by Sable Jordan
Naima.
And Kizzie.
Shit.
There were very specific rules about these things. Unspoken, sure, but nonetheless specific: Don’t let Kizzie see him with Naima. Whatever the reasoning, Phil’s stunt was stupid and reckless, and Xander wanted to break his buddy’s jaw again. He dabbed grease on the frame instead.
“Fu—” Phil cleared his throat as though still working out the specifics of his speech. “Go over there and get Kizzie out of your system. Hand her the Intel on 3-19 and send her on her way. You and me’ll go wrap up Harvey. Either that or—”
“Since when are you calling the shots…or worried about who I’m fuckin’?” The menace was back. Unequivocally lethal despite Xander’s attention wholly consumed with cleaning the gun.
Phil leaned back in the chair. “To the former, I’m not, and don’t want to be.” He pushed the full clip into the base and chambered a round, sighting down the short barrel. “As for the latter, well… Still got that bullet if your memory needs jogging.”
The cleaning stopped and the room fell silent.
The bullet.
A normal day. Sun shining and birds chirping. Maybe that should have tipped Xander off. Normal days weren’t…normal. With all the scrapes and close calls they’d been in, both he and Phil should have been dead ten times over by the time they got to the bullet.
A dull ache started between his shoulder blades. Jaw clenched, Xander scrubbed at the gun. Glock on the table, Phil went to his bag. He found a black shirt, swapped it for the gray one he wore, and then shoved a different pistol into his waistband. “Door number two. You’ve got options.”
Xander grunted. Phil had been banging this drum since Kizzie left Oman, and they were at opposite ends of the spectrum. Phil argued Kizzie was flippable; Xander was the boss, so his word was final.
Ideally, he’d bring Kizzie on and not have to worry about the imminent battle that would come once they found Harvey. But their situation was far from ideal. She’d been gone a long time, back with The Crew. She could very well have told them everything, could have returned with the intent to slow walk Xander into a trap. Absence might make the heart grow fonder, but it made the brain grow suspicious.
“She’s dedicated to Connolly.” Fists balled, Xander ground his teeth. “After all this time I’m sure the connection runs deep.”
“You want her.”
“I plan to sleep with her, Phil—a subtle difference of motive. What I want is who she can get me.”
“Connolly?” Xander nodded and Phil added, “Tate…by default?”
“McMillan, Douglas, Nevins, and all the rest of the old man’s minions,” Xander spat icily. Kizzie fell in that category. To give her a pass just because he wanted to fuck her was bad business.
“Thinking you’ll charm your way between her legs to get her to give up Connolly is ridiculous.” Phil snorted. “Bring her to the dark side. You want to screw her after that, fine, but screwing her over like this is the wrong move, X. If Kizzie shoots, she won’t aim for your shoulder.”
Xander studied his friend through narrowed eyes. “You’re awful protective of Ms. Baldwin.”
“No matter the day, no matter the job, two things never change for me: Protect your ass and get you what you want.”
“And you think I want Kizzie?”
The challenge in Phil’s gaze was clear. Then he shrugged. “What do I know? I’m just a beta…” Tugging on a black jacket, he covered the slight bulge at his low back. “Gotta make a run.”
“Expecting trouble on this ‘run’?”
“It has a habit of finding me.” Xander lifted a brow and Phil shook his head in response to the unasked question. “I’m good. Be back in a couple hours and we’ll head out. Got a potential hit on the necklace.”
Xander squeezed the trigger on the SIG and a hollow click sounded. “You couldn’t have told me that before?”
“Had your hands full of…with…Hm. Sounds bad either way, doesn’t it?” Phil strode to the door. “You were busy with Naima. Didn’t want to interrupt you.”
“So you made sure Kizzie saw us together? An attempt to force my hand, I take it.”
“Damn straight, I am. Just hope you figure out I’m right before this all blows up,” Phil said from the door.
“She won’t flip,” Xander said, shaking his head. “And why bring her back in the first place? We have the info on the necklace.”
“Covering your six. Besides, you’re a Dom who gave his word. If we moved without her, you would have nagged and nagged and nagged…”
“Phil,” Xander interrupted. The big man turned back to his boss, a sly grin on his face. “Don’t come back here dead. Or with an extra hole in that ugly mug of yours. With Kizzie around, I need a pilot for my plane.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.” A middle-finger salute. “How’s Nai anyway?”
“She says you’re…‘prickly lately,’” Xander said, mocking her accent. Phil chuckled. “She was wrong. You’ve always been a fucking porcupine to me… And you’re gonna be an uncle.”
Phil’s laughter faded; eyes widened a hair, face blanched. Xander nodded solemnly, leaned back in the chair.
“Damn,” Phil breathed. Xander inhaled, gave another tired bob of his head, and Phil cleared his throat. “She’s not—”
“We’ll be down one woman. I told her I’d think it over, but Nai’s not going. Which means we’ll have to reassess.” A glance at Phil. “Cotton candy?”
“Softer...but for good reason.” Phil twisted the knob, paused and turned back once more. “Did you at least enjoy your present?”
At the memory of Kizzie’s body, wet and naked and beautiful, a smile tugged at Xander’s lips. Damn good to see her—not so much the cut hair, which he hated. Having her pressed so close and feeling her shiver as his hands smoothed down her skin had him hard as steel…
Right up until she mentioned the wife.
Xander remembered who deserved the blame for enlightening Kizzie on the matter. A matter that would make his plans for her all the more difficult to execute.
“You’re a bastard, Marchande,” he said, and Phil started up with a new round of laughter. “Don’t think I’m not pissed with you.”
“Of course you are, X. If you weren’t, it would mean I was wrong.”
July 28th
Tokyo, Japan
The voyeur slipped inside the apartment, hands covered by nitrile gloves, soft soles noiseless on the bamboo floor. The warrior lay face up only yards away. She stepped into the field of vision and the gaze locked on her, begging. Pleading.
A hard wheeze as constricting lungs worked triple-time to draw air. The skin of the face was an odd shade, not the normal apricot but flushed a bright cherry. A cracked cell phone, a bento box, and an upturned laptop were strewn haphazardly on the floor, as though yanked off the desk.
A stiff wind came in through the window, carrying the scent of hydrangeas and a darting black blob. It struck somewhere with a soft pop, drawing the voyeur’s eye a brief moment before she focused again on the body.
Dying.
Lowering to hands and knees, she dipped to hold her ear against the mouth. Air scraped though the windpipe. She pushed a hand to the fleshy throat and pressed down enough to stop the flow.
The eyes bulged, panic gripped the oxygen-starved brain.
Hot throbbing hit so hard against the voyeur’s palms it startled her. She let go quickly. Didn’t expect it to feel like that. The next scene might have to be hands on, but this one was already going as planned. She’d just watch. No need to help it along.
“Does it hurt?” she whispered.
The woman on the floor sucked air down in quick, inefficient bursts that made her belly jiggle. An intermittent buzzing undercut the sounds of hyperventilation, and the voyeur tilted her ear toward the noise. It came from her left; turned her head to see the blob making a slow trek in her direction.
She picked up the base of the bento box. Splintered al
ong the edges, lacquered wood beyond saving. Flowers were hidden beneath it, delicate petals of the pink wagashi somewhat battered. Leaving the treats, she deposited the box into the rubbish bin on the side of the desk and then returned to the body.
Twitching now, short little jerks of corpulent arms. Veins in the warrior’s face near bursting. Foam in the corners of the rosy mouth intermixed with pink crumbs dusting the lips.
Amazing to witness the ascension as it happened; to watch something pull its last breath and then resign to the end….
This one hadn’t done it yet.
This one still struggled for air she would not find, mouth working like a gaffed fish.
“Nerium oleander,” the voyeur explained to her spasmodic audience. Her voice was bright and animated, a professor lecturing a small class. “The nectar is quite poisonous, though not enough to cause what you’re experiencing. Cyanide crystals. Added those, just to be sure…”
The gasping increased slightly. Uselessly.
“You’ll stop that soon… Breathing. Oleander affects the heart. Cyanide prevents oxygen uptake—starves the cells,” she said, speaking more to the moving blob than the other human in the room. It wasn’t just any blob, she noticed as it inched closer, but a Japanese beetle. Terrible fliers, subject to the turns of the wind.
“Hello!” blurted from the cell phone and the voyeur jumped. The J-pop ringtone came to the end of the snippet, and then picked up again from the beginning. She flipped the device to see the display, but the damaged screen made it difficult to make out the name and number.
The bleating ended; started again moments later. She connected the call, held the phone to her ear and waited.
No words were exchanged.
The legs were really jumping now. Arms straight out to the side. Any harder and the neck might snap.
The call disconnected from the other end; the beetle inched closer.
With the phone displaying the home screen, she could make out the date on the bottom edge: July 28th. A quick calculation in her head and she deduced it was the same day there as well. Just.
She pocketed the phone.
Stepping over the dancing body, the voyeur went to the kitchen and took a glass from a cabinet; pulled a piece of paper from a pile on the counter. Then she went back to the woman, forehead creased by a frown. Holding the glass bottom up, she lifted it high, and slapped it down right beside the jerking head.
“Careful.” Sliding the page between the floor and the wide mouth of the tumbler pinned the beetle inside. Its iridescent green head twitched, little legs scrabbling for purchase along the white sheet. “Nearly got yourself crushed.”
Eyes on the beetle, the voyeur addressed her audience with unbridled enthusiasm. “In a class at university, the professor said the Egyptian scarab beetles are a sacred symbol of reincarnation. Reincarnation…” she repeated, her voice ethereal. “A second chance….”
She studied the trapped bug and. “Don’t you think we should all be made sacred? Get another chance at love? At…” her voice tapered to a whisper, “pain….”
No response.
Another small hop over a slowly stiffening torso and she went to the open window. “There.” She eased the beetle onto the sill. “Now you’re safe.” It hesitated, and she cocked her head. Would it come inside, or go back to the freedom it knew, however uncertain the changing winds?
The tiny pest scurried over the edge and dropped out of sight.
A soft evening breeze washed over her face, and she braced her elbows on the ledge to admire the greenery in the little courtyard two stories below. A Japanese maple reached outward, branches extended like drooping arms, leaves wiggling in the wind. Bunches of white hydrangeas dotted the small landscape, interrupted by pops of pink from the wild roses sprinkled here and there.
“No cherry blossoms,” she said, then over her shoulder to the warrior, “I bet you knew that, though.”
Returning to the body, the voyeur toed at the foot with her shoe before approaching the face. The eyes were two dull buttons, pushed into a cherry-colored ball of dough. They stared off into space, looking for all the world like they would blink any moment. She half expected them to, having seen them so animated only minutes before. Ear to the parted lips, she listening for the soft rasp of wind and was delighted there was none.
A search through her bag produced a length of red yarn. Getting it around the neck wasn’t so hard since she’d had practice, but with the woman’s size the voyeur had to tie two pieces together to make it reach, and that depleted her stash. She’d have to find more. She made quick work of it, slightly disconcerted by the juxtaposition of a warm body that wasn’t alive.
“What is the meaning of rope, pet?” she murmured, making a final adjustment to the knot to align it perfectly in the soft depression of the throat. She brushed the warrior’s hair clear of the eyes so she could properly view the newly restored shinsei. This one demanded nothing more, thankful for the gift of a last meal during the final act of her life.
The voyeur raked her hand through her own tresses, dug at an itch in her scalp. Uneaten wagashi lay beside the body. She picked them up with reverence, cradling them in her hand carefully so as not to damage them further.
It had taken two buds from the sweet bouquet for this scene.
How apropos.
The treats in the voyeur’s gloved palm numbered three.
Over Japanese Airspace…
Kizzie was shaking. More precisely, she was being shaken. She didn’t hop up like Jason Bourne, bright-eyed and raring to fight. She knew her location, knew who she traveled with, and that was all that saved Xander from being put on his ass. His fingers stroked her cheek and then dragged over and around her ear. A hum bubbled in Kizzie’s throat but she swallowed it.
“Wake up, Princess.”
“Don’t poke the bear,” she groused, peering through one barely open slit. Xander crouched beside her, steady browns in line with hers. “It’s a good way to get hurt.” Hoisting herself up on one arm, she swung her feet to the floor and the blanket slid down to pool around her middle.
“Come on, sweetheart. Up and at ‘em. We land in a bit and I let you snore as long as I could stand it.”
“I don’t snore.”
“Sure you do. Kinda soft. Like a buzz saw. On concrete. It’s adorable.” A half grin on his face, he stood in one easy motion and headed for the front of the plane.
Kizzie rolled her neck to stretch it. Her head was heavy, and it felt like cotton plugged her ears. How long was she comatose? Xander had ordered her to the couch—yes, ordered—and she’d been too tired to even manage a decent stink eye. 48 hours out from Brazil and on a plane over half of them. Jetlag would be a huge bitch.
The intoxicating scent of brewed coffee perked her senses and she untangled from the blanket Xander must have thrown over her. Her boots were on the floor beside the couch, laces neat and tidy, as if they’d be stored in a marine’s footlocker. She hadn’t taken them off, and wouldn’t let herself linger on the consideration of the simple act.
After a stop in the galley Kizzie loped up the walkway and sank into a leather chair, steaming mug of jump juice in one hand, half a baguette and a packet of jam in the other. She yawned, covering her mouth with the bend of her bread arm. Her ears popped, and the sound of the luxe plane cutting through atmosphere grew louder.
On the other side of the table, Xander intently studied his laptop screen.
“What are you working on?” Setting the bread down, she jutted her chin toward the white cable and flash drive jammed into the ports of the machine. “New Intel on Harvey, or 3-19?”
“More important, actually.” Xander tapped a button and disconnected the data cable as well as the device blocked by the screen. He slipped it back into the case and wrapped the earbuds around it before handing it over. “I’m stealing music. Got bored and decided to see what you listen to. And then you made a donation to my library.”
The hot mug went on the
table and Kizzie snatched her iPod Classic with a disapproving glare. “You can’t just—”
What was the point? He’d done it, so obviously he could “just.”
“I’m not all take and no give, Kizzie. I put some stuff on there you might like.”
“We need to have a discussion about boundaries.”
He reached for her coffee. “Any time you’re ready, Princess… Hard limits, soft limits…I’m more than willing to push you to them.” A seductive gaze on his face, Xander watched her over the rim as he took a sip.
“You could’ve got your own.”
“You could’ve brought me one.” Another slow drink and he slid the mug back to her; made himself at home with her baguette.
“By all means, help yourself.” He flashed her a grin and smeared on the jelly. Kizzie rolled her eyes and pointed to the item still connected to his laptop. “And that?”
“That…is a jump drive.”
“Smart ass. What’s on it?”
“That…is a secret.” He winked and took a bite of the bread.
Mug in hand, Kizzie curled her feet into the seat. If nothing else, the man had great taste in upholstery. And coffee. The comfy leather could easily make her slip back into a doze if left alone, but the steaming cupp’a would have her fully alert in a few minutes.
“We should talk.”
“We should,” she said curtly. “Phil tells me this is one of a handful of hits off the necklace. The network’s been wonky and location isn’t specific. But since there’s a photo of the tattoo, I suppose this is the best of a bad situation. So what’s the plan when we get on the ground?”
Xander stared at her a long moment, shook his head. “Will we ever have a normal conversation, Princess? Something other than bombs and nefarious plots and the fate of the world?”
