by Camilla Monk
March’s hand moved to rest on the prize, his palm warm against the skin of my stomach. “And your point is?”
“All I’m saying is that, overall, I know you more intimately than anyone else I’ve ever known, except maybe Joy and my dad.”
I wished he’d say something, because I’d basically admitted I’d follow him anywhere, and he was the most important thing in my life. March’s fingertips stroked my belly absently, and I could see his Adam’s apple working in his throat, but his lips remained sealed, and silence stretched between us. I waited, aware of the slightest shift in his posture, of my own heart beating in my ears.
“March twenty-sixth. That’s when I was born.”
I squirmed to a sitting position by his side. I just couldn’t lay here like a log when he was crossing the Rubicon. No, wait, make that the freaking Amazon. “So that’s why you chose that code name?”
Unexpected sadness suddenly weighed on his features, bringing the corners of his mouth down. I squeezed his hand in a silent plea to let me in.
“Dries used to say that it was like hiding in plain sight”—a derisive smile creased a dimple in his cheek—“because there was never any code name. It’s the name my mother gave me. She liked it.”
I had to take a deep breath, because otherwise, I knew I’d cry. I thought of that single letter, carved at the bottom of the lion scarification covering half of March’s back. Forever engraved in his skin. H. The initial of his last name. All he should have kept from his past self after joining the brotherhood.
For a long time, I hadn’t even been sure he had a real name. To me, he was March, but also Mr. April, July, May . . . and Mr. November. The man he had created for me, to be with me. A good citizen with a legit security business, an actual address. “But I haven’t found a good first name yet.” That’s what he had said in Vaduz. I had told him to keep March. Just March. Because I liked it, unaware of what it meant to him. It was so much more than a code name. It was a part of himself he had clung to, obstinately. He was March H. Someone’s son.
I curled against his chest, tucked my head under his chin. My hand never let go of his, afraid to break that precious connection, that single silvery thread. “What was she like?”
“A bit like you.”
“Like me?”
He shook his head. “Messy. Candid. When I was still little, it was almost like growing up with a big sister. We’d stay home, play, and watch cartoons . . . She liked the dog musketeers.”
“That old one where d’Artagnan looked like Snoopy? They aired it in South Africa too?”
A chuckle shook his frame. “Brakanjan en die drie musketiers . . . I wonder what Alexandre Dumas would have made of that.”
“Your mom sounds like she was fun to be around.”
He went quiet again for a while, searching his words. “She was . . . very young. The more I grew up, the more I realized she didn’t. I think I was six or seven when I understood that she couldn’t really take care of me. It had to be the other way around. She would”—March’s tongue clicked in disapproval at his own memories—“she didn’t pay attention to her money when we went to the grocery store. She’d take things we couldn’t afford and have to put them back on the shelves. And she couldn’t take care of the house. Things would pile up. Empty boxes, clothes . . . trash. It drove my father mad when he was there.”
A knot formed in my throat. “So you counted the money. And you cleaned.”
He ducked his head with a sorrowful smile. “She called me her little lieutenant. Second in command, in charge of switching Chappies and Amarula for rice and cans in our cart and counting the change. I was also perhaps a little vainglorious about my ability to operate our old twin tub.”
A seven-year-old child doing the laundry? I was admittedly messy and candid, but by March’s account, his mother had been dependent. “But your father, didn’t he—”
He cut me off, his tone suddenly frosty. “He wasn’t home much. It was fine that way.”
I probably should have left it at that, but upon finding out that March had grown up with his mother—as I had—I couldn’t stop the next question forming on my lips. “How old were you when she died?”
I felt him stiffen. Around me his hold loosened, and I instantly knew I had stirred the wrong memory. “I was thirteen . . . but we can talk about it another day. Now you should try to get some sleep; we’ll land in Venice at seven.”
By the time he was finished speaking, he had risen from the couch to fetch a cover and a pillow for me from a cupboard.
I murmured, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He knelt by the couch. “You didn’t, and I’m the one who should apologize. I shouldn’t have been so crusty. As I remember telling you once, there’s simply nothing glorious about my life. Just old stories not worth dwelling on.”
I took the proffered gray fleece cover from his hands. I didn’t want to insist—my foot was wedged far enough down my throat as it was—but how could he not see how wrong he was? Of course his past mattered to me. I didn’t want any glorious tales, only to know him a little better, to understand him.
I wanted to be closer.
With a sigh, I squirmed forward to press my mouth to his. “I wish that couch was bigger.”
This bold statement was rewarded by a quick swipe of his tongue at my upper lip. “Why, Miss Chaptal, how wanton of you.”
That made my heart beat a little faster. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, I know it’s technically doable. But I think the couch would be an advanced level for me.”
His lips quivered in that way they did when he was stifling a laugh. “Advanced level?”
I fought a blush. “Yeah, when we finally get to that, I prefer starting with the basic stuff . . . in a bed. One that won’t explode. But I’m totally on board with experimenting later on, just not with weird upside-down positions. Because I get headaches when I try those during yoga . . .”
March wouldn’t stop blinking, and it dawned on me that I was long past the point where I should have stopped talking. Completely.
His eyebrows pinched and jumped. “Biscuit . . . exactly what kind of yoga are we talking about?”
“Normal yoga! Sometimes we do inverted yoga positions. Like the plow”—I waved my hands, mimicking what I hoped were clear instructions—“with your legs behind your head.”
His eyes remained slanted in suspicion.
“It’s not sexual.”
“I believe you.”
I clasped a hand over my mouth, unable to suppress a nervous chortle. “God . . . all I was trying to say is that I wished we could both fit on the couch, because I really liked sleeping close to you, back at your house.” I looked around the cabin, scanning the pairs of single opposite seats. “But I guess we’ll have to wait until we’re in Venice for that.” Damn.
March’s gaze followed mine, reaching a similar conclusion, I assumed. He drew the fleece cover to me as I let myself fall back down onto the couch. Once he’d flipped a switch above my head that dimmed the lights in the cabin, I struggled to keep my eyes open. The only thing keeping me awake was the delicious tickle of his mouth brushing my ear shell and his low purr. “Of course, you’re aware that once we find a bed that doesn’t explode, there won’t be much sleeping?”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I whispered, while in the fog of my comatose brain, a little voice shouted at the top of her lungs: You just wait, girl . . . He’s gonna nail us like Jesus to the cross!
9
A Battle of Wills
Make unforgettable memories together: a beach sunset, a fun boat trip . . . Create key-moments you can later use to remind him how important you are. He didn’t see Venice with Cherry; he saw it with YOU.
—Aurelia Nichols & Jillie Bean, 101 Tips to Lock Him Down
The forty-five-minute ride to Venice in an overcrowded vaporetto was a long shot from the jet’s luxury, but I’ve always loved water-buses. March . . . not so much. I guessed he h
ad picked this particular mode of transportation because it was inconspicuous and made it difficult to track us. The boat, however, wasn’t exactly in mint condition, and he stood stiff, surrounded by a subtle fragrance of gasoline, sun cream, and diaper. The latter could be attributed to a chubby tot lounging in his stroller, who engaged in a stare down with March.
That kid had no idea who he was dealing with—the fight lasted for a good minute, during which March fixed slanted, unblinking eyes on the enemy. The insolent little turd retaliated by ostensibly picking his nose and eating the fruits of his labor. March’s nostrils flared. He stared harder, until the kid broke under the pressure—he looked away and started crying. I didn’t miss the imperceptible curling of the victor’s lips; I clasped my hand over my mouth to suppress a giggle.
Meanwhile, around us, the lagoon’s backdrop had changed to a band of old brick-and-stone buildings, stretching along a blue-green sea. Towers and domes overlooked tiled roofs baked by the bright morning sun. Venice in a nutshell.
“I’m going on the deck to get a better look,” I said.
March’s lips pursed, and this time, it was I who could hear the cogs wheeling fast in his brain. Our agreement specified that I was forbidden to access balconies. But did a boat deck count as a balcony? And if it didn’t and I went to the deck, what where the statistical chances that I might bend over the rail and fall into the water, only to be devoured by a giant Venetian clam shortly afterward?
At last, he gave a cautious nod. “We’ll arrive in San Marco in ten minutes though. Be ready to disembark.”
“Got it!”
I left him my suitcase and wasted no time squeezing among a group of retired French tourists to find a good observation spot. The vaporetto made a wide berth around a row of thick wooden poles emerging from the water to delimit a sand bank. Once again, I silently thanked Phyllis for a perfect shopping list. The red-and-white striped T-shirt and navy cigarette pants would allow me to blend smoothly with the locals. I leaned against the rail and closed my eyes. A pleasant morning breeze tickled the fuzz on my forearms. The squawks of seagulls ganging up on a trawler echoed in the distance. Nature in all its glory.
My head jerked at the sound of a police siren approaching. Around me, all eyes turned to a blue speedboat racing toward us, beacon light flashing madly. That’s the problem with living a criminal’s life: it makes you paranoid. After all, we had made it out of Marco Polo Airport with utterly fake passports without getting shot or anything. No one cares about Mr. and Mrs. June, I mentally droned. No. One.
“Island.”
March’s hand landed on my shoulder. He had seen the boat and came out to find me. It couldn’t be good. I cast him a worried look, while around us, tourists were busy filming the police boat’s arrival. It looped around the vaporetto to stop its course. Under our feet, the engine’s vibrations died, and the boat slowly came to a halt, swayed by a lazy swell. My chest was starting to feel tight, but up until that point, I still wanted to believe that it had nothing to do with us.
The police boat maneuvered closer, but March wasn’t looking at them; he was checking our surroundings. Another speedboat had stopped as well, some fifty yards away. White, no beacon lights on that one. I wondered if they meant to take pictures too—smartphones have ruined us.
I gritted my teeth when two police officers, a man and a woman, boarded the vaporetto and started searching the crowd, scrutinizing fidgety passengers. Through the speedboat’s tinted windows, I could make out the shape of a third cop—the pilot, I gathered—waiting inside the cabin and observing his colleagues’ progress. The woman noticed us, and under the long black bangs escaping from her cap, a flash of recognition sparkled in her eyes. The second cop muttered something into a walkie-talkie secured to the front of his navy uniform and made a swiping gesture with his arms for the other passengers to stand back. The woman’s hand moved to the butt on the gun resting in her holster belt.
She gave us a nasty look. “Ci voglia seguire, per favore.” Please follow us.
My instinct was to take a step back, but March offered the policewoman his most charming dimpled smile and moved forward. “Noi non opponiamo alcuna resistenza all’arresto.”
He had a thick accent, but still, I had no idea he could speak Italian so well. Then again, when you kill people for a living, you best learn how to say “We are not resisting arrest,” in case you need it someday. He motioned for me to follow him. “Come on, Island. Let’s not make the lady wait.”
Judging by her glare, she was supremely pissed by his calm attitude and the way he seemed to be addressing the crowd of passengers rather than her—a clear warning not to cause a scene with so many potential witnesses and side casualties. I complied, puffing my chest and holding my head up high to conceal my fear but also a good deal of humiliation. Like when you’re the only one whose bag gets searched at the mall entrance, and everybody is looking at you as if you stole that cheese grater. At least the other passengers didn’t dare take pics while the cops stood so close. I preferred not to imagine what would happen if my dad somehow stumbled on a pic of me getting arrested.
As soon as we stepped foot in the cockpit, the atmosphere cooled down noticeably. The pair, who had been guiding us out with a wary hand on their guns so far, drew them at once. I startled and raised my hands above my head. March didn’t move. Not even when the boat started sailing away from the vaporetto, where dozens of people were still leaning on the rail, staring in disbelief.
The woman, who sounded like the boss, pointed at the bench seat and barked a single order. “Sedere!” Sit!
It was easy to obey: my knees more or less gave way under me, and I scooted to the right, as far away from her as I could. March remained still, the hint of a smile dancing on his lips. “Don’t worry. They’re not carabinieri.”
Okay, now I was even more worried, especially since I noticed that the other white boat was following us, catching up fast.
Their fingers tightened around the triggers of the guns. The woman’s tongue darted to swipe at her lips nervously. March went on, his expression turning feral. “If they were, we’d have seen reinforcements by now. And”—he tilted his head at the barrel of their guns—“I’ve never seen carabinieri equipped with anything else than a Beretta. A modified Smith & Wesson . . . it’s so tacky. Very American. Let me guess: Foreign Operations?”
The man shot a glance at his partner, clearly expecting a scathing comeback.
She blew her dark bangs away from her eyes with an excited grin. Her grip on the gun was so tight I could see each vein under her bronze skin. “Who knows? Now, take out your gun, with your left hand, and throw it overboard.” Ten points for March. There was nothing Italian about that new accent. “And, please, do something stupid. I really want to be known as the woman who killed you.”
March reached inside his favorite navy bulletproof jacket. “You will not.”
When I glimpsed the grip in his gloved hand, I backed away as much as possible, readying myself for him to shoot them and, if they had the time to fire back, for them to shoot us. But March casually threw his gun into the lagoon. It was her cue; perhaps thinking he no longer posed an immediate threat, she lowered her own weapon to shoot him in the legs. A terrible idea, if you ask me.
In the instant that followed, March dashed to the left. Two bullets narrowly missed him and smashed into the cockpit floor, right before he grabbed the woman’s now exposed wrist. I registered her scream over two other gunshots, but I didn’t connect the dots until the guy who had been aiming at me staggered back, dark blood blooming around a wound right above his knee and seeping from a second wound on the hand that had been holding his gun seconds prior. He curled up on his side with a groan. I blinked rapidly, struggling to process what had just happened. The female agent seemed unconscious, and her wrist was broken—disarticulated, really. Her own gun now rested in March’s right hand. Her colleague’s bloodstained gun had landed close to me. I wasn’t sure what I’d do with it, b
ut I picked it up.
In the cabin, the pilot had turned around and pulled out a gun as well. I raised the semiautomatic reflexively. “You won’t have time to shoot us both!” I yelled, praying he couldn’t hear the tremor in my voice. No need for him to know that I’d never pull the trigger with March standing so close—bullets tended to bend at a ninety-degree angle when I was in charge.
March confirmed with a wry smile. “You heard my bodyguard.”
The boat was still racing, bumping over waves. The pilot was breathing fast. His fist shook around the weapon’s grip. Still aiming at him, March gave the slightest shrug of his shoulder, tipping his head to the water.
The guy grimaced, as if to say, Dude, seriously?
I made a show of adjusting my aim. So did March, black leather squeaking as his fingers tightened around the trigger. At that point, our adversary figured that some battles are better left unfought—he dropped his gun and came out, splaying his palms in a pacifying gesture . . . and jumped overboard.
Likely alerted by the gunshots, the white speedboat now raced fifty yards behind us, and I could make out several men kneeling on its deck. It was the moment their female colleague chose to come to her senses. Scrambling up with a gasp, she struggled to produce a combat knife from her jacket. She was fighting a losing battle with only her left hand, so March was a gentleman about the whole situation. When she threw herself at him, he had no choice but to head-butt her overboard too, but not before he growled, “My apologies.”
I managed to wobble up and fought back a wave of nausea when I noticed that one of my palms was sticky from the blood of the guy still curled up in the cockpit and breathing hard. His erratic intakes of air and the beads of sweat on his temples were familiar; I understood his fear. But I knew something he didn’t: March wouldn’t kill a CIA agent. For years, he’d cultivated “cordial” ties with the agency by carrying out hits for them in exchange for an indulgent—if not blind—eye to the rest of his activities. They had even let him retire and set up Struthio Security on US soil. It was bad enough that the Lions wanted March dead; he wouldn’t risk burning that bridge too.
