by Niki Savage
Approximately fifteen minutes had passed by the time he knocked on her door and depressed the handle. Marcelle had been standing at the window, staring out at the beautiful day, but she turned when she heard him entering the room. She had dressed in jeans and trainers, and a T-shirt showed beneath her open team jacket. The significance of her attire didn’t dawn on him right then. She was still pale, but he spotted a flicker of interest in her eyes when she saw the steaming mugs of tea.
Without speaking, he handed her a mug. She murmured her thanks and carried it back to the sofa, sitting down gingerly. He noticed that she moved with difficulty, as if her muscles were sore and stiff. He cursed himself again for what he had done, wishing he could undo the damage of the past twelve hours.
He followed her to the sofa, but sat on the coffee table, resting his forearms on his knees, facing her. She kept her eyes down, refusing to look at him as she sipped the sweet tea.
He waited until she had finished, and took the mug from her, putting it on the table next to his own empty mug. “Please, look at me.” He reached out a hand to tilt her face up towards him. His chest ached when he saw the shame in her eyes. “Marcelle, I don’t know what to say to you. What I did was unforgivable. I don’t know what happened. There’s nothing I can say to defend myself...” Stefan was shocked to hear his voice break with emotion as his eyes flooded with tears. He didn’t attempt to wipe them away as they rolled down his face. “God knows I’m not perfect, but I love you, please believe me. I don’t expect you to forgive me now, but perhaps one day...?” He saw the shock in her eyes at the sight of his breakdown, but he didn’t care, dropping his face into his hands as sobs racked his body.
He cried for all the lost years before he knew Marcelle, and for all the empty years without her that now stretched ahead. He cried because he had betrayed his friend, Jean-Michel. Most of all, he cried for the pain he had inflicted on the woman he loved, desperately wishing he could undo it somehow.
Gradually he became aware of her presence. Her hands gently pulled his clenched fists from his wet face, and he took courage from this gesture, wrapping his arms around her waist, desperately seeking comfort.
Marcelle’s own eyes were dry as she stood between his parted knees, and pulled him closer. She buried her fingers in the mercenary’s luxurious blond hair as she held his face to her frozen breast, and listened to his sobs. They were the suppressed, painful sobs of a strong man not accustomed to crying. She offered him no false words of comfort, but held him as a mother would her child, absorbing his pain. His weeping had touched something deep inside her frozen heart, but she couldn’t forget the rage and cruelty she had seen in his eyes.
The mercenary was two people, she realized. He could switch to the savage Stefan in a second, and her disgust and rejection that morning had triggered it off in him. She had been wrong. It had taken two to tango last night, and from the mercenary’s reaction, she realized that she had instigated affairs. He had gone along with her wishes, not realizing she had thought he was Jean-Michel.
She remembered waking from a beautiful dream, in which she had been making love to Jean-Michel. Upon finding Stefan in bed next to her, she had somehow thought he was her husband.
But no matter what fault she had in the whole affair, Stefan’s reaction had been unwarranted and inappropriate. Whereas another man, a normal one, she had to add, would perhaps have resorted to a shouting match, he had turned violent, and had raped her. In doing so, he had destroyed the bond they had shared until now, and he had lost the power to keep the ice away. Even now, she could feel icy tendrils reclaiming her body inch by inch, and she could hear her lungs crackling as they fought to expand against the ice filling her chest.
Eventually Stefan calmed down and was quiet, though he still hugged both arms around her waist, trying to draw comfort from her closeness. She drew away first, and looked down at his face, seeing the pain in his eyes. If she could forgive him, he might be able to regain his power over the ice.
“Stefan, I realize that I haven’t been fair to you. Please, just give me some time to think.” She clenched her jaw until it hurt, trying to keep her teeth from chattering against the intense cold.
Hope dawned in his eyes as he rose, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. “You mean it? You could forgive me?”
A loud horn sounded outside.
“The team’s here,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I have to go. We can talk when I get back.”
“Marcelle, you can’t race. You can’t leave in your condition.” He rushed to intercept her as she crossed to her bags waiting in one corner of the room. He grabbed her upper arm, but let go immediately when he saw her wince. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please don’t go. Don’t leave me like this.”
His arguments couldn’t sway her. “I have commitments, contracts I have to honor. I have to race, no matter what happens in my personal life.” She couldn’t tell him that racing offered her a chance to drive the ice away again, even if just for a few hours.
The horn blew again, more impatient this time. She turned from him and gathered up her bags, brooking no further argument. When he saw her determination, he picked up the remaining bags and carried them to the elevator for her.
She tried a smile that failed miserably. “We’ll talk when I get back. It’s just a few days, Stefan, I’ll be fine.”
He nodded, feeling shattered. She stepped into the elevator, and the doors closed.
~ . ~
Stefan crossed to the window, and watched the activities below. He saw the Ultima-Fabelta team bus, a custom-built luxury liner painted in the purple and green colors of the team. A faint cheer came from the bus as their leader appeared, wheeling a bike in front of her. Pierre-Henri jumped out, and took the bike. Another helper disappeared into the garage and came out carrying Marcelle’s bags.
He watched as she hugged some of her teammates who had disembarked from the bus. He marveled at her ability to act. No one would guess what had happened, looking at her.
He worried that she planned to deal with the rape the same way she had dealt with the dead man at the post office, by simply denying it had ever happened.
A few minutes later, he heard the powerful engine of the bus starting up. He strained his eyes, but couldn’t see Marcelle through the tinted windows of the luxury vehicle as it headed for the gate. A terrible sense of unease settled on him as he watched the bus disappear up the road.
Too sickened by what he had done to eat, he skipped breakfast, and returned instead to the master bedroom. Shame burned inside him as he stripped the sheets from the bed, and saw the stains on the bottom sheet. He carried the soiled bedding to the laundry room and bundled everything into the washing machine, adding a few generous scoops of soap powder.
Next, he went to the linen cupboard and found clean bedding. He remade the bed, tidied the bedroom, and took the empty mugs back to the kitchen. He rinsed them in the sink, and sighed. He had nothing more to do. Now it was just him and his guilt, in the empty apartment.
He prowled around the apartment for half an hour until the washing machine had completed its cycle. The sheets now showed no evidence of his repulsive act, and he wished he could wash his crimes away as easily. He bundled the damp sheets into the dryer and switched it on.
He walked to the kitchen and sat at the table, lost in thought. A while later he heard his cell phone ring. He rushed to his bedroom, and grabbed it, pressing the button that sent a warbling shriek down the line. The same came back, after which he held the phone to his ear. “Yes?”
“Stefan?” It was Karl.
“Yes, what is it?” he said, switching to German.
“We’ve found our friends. What do you want to do?”
He thought about it for a moment. He had to deal with Ahmed Rashid and his comrades, because they could pose a threat to Marcelle in the future. He could leave a note asking her to contact him upon her return. “I want you to tell the men here in Paris to collect me at this ad
dress within the hour. I’ll accompany them to the airport. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
He walked to the study and sat at the desk, searching for writing paper in the drawers. He found some, and picking up a pen, he started composing a letter.
Ten minutes later, he had written only two lines. He tried again to concentrate on the letter. The words wouldn’t flow. Anything he wrote sounded empty and clichéd.
Eventually he wrote a short note, telling Marcelle he had to leave, and asking her to call him at La Montagne when she got back. He wrote down the number where she could reach him, and wondered if she would bother. If she didn’t, he would phone her, he thought as he slipped the note into an envelope.
He put the envelope on the kitchen counter, balancing it against the coffee machine. She would be sure to find it there.
Then he went back to his room and dressed in his own black jeans and boots. He strapped the black money-belt around his waist before pulling on one of Jean-Michel’s black shirts and tucking it into his jeans. The knife and scabbard went around his ankle and the twin 9mm pistols into their holsters. He shrugged into the black leather jacket Marcelle had given him, and glanced around to see if he had forgotten anything. Satisfied, he tidied the room, and went to the laundry room. He took the bedding out of the dryer, and folded the sheets and pillowcases neatly before leaving them in a neat pile on top of the machine.
It felt good to have a purpose in life again, even if it involved settling a score with his enemies. His appetite had returned, and he made himself toast with coffee. Then he walked to the window in the living room, and looked towards the road. His men would arrive any minute.
He returned to the kitchen and rinsed his cup and plate, glancing around a final time before he headed for the elevator. But as he passed by the counter, his leather jacket caught the corner of the envelope balanced against the coffee machine, and dragged it off the counter. The envelope spiraled for a second in the flurry of his passing, before it slipped underneath one of the fridges, leaving only a white corner visible.
He strode briskly to the gate. A car pulled up just as he arrived, and he recognized Heinrich Schmidt’s blond head immediately. He said goodbye to the guards before he got into the car.
Heinrich shook Stefan’s hand, permitting himself a rare smile. “Good to see you in one piece, Boss,” he said gruffly.
Stefan nodded. “Yes, this one was too close for comfort.”
The two men sitting in the back reached forward to shake his hand. Olivier Brochard and Gilles Bertoux were ex-members of the French Airborne division. The two French mercenaries greeted him awkwardly, trying to banish emotion from their voices. Despite their hard faces, they were all glad to see him alive.
The men had their luggage with them, and they headed for Charles de Gaulle airport. There Omega’s Dassault Falcon 900C waited to take them to the island.
During the flight, the mercenary boss updated his men on what had happened since he and Karl parted during the shooting. He knew he could trust them. They were amongst his best men and had been with him since the inception of his organization.
* * * *
Chapter Twenty-One
A few hours later, the plane taxied to the end of the runway at La Montagne. Stefan looked through the window to see two Jeeps driving to meet the Falcon. Even from that distance, he could distinguish Karl and Kris, their copper hair streaming in the breeze.
As he descended the steps to the hot apron in front of the massive airport hangar, Karl and Kris were there to meet them. He hugged his cousins, seeing the relief in their eyes at his safe return. He was happy to see them too, feeling he needed the anchor of familiar faces in the emotional turmoil that tormented him.
Karl and Kris were handsome replicas of each other, with piercing green eyes and straight copper hair that hung to their shoulders. Both were tanned and lean, and around six feet tall. They even dressed alike, a habit from childhood, but that was where the resemblance ended.
While Kris seemed relaxed and easygoing, his twin’s features were hard and uncompromising, his eyes without emotion. Karl was a trained killer, and bowed to just one authority, Stefan. The other mercenaries on the island both respected and feared him, and were secretly glad to have him on their side.
The drive back to the securely enclosed housing compound took a few minutes over a dirt road. When they reached headquarters, Stefan found that the members of his small community had gathered to welcome him. He felt he was truly home as he surveyed the sixty-plus hard-faced men in fatigues. The men stood at attention in neat military ranks, and formed a sharp contrast to the colorfully attired wives who stood to one side.
As their leader disembarked from the Jeep, Karl gave an order, and as one, the soldiers snapped out sharp salutes. Stefan saluted in response, and ordered them to stand at ease. He spoke earnestly, thanking the men and their wives for the warm welcome.
After he had dismissed the men, many of the senior men remained, coming forward to shake his hand, welcoming him back, relief in their eyes. Despite their profession, these men felt intense loyalty towards their leader. He had earned that loyalty and respect during many missions and on many battlefields.
When Karl had brought back with him news of their leader’s absence at the rendezvous point, a funeral atmosphere had reigned on La Montagne. Since the news of his recovery, everyone had been eagerly awaiting his return. The four chefs had been cooking and baking since morning, preparing a feast fit for a king, and the celebrations would start at sunset.
~ . ~
A little later, the three of them settled in Stefan’s office with a cold beer. Karl told Stefan what they had uncovered so far. They had traced the terrorists to a farmhouse near the border of France and Spain, on the French side.
Bruno, the computer expert, had tapped into a French satellite and obtained photos. One clearly showed a member of Ahmed Rashid’s revolutionary movement, confirming that they had the right target.
Stefan noticed several outbuildings, more than one would expect of a normal farm. It strengthened his suspicion that the farm served as a training centre for the Algerian terrorists. He studied the photos intently before turning to Karl. “Do we have any idea how many people are on the premises?”
“We’ve been observing them via satellite for several days now, and we have two men stationed nearby, keeping watch. They have confirmed that Rashid is present. They report that there are around fifty three men on the premises, including Rashid and his lieutenants.”
“What do the French say?”
“They will turn a blind eye to anything that happens there, as long as not a trace remains. I told them about your history with Rashid, and his organizations’ role in the death of Jean-Michel Deschamps. They’ve given us free rein to do what we want, so long as the conflict doesn’t spill over to the Spanish side of the border.”
For a second it looked as if his cousin disapproved, and Karl added, “They will keep all this confidential. She’ll never know.”
Stefan stared at Karl for a long moment before he said, “She has a name.”
“I meant to say, Marcelle will never know,” Karl said, avoiding his cousin’s gaze.
“So they want the place leveled, and no one left alive.” Stefan sat back in his chair. “It will be my pleasure. Do we still have those incendiary bombs we confiscated last year?”
“No, you can’t do that,” Kris interrupted forcefully. “The use of Napalm is outlawed, you know that.”
Stefan bristled. “And I suppose the terrorists we captured it from didn’t know that? I’m going to wipe Rashid and his men from the face of the earth, and let their death serve as a warning to others. That man is a monster. During the past few weeks, I’ve seen firsthand the damage he has done, and my only regret is that I can only kill him once. The use of Napalm sends a clear message to these bastards that we’re playing by their rules now, and they’re going to lose.”
“Was it that bad?” Karl probed gently.
“You couldn’t even begin to imagine,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment. And he had made it worse, he accused himself, but he could never tell his cousins. “I’m not prepared to lose a single man to take this bastard down, so this is what we do. We take thirty men and all three gunships. We drop the men off about two kilometers from the camp, and they hike in and surround the camp. This is just to make sure no one escapes. At 03:00, the gunships attack. We drop the bombs and gun down any survivors.” Stefan flashed a chilling smile. “I want them to die in their beds. I don’t want to give them the opportunity to die like soldiers. They’re going to discover what it feels like to burn in hell.”
Karl nodded. “When shall we leave?”
“Tomorrow evening at 22.00. That puts us there in plenty of time, and allows the men manning the perimeter to get into position by 03:00. Kris, we’ll need you to hold the fort while we’re away. You can take care of things in my absence.”
“Sure,” Kris replied, “but I’ll want to give you a full medical before you leave.”
“Well, let’s get it over with,” he said, pulling a face. “Then we can take part in the festivities. Karl, you had better warn the men that I don’t want anyone hung over tomorrow.”
~ . ~
Kris performed a thorough medical on his cousin, reminding him how lucky he was to have escaped death. Stefan told him how Marcelle had saved his life. Kris could only shake his head, leaving him feeling guilty about what he had done to the woman who had given his life back to him.
“I take it you two got to know each other quite well,” the doctor commented. He saw a shadow passing over his cousin’s handsome features. “What’s wrong?”
Stefan wanted to tell him, but somehow couldn’t bring himself to admit his shame. Kris had studied psychology, and could give him some answers, but the guilt was too new, the pain too raw to confide, even to Kris.
