by Lee Winter
Christ, she had to get her head in the game.
“It’s too late now,” Sonja called after her, as Requiem bolted toward the soccer oval, streets away, where her Ninja was parked, praying no trains were about to roar by and hold her up. “He knows his escape route, you won’t find him now.”
She heard more laughter in the distance, then some Korean swearing which Requiem deciphered as “gone fucking soft.”
A large part of her would have happily stayed to hit her some more, or do worse, but she had work to do. Santos’s little Judas would never be this exposed again. Sonja was too good and she would make sure of that.
Requiem fired up her Ninja and roared away. She mentally calculated distance. He had to be about two kilometres away by now. And, Sonja was right, Requiem didn’t have the first clue what he was driving. It would be sheer luck if she found him, and only then if he stayed on the main road. Her only advantage was speed, and at least she had plenty of that.
She gunned her bike and speared down the dead-straight Railway Parade, hoping she’d gambled right and he was heading north. She slowed at a three-way roundabout, where Eel Race Road sliced through on the left and right.
She glanced at the thick bushes on the other side of the road and blinked.
How had a car missed the bend and wound up there? It had clearly hit the tangle of trees and bushes at an awkward angle, as the plume of black smoke spewing from its engine attested. She could make out at least one shape still trapped inside the mutilated metal. It seemed an unlikely coincidence, given she’d been pursuing a man driving at high speed. She pulled over and picked her way carefully over to the wreck.
Helmet still on, she flicked up her visor and peered inside. Viktor’s helpless, shocked eyes stared back. The unnatural angle of his body told her that her job was close to done. He probably had minutes left.
What a mess he’d made of himself. The idiot had actually gotten away and still managed to wreck his car on the only bend on this stretch of road for miles.
“Help,” he croaked. “P-please?”
She recoiled at the word. Seriously? Of course an assassin would spare someone who said “please.”
“Help? That’s not what I do, Viktor, you know that,” Requiem said and began to lean back out of the car.
“I sent you work,” he gasped out. “A hit. On a woman. That has to be worth something.”
Requiem froze. Then leaned back in. “Who was the client? Who wanted her dead?”
“Kelly,” he cried out. “Where’s Kelly?”
Natalya glanced at the girl in the passenger seat. Beyond her shattered window she could see what was left of a stray dog. The angle of the car meant Viktor had probably swerved to avoid it, and then tried to protect his daughter when the car spun, taking full impact with the tree himself.
He might be a slug of an informant but he clearly loved his kid.
She reached for the girl’s pulse. Strong and steady. Kelly moved and began to moan.
“The girl will live. The client. Tell me: Who. Was. It?”
Viktor’s eyes glazed over in relief. She grabbed him by the collar and tugged him nearer to her. “Who wanted me to kill the woman?”
“Help Kelly first,” he gasped. “Get her help, then I’ll–”
He slumped, lifeless, his eyes empty.
“Help?” the girl called out. Her eyes were swollen shut. Blood covered her face and ran down into her sports uniform.
“Is there someone here? I think my dad’s hurt! Please.”
Please.
Natalya stepped back and flicked her visor down. She firmed her jaw and returned to her Ninja, revving it so she couldn’t hear the girl’s cries. She couldn’t do this.
She roared away, going faster and faster until she was well past the bloodied scene. Even then she didn’t slow. She drove on, refusing to look back.
The little girl’s voice remained, looping through her head. Requiem had actually thought about helping someone irrelevant to her. Even though it would have enormously increased the odds of her being caught, of questions being raised. Even though it was a busy road and there would be cars passing the scene soon enough.
And yet she’d seriously thought about it.
She ground her jaw. Her business associate had been right. She was getting soft. She would not let it happen again.
At the next red light, she pulled her phone out and flicked to Ryan’s number, blocking it. The little mouse probably wouldn’t want to look at her again anyway. Well, that would suit them both, wouldn’t it?
She pocketed her phone and zipped up her jacket viciously. Because Natalya Tsvetnenko did not do soft. And Requiem sure as hell didn’t.
Chapter 11
Two days later, Natalya padded through her house, face tight, lips pulled into a grim line. It was barely four in the morning. She started with her bathroom, pulling out a steam cleaner and beginning with the floor, then the shower walls, sterilising every inch until it gleamed.
She heard a beep, as the alarm on the phone in her pocket went off. She ignored it and strode off to get her ladder. She attacked the ducted air-conditioning vents next. Dust could gather in the small slats if you weren’t careful. She wiped them down with gusto, all twelve outlets, and then put the ladder away in her utility room.
She took one look at that storage room and shook her head. She began to reorganise it. By the time she was done alphabetising her paints, tools and grouting supplies, her phone had beeped three more times.
Her eye fell to an oilcan. It had been at least two months since her Ninja’s last oil change. She was about to head for the garage when her phone beeped a fifth time. The sound was starting to grate on her so, with a grimace, she finally turned it on, her heart thudding.
She already knew exactly what it would say. She stared at it anyway.
The reminder message lit up: Monday, November 1, All Day Event. Project due: Roast Mouse.
She slammed her phone on the shelf, and headed for her bedroom. Natalya couldn’t believe how fast the three weeks had passed. She stared at her wardrobe and the suitcases on the top shelf. She could always start packing. Europe beckoned. That would take at least another hour.
But instead of packing, she stood there, considering the alternative.
How hard could it be, anyway? Ryan was just another target. Not a particularly difficult one, come to that. She knew where she’d be and when. Simple.
Do it up close and personal so the target knows what’s coming. Don’t do it at their home or that of their family.
Lola’s voice on her answering machine three weeks ago came back to her. It had been so detached as she’d described the death of a woman who, as far as Natalya could tell, had no enemies in the world.
She could knock the job off before Ryan went to work. She knew what time she passed a particular small alley not far from work. She could even make it look like a mugging to the outside world. So that took care of the where. She just had to choose the how.
Up close and personal.
Requiem could simply close her fingers around that soft throat and squeeze. In moments it would be done, before the surprised look on Ryan’s face had even crossed to betrayal. She would drop limply to the ground.
The rest was easy: Dress her in old rags, smear her face with a little dirt, put her under a newspaper reeking of urine and she’d be ignored for days. It was one of the simplest methods to dispose of another human being: using society’s loathing of its underclasses against itself.
Simple. Easy. Perfect.
Or…Natalya could stay home and wash her doormats.
Four hours later, by the time Natalya was up to vacuuming the curtains in her bedroom, she realised why killing Ryan in the way she’d mapped out was unthinkable.
The mouse deserved better than to be cast aside like trash, left to rot in some alley. Ignored by all as a worthless, disposable person. It was bad enough that society did it to its homeless population, but to deliberately subject
Alison Ryan to that? Her mouth twisted in distaste. No, a woman such as Ryan needed respect. Something subtle and dignified.
She considered her alternatives. A sip of poison? Except poison rarely acted as quickly or painlessly as it did in the movies. In fact it caused suffering and attracted attention.
She switched off her vacuum cleaner and stormed over to her rehearsal room. Music would solve everything. It would soothe her and all would be right with the world.
As she seated herself and picked up her cello, she tried once again to push from her mind the hurt, horrified look she knew would be in big, blue eyes, as Ryan clutched at her poisoned throat and fell to her knees.
It twisted Natalya’s stomach, the idea that those sad eyes might accuse her silently in Ryan’s last moments, knowing what she’d done to her.
Unbidden, Natalya pictured Hailey being told the news. An inhuman, young howl filled her mind as she slashed her bow viciously across her cello trying to block it out.
She played faster and faster, willing the notes to stuff her ears, her mind, and stop the images mocking her.
Natalya played like a woman creating her own electrical storm, fury and fear whipping her arm to and fro, fingers a blur, strings creaking and breaking until finally she could no longer play. She flung the bow savagely to the floor, its deformed, snapped strings hanging loose, mocking her.
Screw this. She couldn’t do it. She could not kill Ryan. Natalya stared at her fingers, which she now realised were bleeding from her exertions. Red dripped slowly onto the floor as she looked at it sightlessly.
She had no clue what to do next. Natalya had absolutely no contingency plan for this whatsoever. It had never happened before.
Chest heaving, she rose, kicked her seat across the room with a furious crash and headed outside. Her Ninja still needed an oil and filter change, after all.
Chapter 12
The Melbourne Cup, Australia’s famous horserace that stops a nation, was chaos as usual. The VIP area, known as the Birdcage, was packed full of marquees from major sponsors that had spared no expense in glamming up their individual spaces—including hanging chandeliers, cramming in a jungle of greenery, and spotlighting the wide windows facing the track—all to show off their star-pulling cachet.
Everyone wanted “in” at the Birdcage. And everyone thronging to the invitation-only hot spot—from world-famous models and washed-up actors, to pouting, Instagramming reality TV stars—was dressed to the eyeballs with absurd hats, plunging cleavages, and fancy plumage that would put a peacock to shame.
The mega sponsors willing to slap down a cool million for these exclusive marquees would each choose an exotic theme and try and outdo their chief rival. Emirates was always the one to beat, and this year the airliner’s luxury “tent” had chosen its theme to be the beauty of Russia. Given the VPO’s new season was Tchaikovsky focused, some bright spark had decided to combine the two.
Which was how the renowned Australian cellist, Natalya Tsvetnenko, found herself squeezed into a corner with five other string players, attempting to craft perfection over the cacophony of laughter, clinks of champagne glasses, raucous conversation, drunken bellows, and roar of the race caller on the loud speakers outside.
She could see the horses flash by occasionally as she flicked her gaze towards the line of windows.
This was intolerable. Times like these she’d wished she’d taken up offers for orchestras in Europe. She would have agreed if she hadn’t had her other career—and Melbourne did have so many interesting opportunities for an assassin with a gangland specialty.
She eyed Amanda Marks who had a similarly pinched expression and almost felt a tug of solidarity. A rotund, bosomy woman squeezed into cream taffeta came shrieking by, waving a presumably winning ticket, wobbling on her heels. It took every ounce of energy not to shoot her an evil glare.
The mingling crowd thronged closer, and half a dozen people actually seemed to be listening to the music.
Natalya’s fingers flew and she gritted her teeth, determined to get through this. Of course the VPO thought this was a brilliant idea—get more classical out to the masses. Right now though, the masses seemed too preoccupied by whether the spotted pink or striped blue jockey was winning.
Her mind wandered. Viktor Raven was dead. She had to laugh—she got paid for it regardless of the method of his exit. Santos had assumed she’d messed with his car. He even enquired what ‘message’ she’d sent. She’d been half tempted to text back: “Don’t swerve to avoid stray animals.”
Sonja had disappeared, presumably to lick her wounds, boasting a likely shattered kneecap and broken nose. How careless of her. It wasn’t a good look losing Ken Lee and Viktor Raven on her watch in consecutive jobs. She imagined her nemesis would be pretty furious at her right now—and that was before she factored in their little sexual skirmish.
She couldn’t blame Sonja for her rage over that entertaining event. But then she had been teaching Sonja a valuable lesson in the futility of loving those you admire the most. They will never be what you want them to be. People like her and Sonja didn’t get their happy endings. Frankly, Sonja should be thanking her for the free life advice.
As the movement ended and Marks launched into her solo, Natalya lifted her eyes and noted that the milling crowd had thickened—well, for those who were actually listening to them, rather than treating the performance as live elevator music.
The hats and so-called “fascinators”—barely there bits of wire and flowers and inventive fluff and nonsense affixed to women’s hair—had somehow become even more outrageous since she’d last glanced up. Everyone was in their absolute best outfits.
Well, almost everyone.
Her eyes were drawn to a partly obscured couple off to one side, in far plainer outfits, studying the programme, their heads bent. A mother and kid? Probably scored a VIP pass in a radio giveaway or knew someone who couldn’t go. They were definitely out of place amidst the Emirates crowd’s finery.
When they looked up, Natalya started. She instantly clamped her lips together to prevent any untoward displays.
Hailey and Ryan. A cacophony of emotions rocketed through her, before she shoved them aside, building her mental walls and pushing away anything else.
She could do this. She was a rock. Powerful. Solid. Unmoving. Through sheer force of will she achieved the desired result, emptying her mind once more, but never had it been so difficult to even want to do this.
People began shifting again, some coming inside, some leaving the marquee for fresh air, to get snapped by paparazzi, or to place a bet. She righted her cello to continue, just as Marks finished her solo, ready to throw herself back into her music.
Her eye caught something that almost made her snap her bow. Standing directly behind the pair now appeared a man in a starched white button-up shirt and cheap black pants. She’d seen his face all over the world, in many sizes and shapes. She studied his blank eyes and recognised him as one of a thousand men who all looked the same. Hired thugs. Trained to administer a beating, a killing, or just intimidate the weak.
He watched her for a beat, then lifted his hand, straightening his fingers into the shape of a gun and mimed shooting the backs of Ryan’s and Hailey’s heads. He blew across the top of his finger for good measure and smiled at her.
It was an ugly, cold smile.
She was reminded of Sonja’s threat—to tell everyone the pair meant something to Requiem. Her eyes narrowed, but she also heard her musical cue and dragged her gaze back to her sheet music.
She had another four more minutes of playing, she knew, before she could lift her eyes again. Her heart thundered as she considered the possibilities—was the thug just messing with her? How had he worked out who she was?
Four minutes before she could look again.
Requiem ground her teeth. She tried to focus on the music, but not glancing over was agony.
When she snapped her head up again, exactly four minutes later, Ryan and Hai
ley were gone.
And so was the man.
Her string ensemble was supposed to launch straight into the next piece but Natalya touched the lead violinist on the arm and shook her head.
“I’m done. As in right now.”
Marks lifted her pale eyebrows. Of course Natalya knew how that sounded. She knew she was infamous for her punishing schedule and never needing a break.
Marks instead nodded. “Go,” she said. “We’ll cover.”
She didn’t listen as the remaining five players bent their heads together and worked out which piece to move onto without a cellist in the mix. Natalya placed her cello in its case with sharp, abrupt movements. She knew without asking that the other players would keep it safe. She would have done the same for them.
Requiem dispensed with Natalya as she stood at the marquee’s exit, and looked around. Odd—there was no security guard checking VIP passes. Yet, there had been one when she’d arrived.
She decided not to think too hard as to why that might be. A downpour earlier in the day had made the ground soft and muddy, and she could see a set of small footprints to her left, leading away. People jostled her as they tried to get inside and she bit back some choice insults.
She just had to be sure she was about to follow the right kid.
Her gaze fell to a deeper mark to the left of the footprints and she saw a man’s wide heel. Deep, and distorted—smeared from side to side, as though he was twisting as he moved. Perhaps trying to keep a hold of a wriggling teenage girl?
Direction chosen, Requiem took off, walking as quickly as she could, following the trail. Within metres, she was half running, hands lifting her black dress above the ankles to evade the mud, as she tried not to draw attention to herself.
She pressed on past the contractors’ compound, where the crowds started thinning out rapidly, and saw three sets of footprints going into a grassy area where all the horse floats had been parked. The sea of silver rounded trailers stretched far as she could see.
