, I dashed toward the fire light, toward the twelve men who wanted to rape virgins to heal them of their horrible inflictions. Living with a disease cannot be easy, but it gave them no right to rape and contaminate young women.
The men were huddled together, taking turns eating something from a ritual bowl.
I waited until I was illuminated by the fire before saying, “For those of you who wish to die a certain death, stay where you are. I promise you a clean and fast end to your suffering. For those who are deluded enough to think they can escape a game reserve in the middle of the night”— my eyes narrowed— “be my guest and run. The hyenas can have you.”
Everyone froze. The heavy silence was broken only by the crackling of burning wood. Men looked from one to the other. One laughed nervously; his French accent was strong as he spoke. “You are a little girl. You threaten us with death. It is you who should run.”
A burst of rage, similar to what happened in my bedroom with Callan, took me by surprise. It seeped from some unknown part of myself, filling me with a red fog that was focused on one thing: blood.
“Tu mouras d'une mort lente et douloureuse,” I hissed. For the rest who didn’t understand, I added, “You will die a slow and painful death.”
Fear lit faces. Some men moved toward the perimeter of the camp. The leader who still held a dead chicken, shouted, “Guards! Kill this intruder.”
I smiled. “So be it.” I didn't run—I flew. Digging my toes into the soft earth, I launched myself over the raging fire. My machete sunk deep into the leader’s neck, and I watched in detachment as he crumbled to the dirt. “Anyone else?” I snarled, hiding the tremors still wracking me from my new marks.
The men watched me with wide eyes; mouths gaped open, followed by a flurry of movement. Grown men whimpered and floundered, bumping into each other as they ran away from the glowing warmth of the fire and into the perpetual depth of night.
I bit my tongue hard as two more brands burned my back. Erupting flames scorched me, then morphing into ice fingers stealing two more parts of my soul. I shivered. I was so cold.
