“Sullivan-Moreaux.”
“Whatever,” I grumbled. “He killed Dalton. You should be nice to him.”
“He what?” Frank let his eyes drift briefly off the road to fully convey his surprise.
“He’s a good guy. You just refuse to give him a chance because he’s not Charlie.”
“There’s no reason for me to give him a chance, Vincent. We’ll never even see him again.”
“He still killed Dalton. For you.” I didn’t know why I was bothering to defend Joe. I’d been mad at him ten minutes ago.
“Joe is damaged, Vincent. Beyond repair. He never would have been anyone’s handler. He’s unreliable.”
Frank wouldn’t be saying that if he’d known how reliably he’d handled me while Bella went out. “Everyone’s gonna know that we live in France.”
He closed his eyes. “Is that your way of telling me you gave Joe our address?”
“No,” I sighed. “Not even the city.”
“Good.”
“But they’ll still know.”
“France is a big country.”
“Not as big as America.” I would’ve jumped out of the moving car to deservedly kill myself, but he’d hit the brakes. I doubted it was to save my life. “That was just…arguing for arguing sake…I didn’t…”
Frank shoved the gear into neutral, looking more hurt than pissed. “If you were unhappy—”
“I’m happy! I’m really, really happy. I just…there’s nothing on TV. And I wanna stab somebody in the face.”
He sighed and lit a cigarette. “It’ll pass.”
I snatched his cigarette out of his mouth and put it in mine, catching enough of an inhale to make myself cough so hard I didn’t even feel him slap me for it. “It tastes better secondhand,” I sputtered, picking up the cigarette from the floor mat where it had fallen and handing it back to him.
He flicked it out the window into the freshly falling snow. “Would you tell me if you were unhappy in France?”
“You’d know it if I was,” I said. Frank had always been able to read me. Not that he needed to, since I talked so fucking much.
“I know you’re not as happy as you used to be.”
That was an understatement. “It’s just the change. You know, getting used to everything. It’s different. And here. Being here with all these freaks, and there’s no one to talk to because Bella only wants to talk about clothes and I never see you anymore.” I hadn't seen him in two years. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” he said quietly, sounding like we were talking about the exact same thing. “We’ll be home soon, Vincent.”
I took his hand in mine, wishing once again that I’d kept my big mouth shut. It didn’t matter where we lived. It never had. Except that one hotel in Kentucky. That was intolerable. “I’m already home.”
He gripped my fingers, slightly tighter than affectionate or necessary. “You fancy him?”
“Not like that.” Although, I couldn’t blame him for being jealous. I had quite the history with cocks accidentally falling into my mouth. “Joe’s just…nice.” Before I could stop myself I’d blurted out, “He protected me when Karl was—”
Luckily we were still stopped. That comment was veer off the road territory. “Sorry, what?”
“Karl came down when Bella was blowing up her car. He…I dunno. I don’t speak Russian but his body language was enormously clear. He had your knife.”
I was pretty sure his fury was the only thing keeping his hair from collectively turning gray. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”
“So you could kill him and forfeit our lives?”
Frank slouched in his seat to better brood. Joe had been right. Denying Frank the privilege would’ve caused some considerable conflict between the two of them. “Maybe I wouldn’t have killed him.”
“I think cutting off his dick and feeding it to him would kinda count.”
He glared at me. “I could’ve waited for a better opportunity.”
“Well the opportunity is lost. Joe sent him away. To Siberia or something.”
“Siberia isn’t as far from here as you think.”
I rolled my eyes. “You know I suck at geography.”
“I know you wouldn’t if you’d study.” He also knew that I did my best studying when I was bent over a desk. “Siberia, huh?”
“Planning a road trip?” I teased.
“A bit farther than that.” If Frank found out that Karl had been hard while threatening me, he probably would’ve run to Siberia just to kill him. “You stay with Joe instead of Bella?”
He may not have intended to tighten his grip on my hand, but if he kept it up I’d have to remind him that Bella was the one he was supposed to be mad at, not me. “She’s been a little moodier recently. It only happened once. Or twice. It’s cool though. He doesn’t try to put makeup on me.”
“If you keep making bets with her you’re going to end up in drag. It is inevitable.”
“But if I win—”
“You’re not going to win, V. Bella cheats worse than Charlie.”
Now that was a warning worth heeding. When Frank was merely an object of my obsession and I was bored and bed ridden, I used to play poker with his handler and bet him for information about my future husband.
Charlie didn’t simply cheat. Charlie completely made up new rules. Until I tried playing real poker with Maggie I didn’t realize exactly how high the odds had been stacked against me. Charlie hadn’t taught me to play poker. That wasn’t even poker’s inbred cousin twice removed. “I got Bella to wear pants today.”
“Then you’re safer with Joe.”
“See, you’re warming to him already!” I said.
It was a good thing I was right handed.
Chapter Forty-Seven
She slipped her charge card to the cashier, shopping for two, clothes so small she only had five bags, powder blue, pastel pink, couture for girls, couture for boys. She didn’t breathe as the transaction was processed, like the first designer dress she’d bought. Using dirty cash the clerk had sneered at, waiting for the woman to tell Bella she couldn’t have it, couldn’t have any of it because this was not for her.
“When are you due?” the cashier asked. Her English was impeccable. Better than the doctor’s, whose deadly pills were in Bella’s purse.
“Never,” Bella said as she signed the receipt. “They’re just such beautiful clothes.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Frank stood in the entryway between the two bedrooms, mere moments away from breaking his promise to Vincent and honoring his agreement with Silva. It was unfortunate that Karl had been sent away, but that would not prevent Frank from committing multiple murders that evening. Nothing short of death itself would stop Malkolm from coming after Bella once Silva was gone, and with his room just on the other side of the house, Frank had no intention of allowing the opportunity to pass him by.
Vincent called out to him from the adjacent room, significantly louder than necessary, “Are you picking out something pretty for Bella to wear?”
Silva glanced back and smiled warmly at Frank. He was greatly amused by the fact that Vincent found every excuse to shout. Like Bella, who found every excuse to scream. “I’m picking out something pretty for you to wear,” Frank said, stepping briefly back inside Bella’s massive walk-in-closet to address his husband. It would get Vincent pouting for a few minutes. Enough time to finish what was required of him.
He approached Silva from behind, holding the marble bust. Although there was a great deal to say, silence felt far more appropriate. Frank watched him in profile; a man he deeply respected, taking his last breaths. There was no fear on Silva’s face as he crossed himself, whispering a prayer in Latin.
Silva nodded once and Frank swiped the journal off of Silva’s desk, tucking it safely into his inside coat pocket without a second thought. Then he brought the marble bust down against Silva’s temple with a thwack, using enough force to feel pain
shoot up his wrist. Frank’s grip did not loosen as he removed the bust from where it landed, pressed against soft, wet tissue. He inhaled deeply, catching a whiff of Silva’s cologne—no—aftershave. He checked for a pulse as he lowered Silva’s head down to his desk, Frank’s own heart completely steady.
For a moment he felt overwhelmed with grief, standing there alone. Silva’s body was still warm, his wisdom, his experience, his life, erased with one blow. Then he heard Vincent scream in pain, and just as quickly as his life had been extinguished, Silva vanished from Frank’s mind.
Chapter Forty-Nine
“Are you picking out something pretty for Bella to wear?” I shouted to Frank. Bella grabbed my jaw tighter, pulling my face back toward her while I tried to talk to my temporarily-closeted husband.
“I’m picking out something pretty for you to wear,” Frank said meanly.
I pouted. His comment normally might’ve been funny, but not while Bella was putting makeup on me. “That’s good. Hold it like that,” she said, pulling out a tube of lipstick the color of her hair.
I wrenched my face away. “I did not agree to lipstick!”
“Fine,” she grumbled, setting it back inside her giant makeup bag and pulling out an eyeliner pencil. I hadn’t agreed to that either, but a bet was a bet, even when she cheated.
“You know who likes wearing makeup?” I figured that since she was having such a good time at my expense, it was okay to finally mention he who mustn’t be named. “Case—OWW!” I shrieked, reaching for my eye. It seemed to still be there and the pencil wasn’t jutting out, but it hurt like hell and there were already tears streaming down the side of my face. At least, I hoped they were tears.
“You’d better put some ice on that.”
Glaring at her one-eyed, I sulked out of the bedroom, confident that Frank would be right behind me and I was therefore not breaking my promise. It had to be my right eye that she stabbed. The good one. I had next to no peripheral vision on the left side from Frank’s brother smashing his gigantic hands into my face.
I stumbled on the carpet, nearly falling to the floor. It probably wouldn’t have hurt much if I did go down. The carpet was like walking on pillows. Or maybe that was because of the slippers.
I half-saw Silva’s door, and remembered that he had ice right there in his office, waiting with little silver tongs just for my icing pleasure. I knocked quietly, even though barging in seemed the fashionable thing to do. No one answered so I let myself in.
And then I saw the reason knocking was invented in the first place.
I lifted my hand off my eye, hoping I’d been mistaken. No, Silva was most certainly leaning forward over his desk, bright red blood across his white hair, bits of skull like egg shells broken into his brain.
There’s something about dead bodies that brings out the kid in me. Not the bodies I’ve created, mind you, only the corpses I find when finding such things should be left to adults. One of my earliest memories was finding a dead little girl, butchered and dumped in a ditch like an old stained sofa or a broken TV. It had very likely contributed to my premonitions of dying young, although that premonition had been too close to coming true for comfort.
Now I stood there, right at his side like I was going to help him safely cross the street for a shiny new nickel. I touched him, gently nudging his shoulder, Wake up Mr. Silva, you’ve fallen asleep on the job. But he wasn’t going to wake up. I knew that, and I knew I shouldn’t touch him even though this murder would never, ever be reported to the police.
At the very worst possible moment, I felt the beginnings of a migraine: that sudden spark of light sensitivity, a subtle wave of nausea, and in just a few minutes, jackhammers on the brain. As I stepped away from the corpse, wanting nothing more than to crawl back to Bella’s room and find Frank, take a couple pills and wake me when it’s over, the door opened and a man I hadn’t met yet in this house of assassins pulled out his gun.
Caught red handed for a crime I didn’t even commit. How unprofessional.
I leapt behind Silva’s chair, hearing the loud clap of a silenced gun going off. A silencer wasn’t the most important detail to take note of when a gun was pointed at you, but I was pretty sure my would-be-murderer didn’t have one. Before I could tally this as one more of my nine lives used up, there was an explosion of noise and I felt a shooting pain in my head. I held my ears, cringing in agony. Someone was screaming. Bella. It was Bella.
Frank grabbed my arm, yanking me unsympathetically to my feet and dragging me toward the noise. That was the last place I wanted to be heading. Bella was standing in the doorway howling like a banshee, getting louder with each step, and then Frank flung me into her, knocking us both to the ground like flicking over a line of dominoes. I realized on the ground why he’d done it; her shrieking had attracted more company. He killed someone else, some guy Bella had called Fucko, though I didn’t think that was actually his name.
For a second she shut up, out of the shock of me being thrown on top of her. I would’ve thanked Frank for his quick thinking had she not completely lost her mind during her brief quiet moment. She started trying to rip my throat open, screaming, “You killed him!”
My head throbbed as I fought her away from my major arteries. I could see the crazy in her tear drowned eyes. Why would I kill Silva? Because she tried to take my eye out with Christian Dior?
Frank pulled her off me and tossed her back to the carpet a couple inches away, where she collapsed into a heap of sobs. “He killed him!”
“He’s not capable of it,” Frank said. I was in too much pain to take offense.
“Of course he is! You taught him to be!”
“Get up, V,” he said, finally showing some compassion and helping me to my feet. I couldn’t see straight. This was the worst migraine I’d had in a long time. He gently touched my temple and propped me up against the doorframe, grabbing Bella and pulling her up too.
Someone was approaching, a blurred figure against the bright light in the hallway. “Frank,” I whispered, hoping he’d already seen them, hoping it wasn’t someone else who’d overreact and try to kill me.
“Cover us,” Frank said and I knew then that it was Joe. Frank held me against him with one arm and led hysterically crying Bella by the hand back into Silva’s office. We went through a door in the wall that I hadn’t known was there, and down steep, cold cement steps. The only sound in the stairwell was Bella’s sobbing. I’d have preferred raining gunfire, or a rock concert. Casey’s CD at maximum volume. It was horrible, grating against my bones, and even though I hadn’t killed Silva, I felt like I’d gone to hell for the sin.
“Keep your head down, baby,” Frank said as he ducked me into the car, letting Bella wilt in beside me. I wouldn’t have picked this car if I’d realized we’d be going back with her—crazy or not. There was no room.
He started the engine and cautiously pulled out of the garage, the way he’d obey every street sign to the letter after we’d finished a hit, giving the police absolutely no reason to pull us over. But snipers didn’t need just cause. I could only hope that Bella’s screaming was commonplace enough that no one else had bothered to investigate.
We got to the gate, Bella trembling against the window, getting the glass full of snot and tears and expensive cosmetics. Frank stopped the car while the gate opened, slower than it had ever opened before. Ten seconds was all it took, nine, eight, seven, the idling car purring and my heart and head pounding, holding my breath in anticipation of being killed so close to being free. And then the acceleration, the reason I chose this beautiful, beautiful machine. We took those turns so fast our tires nearly left the ground. I was flung back and forth against Frank and sobbing Bella like a pinball.
I’d thought the drive to Prague was going to be long. But now Silva was dead, I was the number one suspect, and to make matters worse, I was wearing eyeliner. We’d be on the road home forever.
Chapter Fifty
Casey paused with his head under
the sofa when he heard his mother call out, “What are you doing?” He'd found lube, three guns, and a length of wire he imagined wasn't used for cutting clay, but there was no sign of his sketchbook. It was the only place left that he hadn't checked.
“I’m looking for my sketchbook, Mamma,” he said, mimicking her southern accent.
“When’s the last time you saw it?”
That was the problem. He was positive—well, nearly positive, that he had it at the gallery before that strange old man snuck up on him. “I don’t know,” he said. He’d never downright lied to her before.
“It’s got to be here somewhere.” She was about to help him look when Hugo started barking at the door.
The last they’d heard from Frank, he was no closer to solving the mystery. Casey knew by the grim expression on his face that there would be no death row pardon for Gideon. But before he could question it, or why Vincent was draped against him barely able to walk, looking half-made-up like Alex from A Clockwork Orange, Bella came stumbling in. Bella, whom he didn’t expect to see until he went searching for her, face buried in one trembling hand, her shoulders slumped and rocking with sobs as she went by. Unwelcome and knowing it.
Casey didn’t hesitate, following her upstairs despite the looks he was sure he was receiving: disappointment from his mother, betrayal from his dad, and who knew what emotion buried behind Frank’s green eyes. Bella needed him. And right now, he was the only person she had.
“Bella!” he called out, avoiding the possibility of getting shot by sneaking up on her. She didn’t stop, even tried to escape him when he grabbed her, holding her tightly against his chest. Her strength was so surprising to come from such a small woman. She screamed, words unformed against his sweater, likely never formed in her mind or mouth.
Silva had to be dead. Gideon would be next, or Bella, for not doing her job. Would they come after him and his mother as well? Frank and Vincent? Being frightened seemed like the only option and yet he was calm, holding her in his arms while she shrieked, her nails digging into his back, clinging to him now and not letting go.
Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2) Page 27
