The Assassin

by Rachel Butler

  The instant her foot touched the floor again, she slammed the armoire door into his body. This time he gave a howl and staggered back a step. She took advantage of his loss of balance with a sweep kick that caught him just below the knees and sent him tumbling backward. Damon’s unconscious body behind him took care of the rest, sending him crashing to the floor, a big lump of tangled limbs, where he wisely remained.

  From the outer room came an amused chuckle. “Bravo, Selena. I must admit that, in spite of all your training, I’d come to believe you didn’t have it in you to actually hurt someone. Come out here, please, dear. I assure you, Mr. Ramey’s associate won’t walk into the same trap.”

  She unhooked the dagger from her ankle and slid it, sheath and all, into the back of her waistband, then drew the forty cal before she approached the door. Mr. Ramey was showing signs of life, groaning and shaking his head. He started to sit up as she stepped over Damon’s body, but when she brought the pistol to aim on his forehead, he paled, choked into silence, and sank back to the floor.

  She slipped past the hulk and moved toward Henry, sitting at his desk. Despite the pistol she held, he showed no fear. He’d intended to have her killed, but he still didn’t believe she could hurt him. He still believed he was that important to her.

  She eased between the desk and the credenza, passed behind the leather chair, and took up a position behind and to Henry’s right. At the opposite end of the room, Tony was as motionless as Damon, held that way as much by shock as by the .45 pointed at his temple. He looked bewildered. Hurt. Betrayed. Henry was so very good at engendering those emotions in the people who loved him. Apparently, so was she.

  Henry turned his chair to face her. “Holding a gun on me, Selena? After all I’ve done for you . . . all I’ve given you . . .”

  “All you’ve done,” she repeated softly, then her voice strengthened. “All you’ve done? You’ve tried to control every choice I’ve ever made. You’ve manipulated me at every turn. You promised me the very things I wanted most, and then denied them because you could. You took advantage of my love and gratitude and tried to turn me into someone as cold and damaged and heartless as you!”

  His gaze narrowed dangerously. “You can’t blame me for that, Selena. You were damaged when I found you. Your own mother despised you for the color of your skin. Your own father wanted nothing to do with you. You’d been thrown away by three sets of parents by the time you were fourteen. No one wanted you but me. No one had any use for you but me . . . but now your usefulness has ended.”

  She waited for the desperate little girl inside her to react to his words, but nothing happened. There was no pain, no bitterness, no self-loathing for having proved herself unworthy. Coolly she smiled and waved the gun a time or two to catch his attention. “No, Uncle. Your usefulness to me has ended.”

  For the first time fear flickered through his eyes, lasting only an instant, but satisfying all the same. “You can’t kill me,” he boasted, and he sounded almost as if he believed it.

  “Can’t I? After all you’ve done?” She leaned a few inches closer, lowered her voice to a silky, soft imitation of Henry at his most dangerous. “You wanted to turn me into a murderer, Uncle. Well, guess what? You’ve succeeded.”

  “Not until someone lies dead by your hand.” Henry gestured toward the vault door. “Damon will be conscious again in minutes, Mr. Ramey is merely letting his cowardice show, and obviously I’m still breathing.” Then a sly look came into his eyes. “However, if you want a chance to redeem yourself, to prove yourself worthy . . .” He motioned elegantly in Tony’s direction. “You can do so by carrying out the assignment I gave you. Kill him.”

  Selena looked from him to Tony, who returned her gaze. The bewilderment and hurt were gone from his eyes, replaced by bitter disdain. His mouth shifted, almost sneering before he looked away from her to Henry.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked. “You’re supposed to be one of the good guys, remember? What the hell is so important you would betray everything you ever stood for?” He made an ineffective attempt to indicate the treasures in the room, stifled by the man with the gun. “For money ?”

  Henry gazed at the Monet. “That painting is worth more than you’ll ever make in your lifetime—and I’ve got a dozen more just as valuable. This desk—four years’ salary for you. This rug—priceless. But, no, it’s not about the money.” With a genial smile, he amended that. “It’s not only about the money. Money is good. I like living well. But I like other things more.”

  Such as power, Selena thought. Control over others’ lives. Ownership of great treasures, whether artifacts, property, or people. The money was merely a bonus.

  Tony prepared to ask the obvious question, but Henry brushed him off. “Analyzing one’s self is tedious, particularly when you’re not going to be around long enough to care.” He directed his attention back to her. “Do you want that second chance, Selena? Do you want to prove that you aren’t the biggest mistake I ever made?”

  Mistake. She’d been called worse, but for much of her life that simple insult in that indifferent tone had been enough to break her heart. At the moment, though, she didn’t care that he was disappointed. Didn’t care whether he ever deemed her worthy. Didn’t care, period.

  But telling him so would only result in getting herself killed along with Tony. Achingly aware of him—of the chill and contempt emanating from him—she focused on Henry. “If I do your job, Uncle, what will I get?”

  He smiled indulgently. Triumphantly. “What do you want?”

  “That Monet. The Picasso. The Cézanne. Oh, and complete and total control of your business . . . without you.”

  His narrowing gaze was the only genuine response to her answer. He covered it with another of his charming smiles, as if he didn’t believe for an instant that she was serious. “You can’t live without me, Selena. Your heart and soul belong to me. Without me, you’re nothing. Kill him. We’ll blame it on Damon—all the vigilante killings, all the drug deals. The investigation will be over, and you and I will be free to continue life as usual.”

  He was lying, just as he’d always lied. If she killed Tony, then Henry would kill her. If she didn’t, Henry would kill them both. Nothing she did would change that . . . unless she killed him.

  She looked at him, smugly confident, certain of his place in her life, sure that she would rather die herself than let him down again, then at Tony, whose expression made it clear that she would never again have a place in his life. He would never forgive her, but that was all right. She could live with his hatred. She could live with anything except his death.

  The man who held him at gunpoint stood behind him, using him as a shield. He didn’t mind killing for his boss, but apparently he wanted to diminish the odds of dying for him. The only way to get to the guy was through Tony. He was betting she wouldn’t take that route.

  Her fingers tightened around the pistol grips, squeezing so hard that the blood fled her fingertips. She lifted the gun, all too aware of its weight, its deadly power. At this distance, the steel-jacketed hollow-point bullet would tear through flesh and bone with equal ease. It would destroy everything it passed through—the heart, if she aimed high in the chest; the brain, if she went higher; the renal artery, if she opted for a lower shot.

  She drew a perfect bead center mass. Tony stared at her, the look in his eyes unforgiving. As her finger tightened on the trigger, she shifted the angle of the gun up and to the right, then fired.

  The force of the blast knocked Tony back into his captor and sent them both crashing into the wall before, with a faintly surprised look, he slumped to the floor. Stunned by her actions, the man with the .45 was slow to regain his balance. He was still leaning against the wall when her second shot tore into his chest.

  By the time she swung the muzzle around to Henry, he had acquired a weapon of his own and was pointing it at her as he gracefully rose to his feet. “You’ve surprised me again, Selena. Now put the weapon d
own.”

  Her gun didn’t waver. Just a little more pressure on the trigger, and his heart would cease to function. He would be dead before he hit the floor. “Why should I?”

  “Because if you don’t, I’m going to finish the job you started.” He swung the gun toward Tony, sprawled face-down and bleeding on the priceless rug but clearly still breathing. “Put the gun down, or the next bullet will go into his brain.”

  She didn’t move. Her pistol remained steady on Henry, the hammer back, her finger on the trigger. It would be so easy to drop him . . . but his own pistol was aimed, its hammer cocked, his own finger on the trigger. What were the odds he would lose consciousness before firing? Good . . . but not good enough.

  She thought she heard a faint groan of protest from Tony when she eased her finger off the trigger, then raised both hands in the air. Stepping forward, she laid the gun on the end of the desk nearest her, then stepped back. She was vaguely aware of Mr. Ramey off to Henry’s left, scrambling for his own weapon, and of Tony, still in a motionless heap, but she kept her gaze locked on Henry.

  He leaned against the window casing at the far end of the desk, looking as casual as she’d ever seen him. Murder came so naturally to him. Human life had no value—not his godson’s, not hers, none but his. Perhaps he hadn’t denied her the love and intimacy she’d craved simply because he could, but because he’d had none to give.

  “Selena,” he said with patient disapproval. “You never give up your weapon, not as long as there’s life in your body. That’s a lesson you should have learned a long time ago. Sadly, now it’s too late.”

  Not exactly. She’d given up two weapons—the pistol and the knife she’d left in Damon’s leg. She still had two— and dwindling time in which to use them.

  “I gave you everything,” he went on. “I made you what you are, Selena. I gave you life. And now”—regret crept into his voice—“now I have to take it away.”

  The muscles in his hand flexed as he began to apply steady pressure to the trigger. She watched, her lungs growing tight from lack of air, waiting until the last instant to lunge, rolling across the desk, kicking for his gun hand but connecting with his ribs instead. The blow bent him double, but didn’t stop him from bringing his own knee up into her midsection as she slid off the slick surface. The air rushed from her body with a grunt as she hit the marble floor, leaving her left knee throbbing. She gritted her teeth against the pain as she raised it to her chest, high enough to reach the .22 holstered at her ankle, but before she’d done more than clear the holster, a size fifteen boot, belonging to Mr. Ramey, kicked the gun out of her grip, making her fingers go numb in the process.

  Henry bent down, grasped a handful of her shirt, and hauled her to her feet. “I should have left you in Jamaica to die. If I hadn’t returned for you when I did, your parents would have whored you to any filthy lech with a few dollars in his pocket. You would have been dead before you were twenty, and would have saved me the trouble of killing you now.”

  For a moment she stood there, breathing heavily.

  Henry’s expression was smug. “I expected more of a fight from you, Selena. Once more you’ve disappointed me. I’m going to let you watch Tony die before I kill you. You’ll go to your death knowing that you caused his death, as well.”

  “Bullshit,” she whispered.

  The congenial smile disappeared. “It’s a simple lesson I’ve hammered in from the beginning. One would think you might have learned it by now. Vulgarity is so . . . well, vulgar in a woman.”

  “Fuck you,” she retorted, shifting her weight slightly. The dagger sheathed in the small of her back bit into her skin, reminding her that she still had one chance. Tony still had one chance.

  He released his grip on her, shoving her away. Catching her balance, she slowly straightened, then locked her gaze on Henry and forced short, steady breaths into her lungs. His aim shifted from Tony to her, and the hulk, she saw, had her in his sights, as well. She’d disarmed him once. If she could do it again . . .

  She moved as if to favor her injured knee, drew the dagger, and threw it, end over end, at Henry. As soon as it left her fingertips, she used another sweep kick to bring Mr. Ramey to the floor. Henry’s agonized cry barely penetrated her concentration as she struggled with the big man for control of his gun, a struggle that ended abruptly with a single shot.

  The hulk froze, staring wide-eyed at his boss. She looked, too, and saw Henry looking wide-eyed himself. Blood ran from his right hand where the dagger had reached its target and, high on his chest, seeped in an ever-widening circle across his white shirt. Staring past them, he weakly, disbelievingly said, “T-Tony . . . you—you shot me. I can’t believe . . . after all I’ve been to you . . .”

  As if in slow motion, Henry staggered back, crashed against the window, then disappeared from sight.

  Mr. Ramey’s grip went slack on the gun. Selena pulled it free, then eased to her feet. At the far end of the room, Tony was on his feet, as well, his face ashen, his eyes dark and blank. With his gun hanging in his right hand, he limped past her on his way to the window. “If any of them moves, shoot ’im.”

  Those were his only words to her. He circled the desk, looked out the shattered window, then grimly went to the intercom and instructed the guards to call 911. He collected all the weapons except hers, leaving them on the desk. She didn’t offer to help, didn’t even move for fear it would make him look at her like that again—empty, lost. She didn’t think she could bear that look again.

  By the time the security guards rushed into the room, he was leaning against the desk, one hand pressed against his shoulder. Their guns were drawn, but they weren’t sure who to point them at. “D-d-detective Ceola,” the first one stammered. “What— Where’s Ch-chief Daniels?”

  “Out there.” Tony gestured toward the window. “Handcuff him and him.” He nodded at Damon and Mr. Ramey, then at the third man, gravely wounded. “And watch him. They’re all under arrest.”

  Two guards moved to obey him; the third rushed to the window to look out. When he turned back, the color had drained from his face. “Oh, my God . . . is he dead?”

  “I don’t know.”

  One guard finished with Damon, then pointed at Selena. “What about her?”

  Tony twisted on the desk to look at her. For the few seconds his gaze was on her, there was no emotion in it, not even pain. It was as if he was looking at nothing.

  That was all right. She’d been less than nothing for the first fourteen years of her life. Nothing was a step up from that. She could live with it. She could live with anything.

  When he turned away, he didn’t even bother to speak. He just shook his head in the guard’s direction, then grimaced again.

  So that was that. It was finished. Henry, if he’d survived, and Damon would go to prison. So would the two thugs. Probably so would she. Shooting a police officer, conspiracy to commit murder, possession of illegal firearms . . . those were just a few of the charges she would face. And when she got out, she would probably be deported. No more art gallery, no more safe, secure island home . . . no more Tony.

  But he was alive, and sooner or later, he would be well. Hadn’t she insisted he could hate her for as long as he lived, as long as he did live?

  Police cars began arriving at the estate, along with ambulances, TV news vans, and the crime-scene unit. Selena sat numbly out of the way, watching the paramedics work on and remove each victim in turn. They recovered Henry, still breathing, from the parapet four feet below the window and rushed him to the hospital with a flustered detective accompanying him on Tony’s orders to guard him.

  Tony refused their attention for his own wound while he talked with Frank Simmons, the blonde woman he’d gone jogging with a few Saturdays ago, and two men who looked so much like his father that they must be Uncles Vince and John. There was a Major Somebody making a lot of noise, while a Lieutenant Something-or-other tried to maintain control. For the most part, all of them ignored
Selena, at least until the blonde came over and crouched in front of her. “I’m Marla Johnson. I’m from the crime lab,” she said, her voice calm and soothing in contrast to the men’s voices. “Are you okay?”

  Selena nodded.

  “I understand you’re responsible for most of this.”

  She nodded again.

  “I need to swab your hands for gunshot residue, okay?”

  She nodded once more.

  Marla opened the small kit, took out a handful of swabs, and began swiping them, one at a time, across Selena’s palm, the back of her hand, and between the fingers. “I have to tell you, I like a woman who can hold her own against five men, though I suspect that shooting your boyfriend might be tough on the relationship.”

  “I needed him out of the way.” Selena managed little more than a whisper, and it quavered. Funny. She wasn’t a quavery sort of person.

  “Well, I’d say you managed.” After sliding the swabs into a glass tube and sealing it, Marla smiled. “There. Do the paramedics need to look you over?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Marla gently touched the swelling on Selena’s cheek and jaw. “You sure?”

  Selena nodded.

  “Okay. If you need anything, give me a holler. I’ll be around awhile.”

  Selena nodded as Marla walked away, then raised her hands to cover her face. Catching sight of Damon’s blood, she smiled bleakly, then lowered them again. It was Damon’s blood on her hands two years ago that had set Henry’s horrible plan in motion, and now there it was again.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Frank Simmons approached, asking her to leave the room with him. With one last glance at Tony, she followed him downstairs to what had likely once been a gentlemen’s parlor. She glanced around, noticing Henry’s treasures but lacking even the faintest desire to examine them more closely. She just wanted it to be over. Wanted to be alone. To regret and mourn and find some way to survive. Henry’s doubts aside, she would survive.