Freed (Assassin's Revenge Book 3)

by Crescent, Tara

  Riding in as a savior will raise suspicions. Today, I instead need to play the role of a buyer. I push back the loathing that rises in me and nod. “Yes, this one. I hear she likes pain.”

  “She’s a screamer. You want to test her now?”

  No. I am not going to beat this broken shell of a woman so that the pimp can get his dick to rise. Asshole. I shoot Jean-Luc a look and he nods briefly. My meaning is clear. The pimp will be found dead later on in the week.

  Yet, as much as I want to liberate all the women and burn the entire place to the ground, I cannot. I am not yet completely free to act. I only have the name of one woman. Dylan has taken many others, women I still need to locate and save, if rescue is even possible.

  When they are all found, when I have made amends, I will act. Then the streets will run in blood and flames will engulf every single man and woman who is tainted. This is the deepest desire of my heart.

  Pamela is slow to awareness, but she realizes at some point that she is being sold. She falls to her knees in despair. “No, no, no,” she begs the pimp. “This is my home. Please don’t make me leave.”

  I swallow back the bile in my mouth. Her existence is hell - the intelligence reports I’ve received of this place confirm it. But the memories of Dylan’s stronghold are worse and Pamela doesn’t want to be immersed in such a life again. She is terrified of leaving the only home she has known in the last twenty years.

  The pimp kicks her. “Get on your feet, bitch,” he yells. “Do you think I care what you think? You are lucky I don’t throw you on the streets now.”

  She just rocks back and forth, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Jean-Luc and I exchange another look. Not a week. The pimp won’t survive past tonight.

  ***

  Jean-Luc had been right. Jenny was terrified of Sylvia. I tamped down my anger and focused on comforting the girl in my arms. I held her and I promised her, over and over, my words as reassuring as I could make them, that I would never leave her with Sylvia.

  Brightest of bright stars, I mourned as she trembled. Who did this to you?

  Chapter 12

  Ellie / Jenny:

  I checked in with Lucien when we returned from vacation. As always, it involved some complicated maneuverings. I was still being followed by Alexander’s guards. There was no way I could call Lucien from the phone Alexander had given me - my calls on that line would be monitored. In a world where almost everyone had smart phones, payphones were few and far between.

  Thankfully, when I checked in with my fake sister, she gave me a message in code. A certain café in Paris would have a burner phone for me and I was to use that phone to call Lucien.

  “Where were you all of last week?” Lucien demanded as soon as he answered.

  I was huddled in the bathroom of the café to avoid being overheard. “In the South of France,” I replied. “We saw Roman ruins.”

  “Yes, that seems critical to ensuring Dylan’s death,” Lucien retorted caustically and I felt a hot flush of shame instantly run through me. Then I straightened my spine. What did Lucien expect me to do, anyway? I had to make Alexander trust me enough to take me with him to Hanoi. I was doing exactly what the mission dictated.

  I didn’t yell back. If it wasn’t for Lucien, I’d still be in a whorehouse in Lagos. I couldn’t ever repay that debt. “What do you have for me?”

  “Nothing on Alexander, nothing on his missing submissives, but a warning for you. Sylvia Anliker heads back to Paris in five days.”

  My hands shook and my blood ran cold.

  The unfortunate effect of a photographic memory was that memories didn’t fade. I could remember every single detail from that night when I’d displeased Dylan in front of Sylvia and he had caned me raw as punishment. I didn’t need to close my eyes to remember the way Sylvia’s eyes had gleamed with lust as she savoured my tears and my sobs.

  I remembered Alexander’s exact words to her, because of course, I couldn’t forget them. “Tell you what, baby,” he had said to her. “You can play with my toy when you come visit me in Paris, okay?”

  And now she was coming back and she wanted a toy.

  “He’s not going to do anything without my consent,” I said, trying to sound confident. “He’s not going to loan me to Sylvia. He said so. He promised me.” On a field in Provence, he’d held me as I’d panicked and he’d told me he would protect me from Sylvia. I had to trust him.

  “Is that what you think? Get your head out of your ass, Ellie. Alexander Hamilton is dangerous. People around him have a habit of disappearing, yet you seem charmed about some Roman ruins and think he’s going to keep his promises? Are you a fucking trained operative or what?”

  This mission was going badly wrong. Alexander was just supposed to be a guy who would be enamoured by a beautiful woman and take her to Hanoi. Instead, he was dangerously perceptive and startlingly human and I was torn in two different directions.

  I should not have been attracted to Alexander. My instincts should have told me to run away from him, but I was a fool because I trusted him.

  “I’ll handle it,” I snapped back. “Sylvia is not important. Getting to Hanoi, that’s all that matters.” I forced my voice back to an even and calm tone. “Do you have any idea when Alexander’s going to visit Dylan next? He visits every three months, doesn’t he? Isn’t a trip coming up?”

  I knew the answer but I was speaking out aloud to diffuse the tension between us. According to the information we’d gathered by monitoring the Hanoi compound, Alexander was supposed to visit in two weeks. The trip was nearing and I was no closer to broaching the topic of going with him. I was getting nervous.

  “You are the operative at the scene,” Lucien said. “Not me. I don’t have any ability to track Alexander Hamilton’s movements.”

  “I have to go,” I said. I didn’t want to make his guards suspicious. I needed Alexander to trust me. I couldn’t dwell on Sylvia – Dylan was the target.

  ***

  A young woman I didn’t know was in the house when I returned. She was in the kitchen, heating up some food on the stovetop. “Andrei,” she shouted out in French as I entered. “Viens ici.”

  I heard the clear note of a child’s laughter from the study. A child? What was a child doing in Alexander’s house?

  “Maintenant, Andrei,” she shouted again. She noticed me for the first time. “Ah, pardon,” she exclaimed. She switched easily to English. “You must be Jenny,” she said with a friendly smile. “I’m Sasha.”

  “Hey Jenny,” Alexander walked in from the living room carrying a blond infant in his hands. “Here you go, Sasha.” He set the kid down on the kitchen counter and kissed me in greeting.

  “Non,” the toddler protested, holding out his arms towards Alexander. “Veux jouer.”

  “Il faut manger, Andrei,” Alexander reasoned. He picked up the kid again. “Et après ca, nous allons jouer, d’accord?”

  “Alexander, stop spoiling him,” she chided. “He’s bad enough as it is. Andrei, viens ici, mon petit.”

  I was completely disoriented. Who was this woman who was so at home in Alexander’s kitchen? Why was the child clinging to Alexander? Were they related? Was Alexander the father? After all, I didn’t know anything about him.

  “Have the two of you met?” Alexander asked. He looked from Sasha to me.

  He looked adorably rumpled. His hair stood out in all directions; he had a smear of something orange on his t-shirt. Given the child, I guessed mashed carrots. My heart melted a little. It was a complete cliché, but there was something irresistible about a man who was perfectly comfortable around children.

  “Is Andrei a nephew?” I asked, blatantly fishing for information.

  Sasha laughed. “No, we are not related. Alexander just likes to spoil Andrei.”

  It did appear to be that way. When Sasha scooped the food she’d been heating into a bowl, Alexander took it from her and fed it to Andrei, blowing on each spoonful to cool it.
When Sasha decreed that it was time for a nap, Andrei clung to Alexander and refused to go to bed. “I’ll take him upstairs, Sasha,” he said. “Jenny,” I’ll just be a few minutes, I think.”

  I nodded. Sasha smiled at me when they had left. “Let’s open one of Alexander’s excellent bottles of wine,” she suggested. She grabbed a bottle from the refrigerator and two glasses and gestured me into the living room. “I’ve wanted to meet you.”

  “Umm, okay,” I said hesitantly. Was this where I was going to get warned to stay away from Alexander? She didn’t need to do that. I would be gone as soon as he took me to Hanoi. Most likely, in two weeks.

  “Ah, non,” she protested. “You think I am jealous. No, Jenny. I am very fond of Alexander, but not in the way you are.”

  “In the way I am?” I inquired aloud.

  She gave me a very French shrug. “I had a man that I looked at the same way once. A man very much like Alexander.”

  “Rich, good-looking and powerful?” I asked dryly. I took a sip of wine. This was a surreal conversation to be having with someone I’d just met. Contrary to the oh-la-la stereotype, every single French person I’d ever met was quite reserved. They certainly didn’t ply me with wine and spill details on their past love affairs. That only seemed to happen in Hollywood movies.

  “No,” she contradicted. “A man who was broken.”

  “Broken how?” I had the sense that I was hearing something important. Alexander had disclosed bits and pieces of himself in Provence but I still didn’t know enough about him. He seemed like a decent guy. Why on earth would he get mixed up with the likes of Dylan and Sylvia?

  “He is consumed by guilt and pain. The memories, they haunt him. My Andrei was the same way. Again and again, he would throw himself into battle, trying to forget.” She looked sad. “He never had very much time for me. The cause always came first.”

  She took a sip of wine. “When I first found out I was pregnant, I didn’t even tell Andrei. I knew a child would just get in the way of his missions, his crusades.” She gave me a steady look. “With these men, nothing real is possible. They will give themselves, over and over until nothing is left. They are shells with emptiness inside.”

  “What is his cause? Why is he broken?” I whispered. I wanted to run away and escape from her warnings, but my training came to the fore. I knew I had to find out as much of the truth as possible.

  “That is not my secret to reveal,” she replied. “I just wanted to warn you.” She sighed. “I wished someone had warned me to run when I first met Andrei.” Her eyes were lost in thought. “Even though I wouldn’t have listened.”

  She shook her head and her expression became neutral. It was like a mask had slid over her face. “I’m sorry, I’m being quite rude. How are you enjoying Paris? Alexander mentioned it is your first time in our city? And your sister is ill, non? I’m so sorry. It must make it difficult to spend time here with that hanging over your head.”

  “It does,” I lied. “I’m sorry, I’m still quite confused. How do you know Alexander?” Perhaps she’d dismiss my prying as jealousy.

  “My boyfriend used to work with him,” she replied.

  “Used to?”

  “He is dead.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said automatically.

  She did that little shrug again. “In death, perhaps he found the peace that was missing when he was alive,” she replied. “Or that is what I hope for him.”

  We made small talk after that, though I couldn’t stop thinking about her warnings. Her words had resonated with me. Not as the warning about Alexander that she’d intended them to be, but as an eerily similar descriptor of my own life.

  I’d glibly told Lucien that I’d gone on vacation with Alexander. What I hadn’t mentioned to him was that it had been the first vacation I had ever taken. Growing up, I’d been too poor for trips. After the kidnapping, everything in me had been focused on my revenge.

  The cause, Sasha had called it. I called it my revenge. Different phrases for the same thing. That all-consuming fire that burned everything that came into its path.

  Last week in Paris, when Alexander had taken me to the symphony, I had been confronted with how much of my life I’d missed while I was training for combat. Sasha had accused Alexander of being an empty shell? Those words could have just as easily applied to me.

  ***

  Alexander:

  Later, when Sasha and Andrei had left, we were sitting at the table eating a cold pasta salad for dinner. “How long have you known Sasha?” she asked me.

  “Are you jealous?” I smirked. I couldn’t help myself.

  She rolled her eyes at me. “Vanity, thy name is Alexander,” she muttered. “I was trying to figure out if Andrei was your kid.”

  I gave her a startled look. “No, I assure you,” I said. “Sasha’s boyfriend died before the baby was born. I just thought they needed family and neither Sasha nor Andrei had any.”

  “So you just stepped in?” She looked skeptical. “Just like that.”

  “Something like that,” I replied. “I grew up without much by way of family. If I can prevent that for Andrei, I will.”

  ***

  I am meeting my father for the first time. After ignoring my existence for five years, I’m suddenly summoned to Jamaica.

  My aunt puts me on a flight and sends me off without a word. I have a large ‘unaccompanied minor’ tag around my neck.

  In Provence, my aunt makes it clear that she finds my presence less than desirable. I’ve learned to stay quiet and not get in the way. I stay just as quiet on the plane. A flight from Marseille to Kingston is almost twenty hours long. There are two connecting stops. At every step, the flight attendants exclaim at how well behaved I am. They bring me little toys to play with. Ask me what I’d like to eat. Bring me juice and chocolate. I’m unused to the attention.

  The flight attendant on the last leg is especially kind. Her name is Julie. She has a warm smile and kind eyes. She hands me a teddy bear to play with. I hug it tight to me as I disembark.

  I don’t know what to expect. I’ve never even seen a picture of my father. I try to cling to Julie, but she gently loosens my grip. “Look, Alexander, that’s your father, isn’t it?”

  He’s tall. I incline my head up to look at him. I don’t know what to say. “Bonjour, papa.”

  “Speak English, damn it,” he huffs. “Hasn’t Carrie taught you anything other than French?”

  I’m used to speaking French; I do live in Provence, after all. “I’m sorry, Father,” I reply docilely. “I can speak English.”

  “Come on then,” he says gruffly.

  My visit lasts two weeks. My father doesn’t talk to me very much. I’m not sure why I’m even here. The servants feed me and care for me, but it is a lonely visit. I’m not allowed to visit the town. In the farmhouse in Provence, there is at least my aunt’s dog Brutus to play with, the cats in the barn to chase. In Kingston, there is nothing.

  All through my childhood, this pattern repeats itself. I fly from my aunt in Provence to wherever my father lives, year after year, the solitary unaccompanied minor on the plane.

  The strained, strange man who snaps at me as often as not. The woman who simmers in repressed tension when she looks at me. This is my family.

  I am always alone.

  Chapter 13

  Alexander:

  “You took her to your farmhouse?”

  Jean-Luc had been away the last week in Bangkok, overseeing the cleanup of one of Sylvia’s most profitable operations. We’d involved the Thai police discreetly, but elected to stay anonymous, of course. There were too many irons in the fire for openness.

  The brothel had been shut down and Sylvia’s Thai assets frozen. With the help of an informant, the police had also succeeded in finding three of Sylvia’s Swiss bank accounts. They promised the informant protection, but he disappeared before they could do much more.

  That was my doing. I could protect him better than the T
hai police. I owed him. After all, I’d been the one who had persuaded him to switch allegiances and I always paid my debts.

  “How was Bangkok, Jean-Luc?” I changed the subject.

  Jean-Luc’s lips compressed into a thin, disapproving line but he shrugged. “Ah well, you are still alive. I guess I should give thanks.”

  I laughed. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, my friend,” I retorted. “Talk to me. What’s been happening?”

  He frowned. “I also heard from Daniel Schneider. We settled at three-quarters of a million. I sent him a hundred thousand dollars as a gesture of good-faith. In return, he’s going to mail us something.”

  “Mail?”

  “Old-fashioned postal service. He’s afraid to send us an email, in case it can be traced back to him.”

  “Dylan’s fucking powerless,” I snapped. “He can’t track anything and he doesn’t have allies anymore.”

  “Don’t underestimate him, Alexander,” Jean-Luc replied. “Yes, Sylvia’s not helping him anymore and Durov is dead, but Dylan’s had a lifetime to accumulate favours. There are still a few bridges he hasn’t burned. Schneider’s right to be cautious.”

  “Did he tell you what he was sending?”

  Jean-Luc’s expression was of acute distaste. “Did you know that Dylan tapes his training sessions?”

  I felt sick. Of course the old pervert would.

  “I told him you needed anything on the identities of the women he’d taken. So he’s sending photos and video, and maybe copies of paperwork if he can find it. Evidently, Dylan’s been shredding a lot of stuff. The hounds are baying at the door and Dylan’s cleaning up.”

  I knew that. My window of time for finding an informant had almost closed. Then, Grace Olusola, Schneider’s former lover, had taken a bullet in her shoulder. The instant Daniel had heard that, he had been mine. Under that hard mercenary veneer, Daniel had a rudimentary beginning of a conscience.