She found herself inside Birdsong’s living room and could see, in the dim moonlight shining through the curtains, a few high bookshelves, an armchair, a lamp, and a small table. She stood for a moment, listening, and heard sounds of movement from above, but nothing else. Slowly, without a whisper of sound, she proceeded to search every inch of the living room, scouring the space for anything that looked like it might be the lock that the key would fit. It took her about twenty minutes. Then she went toward the back of the house to the kitchen, and on her way passed the staircase. It was a beautiful space she found herself in, the moonlight coming through high windows, the wooden spiral staircase spinning up to the second floor, the walls a periwinkle blue with moldings in white. She stood for a moment in the moonlight inhaling the scents of the house and the sea, taking time to center herself, trying to remember what she was doing and why. She had a vision then of Gabriella, her dark hair down her back, the two of them on a job together, guns pulled, fully communicating in the silence. Gabriella used to wink to indicate it was time to move forward. Tyka winked, then, to herself, willing herself to press on. Just at that moment she heard the floorboards above creak. The upstairs hall light turned on, and she turned to find a place to hide. Suddenly she heard a quiet whooshing sound from behind her, and before she could react, a man’s hand was over her mouth, instantly smothering any hint of protest. Someone else is here, too? Her body tensed as she braced herself to fight: How could she get free without alerting the man upstairs? It was then that a familiar voice whispered in her ear, “It’s Mahmoud. Always lovely to see you, Ms. Tyka. Come with me.”
‡‡‡
Mahmoud had been searching the house again when Birdsong had come home. Cécile had work she had to take care of back in Paris, and had left that afternoon, saying she’d be available for whatever he might need in the future. After Mahmoud’s tangle with Rocco Bellini, which ended with him leaving Rocco knocked out but alive, he’d decided there must be something he’d missed, and had come back to Birdsong’s villa to search, knowing he’d have to keep himself well hidden in case Bellini had given Birdsong a heads-up.
He could tell when he walked in that the house was different; a moved chair, an open newspaper, dishes in the sink. Clearly Birdsong had been there during the day, and was out. Mahmoud had searched the entire upstairs before he heard a car in the driveway. Immediately turning off his flashlight, he had come downstairs and hidden in the linen closet until Birdsong went upstairs. He’d just been making his way out when he’d heard someone breaking in. He’d stayed where he was, barely breathing, until he could see the intruder through a slight crack in the door . . . and had been delighted by the familiar sight of a willowy blonde all in black. When he heard the sounds of Birdsong on the move upstairs, he threw open the closet door, grabbed Tyka, and pulled her inside.
‡‡‡
The closet was fairly small, but it had enough room for two. A dim light from the hall came through underneath the door, giving the barest illumination. They stood together in silence as Birdsong came downstairs, passed them, and made his way to the kitchen. Mahmoud’s arm was still around Tyka, though he’d dropped his hand from her mouth, and the space was small enough that she was flush against his body, her back to his front. They were so close that he could feel her heart beat. They breathed slowly, shallowly, the sounds imperceptible, but the beating of Tyka’s heart and Mahmoud’s own sounded like a drum in his ears. If he hadn’t yet realized the effect this woman had on him, he felt it now; felt it in the blood pumping through his veins, in the difficulty he was having keeping his breathing even, in the challenge he was encountering trying to be a gentleman and not get aroused right here, right now, in the midst of a job.
But having her so close, the scent of her skin, the feel of her taut, lean frame against his, proved Mahmoud wasn’t a saint. Needing to adjust himself, he tried to jostle them silently without drawing too much attention to what he was doing.
Tyka let out a nearly silent chuckle, then spoke in a low whisper. “I didn’t realize the idea of being caught was so exciting to you.”
He let out a low sigh before replying, “It’s the idea of being caught with you, Ms. Tyka.”
She pressed against him, and the only indication he had of her feelings was the rise and fall of her back against his chest. “Is that why you arranged to have your French courtesan interrupt us?”
He took a deep breath, then nipped the edge of her ear with his teeth, earning him a sharp intake of breath. “Oh, Assassin Blonde, I had no idea you cared.”
“Is that what you call me, Mahmoud? Assassin Blonde?”
“And what if I do?”
“Well, it’s not exceptionally inventive, is it?”
“What would you prefer?”
“Assassin Sexy.”
He laughed now, a bit too loud, and it earned him an elbow in the ribs. “Well, Ms. Tyka, that goes without saying.”
They heard the sounds of pots and pans being moved, and Birdsong turned on some music. Jazz. Madeleine Peyroux. A soulful song drifted through the house and gave them a bit of sound cover.
“Well,” she said, still whispering but a bit less carefully, “sounds like it’s dinnertime.”
“Yes,” Mahmoud replied. “I suppose that means we’re stuck here for a bit.”
He could feel her breathing quicken, and he pulled her even closer. “Perhaps you wish you were with your French whore?” she asked, trying to get some space from him in a closet that allowed almost no movement.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Assassin Sexy. She’s a friend of mine, someone I fucked for convenience for a while. Perhaps you’re just jealous? Why don’t I prove how much I want you, and only you?”
“That will be a bit hard to do in this small closet, don’t you think?”
‡‡‡
Tyka was just to the left of panicking. How could she tell Mahmoud about her fear of small spaces? Ever since her escape through the Odessa Catacombs she’d had a paralyzing fear of being trapped. She could practically feel the wet walls of those rat-infested tunnels closing around her.
“Mahmoud,” she said. “I don’t like this—when I’m in small spaces, I start to panic—”
“Is this about Odessa?” he asked.
Her whole body tensed and she felt like she was choking. “What the fuck do you know about it?”
“I did my research on you, Ms. Tyka. When I first met you, I . . . wanted to know more. Everything. I found out all I could. Which wasn’t much.”
“But how do you know about Odessa?”
“I have some contacts in the French secret service. Like the woman you saw, who you will never see in my bed again. I promise. She’s a friend. And a good agent. That’s all.”
She was still having a hard time breathing. “I don’t like you knowing about my childhood.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll tell you anything you want to know about mine. I’ve told you much about my family, but there’s more there. I’ll share all of it with you. And just so you know, when I heard about you and your mother escaping through the catacombs, I thought it was extremely . . . badass.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “I don’t like feeling caught.”
“Well, there’s a door right in front of you. What if you pretend it’s a choice?”
“What do you mean? Who would choose to— I think it’s ridiculous to—”
‡‡‡
Her next words were cut off as he put his hand over her mouth again. “Let me show you,” he said softly. “Let me show you how good I can make you feel in this small space, and then you can choose if you want it to continue.” Without waiting, he pressed his lips to the sensitive spot on her neck he’d found in their previous lovemaking sessions, relishing the sharp intake of breath as she responded to him. He took his time, and used his lips, his tongue, his teeth to lavish atte
ntion on every part of her long neck, her throat, her upper shoulder. He grabbed her long blond hair in his hand and pulled; she gasped and threw her head back, allowing him greater access. He pulled her even closer; then trailed both hands up and down every inch of her body, making her moan softly with ecstasy. They’d made love several times with the same precision they used to approach their deadly work . . . fiercely, sharply, efficiently, and without apology. Now, suddenly, it was different; trapped in the closet of the potential mastermind they both sought, held so close together, there was a shift in energy, in style. Mahmoud found himself wanting to discover every inch of Tyka’s body, every undiscovered piece of her taut, strong, feminine landscape.
He started with her arms. As he continued to feather kisses along her neck and shoulders, he ran his fingers up and down the length of her muscles to her hands, entwining his fingers with hers, gaining excitement from her heightened breathing and low moans of pleasure. Taking her fingers in his mouth and gently sucking on them one by one, he ran his hands across her torso and the lean muscles of her back, and up through her hair to the front of her, her toned stomach and her firm upturned breasts, nipples straining through the fabric of her shirt and bra.
He turned her around to face him then, just possible in the small space. Mahmoud took her mouth with his, and when she opened to him he deftly inserted his tongue, claiming what he felt was his. He wanted her now more than he’d ever wanted any woman; wanted her body, her soul, her mind; wanted her to be his. Slowly, relishing the moment, he pulled her pants down and deftly slid her underwear down as well. She was pressed up against the door, her hands on the shelves as she moaned his name. Pushing her legs as far apart as he could within the constraints of the space, he slid some towels out of the way, giving them a bit more room, and fell to his knees before her. He moved to the center of her with abandon, devouring every inch.
‡‡‡
Tyka was pressed up against the door, Mahmoud’s face between her legs. The pleasure was nearly unbearable, all the tension of the past few days streaming out of her down her thighs. She fisted his hair in her hands and softly moaned his name over and over and over again. She could hear the sounds of something frying in the kitchen, smelled oil and garlic, heard the jazz playing loudly through the house. This experience with Mahmoud was so different from the few they’d had thus far; the way he was touching her, the way he’d looked at her, it was all so very sensual, so passionate, so deeply from the heart. It turned her on and scared her in equal measure.
But it was this—the way his tongue, his lips, his hands were touching her now—that was leaving her without the capacity to think. She was losing control, losing her ability to stand upright, losing any sense of time or place. He was lavishing every part of her center with his tongue, his lips, devouring every piece of her, like he was in the desert dying of thirst and she was his oasis. She’d never had a man want her quite like this, inhale her body so completely, and it was driving her wild. As his tongue continued to explore, his lips teased, his teeth gently scored her most sensitive places. He slid a finger inside her, coordinating his explorations and driving her to the peak of ecstasy. Suddenly, when she thought she couldn’t possibly take any more, he inserted a second finger and worked her into a shattering orgasm. She had to bite her tongue not to scream out; instead she pushed his face farther into her, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and thrust against him over and over again. When he stood back up to face her, she could see the look of desire hot in his eyes.
‡‡‡
Mahmoud was so turned on he could barely catch his breath. The way Tyka had surrendered to him, how she had let herself go and finally allowed him to take care of her, drove him to the brink. They’d had great sex before, but it was all physical chemistry; now there was a connection he hadn’t known existed. He could feel himself straining against his pants and stood up, kissing her deeply as he freed himself. She put her arms around his neck and pulled his face close; they shared another kiss, this time deeper, more passionate, filled with surrender and challenge. She pulled her pants all the way off and wrapped her legs around him. Her thighs were slick around his own, and it didn’t take much to guide himself into the hot, sweet center of her, which he felt tighten and pulse around him.
Their lips met again, and she whispered against him, “Take me, Mahmoud. I’m yours.” Their low moans intertwined as he slowly thrust into and out of her, pressing her softly against the door, keeping an ear tuned toward the kitchen. He could feel that they were both attuned to their mark as well as to each other; they spoke in a silent language that felt newly coined and all their own. Gently and passionately Mahmoud brought them both to climax. They continued to kiss afterward, still wrapped around each other, still tangled in their clothes. This kiss was still different; now Mahmoud thought he felt a whole new level of surrender, of engagement, of vulnerability. It made him want more and more and more of what this woman had to offer. He was lost in her now, lost. She was all he wanted.
Suddenly the music turned off, and they could hear footsteps coming their way. Perhaps Birdsong had finished eating, or was taking his meal upstairs. Regardless, they stopped what they were doing and stayed stock-still, almost without breathing. They heard him open the closet next to theirs, the jangling of keys, and then the light was turned out. The front door was opened, then closed. They waited a bit longer, breathing very quietly, until they heard the sound of his car pulling out of the driveway. Then still, they waited a bit longer.
Finally, Mahmoud let out a sigh. “I could stay this way with you forever, Ms. Tyka,” he whispered against her skin. He could feel her intake of breath, then her body stiffening.
“Well, I think that would be a bit tough on the muscles, don’t you?” she said awkwardly.
Feeling Tyka’s armor rising back up between them, Mahmoud thought it best to let the moment pass. He gently set her down, handed her her clothes, awkwardly put on his own, and said, “Shall we continue to search? I did the upstairs before he came home.” Tyka dressed quickly, opened the door, and without a response led them back out into the darkened living room.
“Your call, Mahmoud,” she said. “But there’s one thing I must share with you first.” Taking a key from her bra, she explained to him about Gabriella and the key in her apartment, and Mahmoud realized he was disappointed that what she had to share was about the case and not about her own feelings. What was wrong with him? This was potentially a huge step forward in the case that had consumed him for years. And yet here he was, struck dumb by wanting this woman to give more of herself to him than he’d already had. After a tense moment of silence, Tyka pressed on. “Did you find anything that looked like a lockbox or a locked cabinet upstairs?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I wasn’t looking for that, but I would’ve noticed.”
“So what now?” she asked.
“Let’s do the kitchen. That’s the only space neither of us has searched since Birdsong came home. Then we should make a hasty exit.”
“Let’s do it. With all due speed.” She turned to move forward, but then paused, her back to him. “And Mahmoud?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For taking care of me.” And with that she walked off to the kitchen before he had a chance to respond.
7
It was six p.m., and the Boss had briefed all the present members of the Bod Squad on the abuser-turned-pimp case. It reminded him of the first time he’d met Babs. . . . His team had been after a man involved in a Ponzi scheme, and her team was after the same man for leading a double life and abusing both of his wives.
The character currently on their radar wasn’t much better. The Boss had gone over the details with the team and had dictated their positions. They were sitting around the one large table in the office, a one-of-a-kind reclaimed wood antique he’d gotten when he’d first opened the busine
ss. “Okay,” he said, looking out at everyone. They each had a copy of the file in front of them, and the table sported several open Chinese food containers. “Let’s go over it again. William Nants, fifty-seven, started as a carnival barker, now runs something out of his barn called ‘the Carnivale,’ which we think is actually a prostitution ring. We were tipped off by an anonymous lead—a woman who was reluctant to give her name. She said the women are abused and then sold to the highest bidder for the night. She contacted us after the Bee sent out some exploratory emails looking for leads. Bee, where the hell did you find this, anyway?”
Lisa Bee shifted in her seat and looked pleased with herself. “Aw, you know how I find leads . . . I’m like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl. I snatch things from the New York Post.”
The Boss laughed. “But how’d you get this one, specifically?”
“Well, Bossman, I was reading this article about Madonna and what she’s up to now and there was this little side article about underground prostitution rings and about how many of them were in the D.C. area, right under the noses of the most prominent politicians. So I sent out some feelers and this is what I got.”
Now Jackson leaned back with a smile on his face and folded his hands behind his head. “What did I tell you, Bossman? My girl’s got mad skills.”
“She certainly does,” the Boss replied. “Even so, this is a strange one. But look at it as a palate cleanser.”
“An amuse-bouche?” Susannah said with a wink.
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