That Was Then (The Re-Do Series Book 1)

by Arthurs, Nia

  I knew I shouldn’t have eaten all those Oreos last night!

  I glance at the doors and realize he exited from the kitchen.

  “Was there a problem with your food?” I nod toward the room he just vacated.

  John Doe looks confused for a minute before he turns around.

  Understanding dawns.

  “Oh, no. I was actually looking for you.”

  “Me?” My hands fall limp.

  Crap. My meat pie display this morning left an impression.

  I cringe at the thought.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you want to see me for?”

  He steps forward with not a lick of awkwardness. I try to breathe but it is suddenly, incredibly difficult. With determined movements, the stranger darts his hand out and presses his rough fingertips on my cheeks, removing a drop that I missed.

  My shuttered breath escapes my chest in an explosion of sighs at his touch. I’m going crazy. I’m going crazy right here outside of the kitchen doors with Serachi on the other side, plotting more ways to make my life miserable.

  “I wanted to ask you to dinner.”

  The words are so out of place, they don’t register for a few moments. On my list of expected responses ‘I want to take you to dinner’ ranked the lowest.

  “No.” The word flies out of my mouth before I can corral it.

  He’s clearly surprised. John Doe is not used to being turned down.

  I gain a little confidence at the glimpse of his uncertainty. He’s got a crack in his armor. Perhaps the handsome, debonair British model has finally met his match.

  I know I’m a little loopy. And clumsy. And irresponsible. But I’m not stupid.

  Even though this guy is so, so hot, I don’t make it a habit of going around Belize with strange men that I meet at work. No matter how amazing they smell or how symmetrical their face.

  “I mean, I can’t.” I quickly clarify. “I won’t be available.”

  There. That’s a safe, non-committal answer.

  I expect him to give up and run away, to find a model that’s better suited for his magnificent looks. Instead, he smiles and rolls up the folds of his sleeves.

  The move is so unconsciously seductive that I find myself spellbound.

  John Doe speaks, barging into my little day dream.

  “I haven’t specified a date.”

  “Well, I’ll be busy for the next few days.” I wave my hand and back up to the kitchen doors. “Thanks for this.” I shake his handkerchief in the air and push the doors open, nearly falling through on my behind.

  John Doe’s bemused face is the last I see of him before the metal doors swing back in place.

  “There you are,” Serachi’s squeaky voice cuts through the noise of my thumping heart.

  His voice is like an unwanted scratch on a record.

  “What do you want, Serachi? Still upset because the Taiwanese ambassador asked to shake my hand and not yours?”

  “He obviously has a ruined palette.” Serachi grumbles. “And no, it’s not that. There was a man around here looking for you.”

  “Oh really?” I feign surprise.

  “Looks like a dangerous one,” Serachi lifts his knife and points it in my direction.

  “How do you know?”

  “Just a feeling.” The chef shrugs.

  “Don’t worry,” I assure him, even though I don’t think Serachi loses sleep over me. “I don’t plan on seeing him again.”

  Chapter 6

  Alistair

  I have to see her again.

  It is a fact. A certainty. A simple decision that I plan on seeing through no matter what.

  I wipe the smile from my face as I stalk the streets of Belize City a few hours later. Night has descended on the plains in the distance. Vehicles zoom by, carrying passengers eager to head home after a long day of work.

  One by one, street lamps blink on, illuminating dark-skinned youths in ragged jeans slung low on brown hips. Girls in long white uniforms or in undershirts and jersey shorts roam the sidewalks with hair organized in thick braids.

  The houses are colorful and bear zinc fences to chain link fences. No two structures are alike. Belizeans seem to thrive in their diversity. It is a culture that extends beyond their houses and businesses. It seeps through to the friendships that are forged here.

  Dark-skinned teenagers with flaring noses and deep curves stroll beside friends with creamy, fair skin and long manes. White, black, and red skin tones merge together so that no person can trace their lineage back to one sole ethnicity.

  The vibrancy of Belize is intoxicating. The pace is inevitably slower than other cities I’ve visited, such as Milan, Paris, even New York. Yet it holds a magic that no other country has been able to capture.

  I walk around the block as I do at every place that I stay, studying the city, the movements of the atmosphere, and the shadows in the corners. An assassin can use these things as weapons or as covers when the need arises.

  It has been a while since I’ve followed these procedures but the instructions are ingrained in me. The first part of any successful mission is good planning. Though none can account for unexpected eventualities, it is best to never enter a city blindly. Not if you want to survive.

  I check my watch and zip my jacket to my neck. It is almost time for my appointment with Tatum. I suppose this is enough scouting for now.

  I haven’t seen or heard any whispers of a new mercenary in town. The thugs on the block all work for bigger bosses. I have gleaned no information, nor did I expect to. The news I seek won’t be found in the common riff-raff.

  Turning on my heels, I return to my car and hop in. The SUV rumbles to life as soon as I turn the key. I pull on the clutch and charge out of the city.

  I’ve been to Belize a handful of times. It was one of the first Caribbean territories to host the Caribbean Assassins. Unlike most of her sister territories that are surrounded by water, Belize is situated on the mainland.

  The Caribbean Assassins build their fortresses on mountainous terrain, often etching staircases into the mountains, camouflaged by forests. I’ve been to the Belizean fort each time I’ve visited the country so the dark roads I travel are familiar.

  It takes an hour and a half to move from Belize City to San Ignacio, a small village in Cayo. The roads are smooth and the highways curve around the mountainsides as if Mother Nature constructed the paths.

  Much of Belize’s forestry is untouched. Tatum and his ancestors had a decent amount of plots to choose from when building the Belizean headquarters. They chose a large swath of land in the back roads of San Ignacio.

  A few minutes later, I see a shadow of a jaguar in the night. It is the sign of the Belizean Assassins. The closer I draw to the shadows, the more I recognize the landmarks. A fort rises, tall and mighty in the distance.

  The road becomes more treacherous, but I am not approached. Tatum knows I am here. The Assassins of the Caribbean have upgraded their security measures as well as their weapons over the years.

  Decades of successful missions have filled the coffers of the Brotherhood who then reinvest in state-of-the-art technology, computers, and security cameras.

  A lot has changed since the Firenzes, the sworn enemies of the original Demartian assassins, sent their warriors to steal maps of the New World in the sixteenth century. And yet, nothing of value has wavered. The principles of the Brotherhood stand.

  Order. Honor. Fulfilling the mission.

  Death and escape are the only options when cornered. Some of the Caribbean Assassins still enter hostile situations with nightlock poison locked in their teeth cavities. It is a way of life, as much as it is a calling.

  I park the car and walk the rest of the way. The doors carved into the mountainside open on their own. I am out of breath as I trod unto the rough, cavern floor.

  Bright lanterns held in iron clasps are strapped to the smooth walls. Firelight flickers against stone.

  The fort is
a testament to rugged elegance. The place is spotless and bears several artifacts that are priceless. The Brotherhood is deeply religious though the religions vary amongst the territories.

  I hear the clack of booted heels against the tiles and bow low.

  “Rise, Alistair.”

  I do so and am encapsulated by two brown and brawny arms. The leather of Tatum’s tunic smells of alcohol. I hope I haven’t interrupted his evening meal.

  “It is good to see you, boy.” Tatum slaps my back three times.

  “It is good to see you.”

  “Come,” he leads me down a hallway littered with guards dressed in the traditional robes of the Caribbean Assassins.

  “I see some new faces,” I comment as we stroll.

  “Yes, I’ve gotten some transfers from Kingston, Jamaica.” In a softer voice, he admits. “I feel they’ve cast off their runts to be trained on my dime.”

  Tatum laughs.

  I chuckle along, though I wouldn’t doubt his claims. Tatum’s Assassins are known for their prowess in battle, their intelligence, their wit in the heat of a mission, and their strength.

  Tatum leads me into a richly decorated room with plush Persian carpets and ornately welded lanterns.

  “Have a seat.” Tatum indicates the floor.

  He lowers himself with not a hint of strain on his face. Despite his advanced age, Tatum’s muscles are defined and his eyes sharp. It is no wonder. Assassins train all year round. It is the only way to survive in the life that we have chosen.

  Tatum’s voice is raspy. “What have you come to discuss?”

  A kettle is produced and he pours me a cup of tea. I accept it.

  “Shadow.”

  The tea pot rattles in his hands. Tatum places it on the table between us.

  “I have heard whispers but thought it was only idle talk.”

  “It is true. Damien confirmed it this morning.”

  Tatum strokes his neatly trimmed beard.

  “This Shadow, he came from nowhere and yet in his short tenure has struck fear in the hearts of many. I fear he will not stop until he has you.”

  “I have no clue how I have offended him. Perhaps I could make amends if I could.”

  “That is not the point anymore.” Tatum’s brown eyes lock on mine. “You must now concern yourself with beating him when he finds you.”

  I dip my head in respect of his opinion. “You do not think I should run?”

  “Death is a consequence of our choices. It is better to do so with honor than as a coward.”

  “I shall do as you say.”

  “It won’t be easy.” Tatum stares me down.

  I think of the stories of Shadow’s exploits. His murders are done with passion and skill gleaned only from training with the best assassins in the Brotherhood.

  “How do you suggest I beat him?”

  “You train,” –Tatum sips his tea and swallows– “you train or you die.”

  Chapter 7

  Kendall

  I’m dying to eat another package of Oreos, but I simply torture myself and stare at Charlie as she licks each of her fingers instead. We sit in the brightly lit chamber of her garage, cushioned in the large sofas in her office.

  Charlie is moaning and carrying on just to annoy me. I’m trying not to stare at her. Instead, I focus on the picture frames hanging from her walls. I’ve got my own special frame. There’s one of her mom, who died when we were both young and also one of Charlie’s dad.

  But most of the photographs are signed images of Dust and Ashes, one of the most famous reggae bands since Bob Marley and the Wailers. Charlie is dating Trey Johnson, the hot and former bad-boy drummer.

  I’m kind of jealous that something so exciting happened to Charlie, but I’m not surprised. My cousin is gorgeous. She’s not rail thin but she’s not my size either. Charlie’s a healthy balance.

  Her face is a testament to Caribbean beauty. Her long curly hair is perfect. It refuses to frizz even though she always has it stuffed on top of her head. In fact, Charlie’s the reason I wear my hair like that.

  I have no siblings, so my cousin has been my role model for as long as I can remember. She’s only a couple months older than me but she’s ten times more womanly. I wish I’d gotten a hint of her self-confidence. And her body type. And her hair.

  “You sure you don’t want any of this?” Charlie taunts, extending the package filled with chocolaty goodness.

  I glower. Sometimes, I don’t know why I love this girl.

  “That’s not nice.” I pout.

  “I’m just offering. It’s so good. Nice and crisp today.”

  She slips another cookie in her mouth and stares me down.

  Fine. Two can play that game.

  “You know what’s sweet?” I casually stare at my cuticles, “wedding cakes. Speaking of weddings, when are you and Trey getting married?”

  She chokes on an Oreo.

  I laugh.

  “That’s not fair.”

  “It’s a valid question.” I wave my hand in the direction of the blue packet in her hands. “And you were pushing me way too far.”

  Charlie slaps the cookie crumbs from her over all’ed lap.

  “Trey and I will get engaged when we’re ready.”

  “Which is when?”

  “None of your business.” Charlie covers her face. “Geez, why is this such a big deal? Have you been talking to my dad?”

  “No, and it’s a big deal because you’ve been dating for four years! Don’t you want to get married?”

  “Alright,” Charlie puts the Oreos away, clearly done with the subject. “I’m sorry for messing with you.”

  I smirk but back down.

  “Sorry for bringing up the whole marriage thing. Even though I really do want to know.”

  She slants me a look.

  I blow her a kiss. Pushing off the couch, I stand and stretch.

  “Thanks for fixing Lula.”

  Charlie follows suit and rises to her feet.

  “I really wish you’d buy another truck.”

  “No way,” I shake my head. “Lula’s timeless. There’s no replacing her.”

  “If you say so.” Charlie follows me into the garage.

  I slide the palm of my hand over Lula’s hood. A bit of chipped paint sticks to my skin.

  “Charlie made you all better, didn’t she?” I coo to my truck.

  “You are so weird, Kenny.”

  “I know.”

  Charlie tosses my keys. They land solidly in the crook of my elbow. I’m surprised that I caught it. There was a ninety percent chance the keys would end up on the floor.

  “No more duct tape. Temporary solutions can’t fix long-term problems.”

  I press two fingers to my forehead and salute.

  “Yes, Doctor Phil.”

  “And the next time an insanely hot guy asks you out, say yes. If you’re uncomfortable, I can stake him out for you. Make sure he’s legit.”

  I’d discussed John Doe the minute the taxi dropped me off at Charlie’s garage this afternoon. We’d conversed the topic to death.

  Grinning wide, I get into my car.

  “Thanks, Charlie.”

  She waves as I back out of her shop and drive down the lane. I live in a neighborhood fifteen minutes away. The apartment building is small and only hosts six rooms under its roof. I like it because my neighbors are quiet and old.

  They leave me in peace and I return the favor.

  My phone rings as soon as I unlock my apartment. It’s Courtney.

  “Hey, C.”

  I set my bags on the stand by the door and kick my shoes off.

  “Kendall, I have the information on your Mystery Man.”

  My heart rate kicks up a notch at the mention of his name. Well, at the mention of his nickname. I guess.

  “Lay it on me.”

  “Ehem,” Courtney recites. “His name is Alistair Rinaghi. He paid with cash. He’s staying in Room 104. You happy?”
<
br />   “Thanks, C. I owe you one.”

  I sigh and sink into the sofa.

  “What?”

  “I ran into him again.”

  “You did!” Courtney shrieks over the line. “So you knew all of that already?”

  “Not necessarily. It’s a long story. Hey, could you give me a minute?”

  Infused with energy, I rush to my bedroom, gather my laptop, and quickly boot it up.

  “Could you spell his last name for me?”

  She does.

  After a few beats of silence, my friend inquires.

  “Find anything?”

  “No, it’s coming up with a bunch of genealogies and books, but there’s no mention of that name anywhere. Are you sure that’s the correct spelling?”

  “I am.” I hear shuffling on the other end of the line and then Courtney returns. “I took a picture of the company information with my phone. That’s the name he gave.”

  “Oh my gosh. He doesn’t exist on the internet. He paid with cash. He must be… a secret agent!”

  “Or he could be a big-time author who wants to write his next novel in peace.” Courtney offers.

  I sniff and balance the computer on my lap.

  “Whatever or whoever he is, I don’t trust him.”

  “Why? Did he ask you out on a date or something?”

  “Yup.” I reply proudly.

  “What? You should have started with that! I want details!” Courtney demands.

  By the end of my retelling, my best friend is cackling like a maniac. I know my shenanigans are pathetic, but the least Courtney can do is pretend to be sympathetic.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You are. Is it that hard to believe a handsome guy wants to go out with you?”

  “Hey! He gave a fake name. He could be a sexy serial killer for all I know.”

  “Or he could be a nice guy who just wants some privacy. You never know.”

  “Since when have you been pushing me to date?” I smile. “We’re the Single Sisters, aren’t we?”

  “We’re the Single Sisters until a handsome man asks us out. Then we’re the dating sisters.”

  I scrunch my nose.

  “Wait,” Courtney snorts, “that didn’t come out right.”

  “Either way, I turned him down. Maybe when the next hot guy comes around, I’ll know how to handle myself.”