Blind Vigilance

by Emily Kimelman Gilvey

  The bell tolls.

  I step over him, straddling his waist, holding the staff like a tightrope walker. Balaclava struggles, his eyes wild now; he's trying to get his arm out from under his own weight, but between the bites and the swollen wrist, he’s struggling.

  On my exhale, I use my shoulders and the strength in my abdominals to spin the staff tip into the side of his head. His lights go out.

  The bell tolls.

  I reach down and drag his arm out, capturing the small pistol, then step back, my balance faltering as I slip in a slick of blood. I stumble and reach out, finding the wall for support.

  The bell tolls.

  I press my back up against it and drop the pole. It clatters on the floor and rolls a foot away. I bring my hand up to cradle the small bulge at my belly. My gaze focuses on the still-open balcony doors. Broken glass litters the floor, glinting in the bright sun pouring into the room.

  My breath comes in deep drags. Blue touches his nose to my hip. "Careful of the glass, boy," I say, laying a hand on his head and looking down at him. My fingers leave smears of blood on the white fur at the crown of his head.

  The final bell tolls. It's noon.

  "We better get cleaned up." My eyes land on the broom, leaning where I left it by the balcony door this morning. The apartment gets dusty from the construction.

  Footfalls on the stairs pull a new low growl from Blue's throat and send a fresh wave of adrenaline through me. No time for cleanup.

  Blue nudges my hip again. I click the safety on the small pistol and shove it into the waistband of my jeans. Kicking the glass aside, I walk out onto the balcony; Blue follows in my wake. I blink in the sunshine, then look down on the dark street below, shaded by the medieval houses—narrow and quiet.

  Pressing my lips together, I release the sweet, brief dream of normalcy. Violence always wakes me from this fantasy.

  I'm not normal. I never will be.

  My hand swipes briefly at my belly before gripping the edge of the balcony. I vault over it, dropping to a narrow roof ledge below. Blue launches himself after me, his claws scrambling for purchase. I grip his collar, steadying him. We move along the roof until we are over another neighbor’s balcony.

  Crouching, turning and gripping the edge, I lower myself down and drop the last six inches onto the balcony. Blue lands lightly next to me.

  A scream from above. Ah, must have been the landlady on the stairs, not another assassin. Sorry, Ms. Friendly...

  The French doors leading into the neighbor’s apartment stand open, the interior shielded by flowing curtains and shadow. I don't hear any noise inside. Sirens wail in the distance.

  Pushing through the curtains, Blue and I enter a living room. Two couches face each other. A TV is mounted on the wall. Kids’ toys litter the floor. A wet diaper lies on the coffee table. The front door is to my right.

  Blue's ears twitch in the direction of the hallway to the left. I listen. A woman is singing, probably putting her baby down for a nap. We move quietly toward the front door. I open it slowly, easing it on well-oiled hinges. My eyes catch on the low table by the door. Next to a sippy cup and a half-eaten sandwich are a set of car keys.

  Blue nudges me to keep moving. I swipe the keys and step into the hallway, shutting the door quietly behind us and releasing a breath.

  The apartment building hallway smells like a mix of roast chicken and coffee—staples for any well-lived life. We make it to the front door, and I ease the thick door open, peering out onto the street. The sirens are closer but not here yet. There are no vehicles parked on the street. Where does she keep her car? The sirens’ increasing volume urges me out the door.

  Blue and I move onto the sidewalk and jog quickly down the block. I take the first turn I can—a right—and climb the narrow steps. My sneakers make hardly any noise on the ancient stone. Above us, laundry flaps outside windows bracketed by wooden shutters. So picturesque.

  I take a left and move down a side street too narrow for cars. The sky above is bright blue, but the lane is shaded and cool. The sirens closer still.

  We are headed up the hill that the village is built on, toward the cathedral. A door opens and a middle-aged woman with dark hair, carrying empty grocery bags steps out, calling back into the apartment before dashing into the street, almost knocking into us. She apologizes and smiles. I shrug and act like I'm not spattered with blood.

  The shopper’s eyes catch on it, and her face pales. I put both hands up in a shit happens gesture. "I'm okay," I say.

  Shopper's eyebrows bunch. "Do you need help?" she asks in accented English.

  Yes. "No," I say.

  Her eyes narrow. "Come." She takes my arm, and before I can protest, Blue and I are in her living room. A clock on the mantel ticks. Dust motes dance in spears of sunlight. An elderly woman, a blanket over her shoulders, smiles at us from the couch. A film over her eyes suggests her vision is impaired.

  "Your man?" the woman asks as she tugs me through to a kitchen. It's narrow and runs the length of the back of the house. It has worn Formica countertops and the Lilliputian appliances of Europe—it's cute and homey and tugs at my heart. I shouldn't be here. I'm not good like this woman. She thinks I'm a victim... I'm the monster who goes bump in the night.

  Shopper wets a cloth under the tap and glances up at me, raising a brow. "A man," I answer her question honestly. The woman clicks her tongue against her teeth and nods. She knows about the violence of men.

  "I am Maria," she says, turning off the tap and wringing out the cloth.

  Maria is about my height with a thickness that suggests health and strength. Her woolen waist-high slacks look well made. The blouse she's wearing has a bow at the neck, the peachy color a beautiful shade against her coppery skin.

  She steps up to me, her eyes focusing on my face. Maria holds up the dish cloth as if to question if she can wipe at my face. I nod. Her eyes narrow as she dabs my cheek. I suck in a breath when she touches a gash I didn't even realize was there. Must have been from the light fixture shattering.

  I close my eyes, fighting back tears. Not from the pain. From the tenderness. Her finger brushes my nose, and I open my eyes to find her smiling at me.

  "You are good," she says.

  The tears escape, rushing free as I shake my head. "I'm not." The words tumble out on a sob that bows my body. Suddenly I'm in this stranger’s arms. She holds me tight, rocking. Maria rubs my back. I curl into her, desperate for the comfort. For the tenderness.

  When the storm passes, I pull away and let out a choked laugh. "I'm sorry," I say, brushing at my eyes. "I can't believe I just did that."

  Damn pregnancy hormones. But the thought doesn’t have any power behind it. I'm broken right now but lighter.

  Maria smiles at me, as if she's been standing where I stand now. As if we have a shared past, a shared experience. But this woman is not a killer. She is a survivor.

  "You are good," she says again. It makes my chin wobble. Maria turns to the sink, rewetting the cloth before focusing on me again. She cleans my face. Then her eyes drop to my clothing, and she does the tongue-clicking sound. "Come," she says. "I give you clothing."

  I open my mouth to protest, but she is already moving. I look down at Blue. He meets my gaze; then his attention turns to Maria, already through to the living room.

  I follow.

  She dresses me in a pair of wool pants and a blouse; they are loose but fit well enough. I keep my sneakers and the small pistol. Before we leave I text Anita and Lenox. They give me the address of a safe house in Paris. Maria loops her arm through mine as we step out onto the street.

  Tires squeal and a police car slides to a stop at the bottom of the street. Pulling free from Maria, I break into a sprint, Blue at my heel, racing up the hill. But another police car appears at the top of the road, officers pouring out the door, yelling for me to freeze.

  I turn back, catching Maria's gaze. Her eyes are wide, her mouth forming a small O of surprise. I’m n
ot the victim she thought I was.

  But it was self-defense. I raise my hands slowly. I'm a tourist who was attacked in her apartment. Nothing more and nothing less.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dan

  Sanchez drops a paperback on my desk as she heads to her own. "Did you like it?" I ask, picking up the copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. She sits down and pulls out her laptop, avoiding eye contact. "You did," I accuse, sitting back in my chair. "You liked the kids’ book." I'm grinning.

  She opens her computer and meets my eyes. "Yes," she acknowledges, then quickly looks away.

  "Wait." I lean forward. Our desks face each other, the back edges touching, so that the printout of Facebook profiles and other papers we pass back and forth throughout the day can slide across the expanse of our desks easily. She doesn't look at me. "You downloaded the next one, didn't you?"

  Her cheeks brighten, and an embarrassed smile tugs at her lips. Consuela had insisted she did not need to read the Harry Potter series because she was an adult. "Ha!" I point at her. "You loved it."

  She rolls her eyes. "It was good. I already said it was good."

  "You loved it."

  "Shut up."

  I laugh and settle back into my chair. "You're in trouble now," I say. "That series is addictive. Hope you didn't have plans for this weekend, because you're going to be reading all day and night." She just shakes her head. "Next I'll have you reading His Dark Materials. That series is awesome."

  "It's my turn to pick a book," she points out.

  "True. Do you have one in mind yet?" We've been trading book recommendations back and forth for the last two months, ever since she gave me One Hundred Years of Solitude. It's been fun to escape into fiction. While I still spend most of my evenings working on our project, I've carved out time for reading.

  It's just one of the many ways Consuela has affected me.

  "Not yet," she says. "Now get back to work."

  I smile, returning my attention to the computer.

  Hours fly by as I type, absorbed in writing code. Consuela sits across from me, equally engrossed in her own work—she is going through the data I've scraped, looking for targets to put under surveillance in the hopes of stopping another mass shooting or attack.

  She stands and stretches, pulling my focus. I blink, my eyes catching on the time. It's early evening. "Want to see something cool?" I ask her.

  She nods and circles to my side of the desk. Consuela's hair brushes my shoulder as she leans over me to get closer to my screen, and I take in a lungful of her scent. She turns her face at the sound. Because I just inhaled her.

  Our lips are close. She realizes how close when our eyes meet. Consuela's pupils widen, but she doesn’t back away.

  I can feel every inch of my skin, and it is all desperate to touch her. But I don't move. I'm frozen to this spot, stuck between a desperation for contact and terror that reaching out will destroy the connection we've built over the last eight weeks—discussing books and plotting how to best effect change.

  She is not going to kiss her asset no matter how much I want her to. She's a true professional, practically a zealot for good procedure. That's become clear in her words and actions. Though her reading tastes do lean toward the underdog, and even occasionally the vigilante, Consuela Sanchez is a die-hard believer in the rule of law.

  She still hasn't moved though. My breath is shallow. I don't want to frighten her away. "This can't happen," she says.

  Just stay very still. Don't spook her.

  She swallows, her throat bobbing. Then her tongue comes out and wets her lips. She just wet her fucking lips. What is she trying to do, melt my brain? My vision is swirling, and she is at the center of it. Her scent is all around me—sweet vanilla, the heart of an orchid plant, mixed with the earthy metallic edge of thyme. I groan. Shit.

  She raises a brow. "Did you just groan?"

  I make an affirmative grunt. Words make the best shovels.

  My focus is drawn to her lips again when her tongue peeks out. She pulls it back in as soon as I'm looking at it. She straightens, standing tall and creating distance between us. I flex my fingers over the keyboard, stretching them, giving them something to do besides haul her close to me.

  She clears her throat. "This data is impressive. You've made incredible headway."

  I give another affirmative grunt. She laughs, and I turn to look at her. I did it! I made her laugh. Consuela's cheeks are pink, and she’s smiling down at me. I bite my lip to keep from telling her how beautiful she is, that she makes me happy.

  If this is Stockholm syndrome, then I don't ever want to leave Sweden.

  She shakes her head and walks to the far side of the office, leaning against the wall. "Don't look at me like that."

  A smile curls my lips as I give her that same grunt. She laughs again, and I beam. Consuela shakes her head.

  "I can't help it," I say. Shut up, Dan!

  She clears her throat, and the shutters drop again. She's rebuilding her defenses. "It's been a long day. Let's call it." She starts gathering up her things and pushing them into her briefcase. "Jones"—that's what she calls Tweedledee—"will escort you back to your room."

  I stand slowly. She’ll have to pass me to leave. Maybe if I manage to just shut up, she won't be able to escape me so easily. Maybe she wants me as badly as I want her.

  But she has everything to lose.

  I'm her prisoner, her asset. Why does that turn me on. Because everything about this woman drives me crazy. I'd never have built such a beautiful algorithm for anyone else. She is my muse.

  A weight lands in my stomach. Maybe she knows that. Maybe she is using her wiles to manipulate me. Maybe I'm a total fool, and she feels nothing for me but the professional interest she puts on when anyone else is in the room.

  Consuela, her briefcase full, looks up at me. She wets her lips again… because she is trying to kill me. It's the only explanation at this point. No one’s lips are that dry. If I buy her Chapstick, will she get the joke?

  If she can walk by me, then I'll know it's all an act. She takes a deep breath, her peach silk blouse shimmering and slithering over her skin. Consuela leans forward, picks up the phone, and presses a single digit. "You can come and take him now. We’re done for the evening."

  The door opens and Tweedledee enters. "Come on," he says to me.

  "Sure." I turn to my computer and stroke a few keys before closing the laptop and slipping it into the case. I've had plenty of time in the evenings to work on my algo but have not risked researching Consuela further. In part because I know she checks the logs, and I don't want to come off as a creeper. But also because the thrill of getting to know her in real life is so tantalizing and delicious.

  Tweedledee hovers behind me. Consuela busies herself with something on her desk. "Good night," I say.

  She glances up. "Good night." Her eyes catch mine for a moment longer than is professional, then drop to her work again. I lead Tweedledee out the door, willing myself not to look back.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lenox

  "It's time to tell the council," I say, passing Petra a glass of champagne.

  She smiles at me as she accepts it. The emerald choker that hugs her throat sparkles in the powerful rays of the sun reflecting off the sea. We bought it from a jeweler named Muhammad. He laundered money for Yusuf, and now launders it for us.

  Light pours in the large windows of the yacht's salon. Outside it's cold, but in here we only see the beauty of the day and can't feel the harshness of the wind or feel the frigid spray of the sea.

  We’re on a yacht off the coast of Bulgaria, en route to a meeting in Romania. I turn back to Liam, accepting the scotch and soda he offers. Robert takes the Scotch neat off Liam's tray before settling back into the booth next to Petra. His skin has largely healed, but he has kept the well-trimmed beard.

  I remain standing, watching Liam leave before turning back to them. Ian's former enforcer ha
s chosen to take on a role of steward—he has a passion for wine and food that his humble upbringing never allowed him to explore. Now he and Petra pore over tasting notes, enjoying the challenge of ordering just the right bottles for her cellar.

  Robert turns to Petra. "You're pleased with how this turned out then?"

  Petra sips her champagne, meeting my gaze, keeping her expression neutral. But we all know that Robert's plan came together as beautifully as the moon rises over a calm sea. Yusuf awaits trial in Istanbul; his closest allies are either in prison, dead, or working with us.

  With a very minimal amount of bloodshed, not only are Petra and I the new leaders of the most powerful crime syndicate in the city of Istanbul but for hundreds of miles in all directions. Our influence spans out east and west. It is a small portion of the globe but vital.

  Combining Yusuf's markets with Petra's existing structures in Romania and her trade routes around the globe… well, we are off to a very good start. I've kept the council informed of our operations without mentioning Robert's name.

  I glance down at my phone, waiting for the text that tells me Sydney has reached our safe house in Paris. The recent assassination attempt is evidence it's time to bring Robert out of the shadows and share his larger strategy with the council. It won't work on the scale that we hope to achieve without their consent.

  There is a message from Rachel. I open it using my retinas as my code. "Sydney has been captured by local authorities in Spain," I say, my gaze rising to meet Robert’s.

  He nods. "I see. We can certainly tell the rest of the council of my continued existence and involvement in Yusuf’s demise, but as I requested, I'd like to tell Sydney myself."

  "You want a chance to explain," Petra says, her voice laced with humor. She's come to understand and, dare I say, admire Robert Maxim over the last months. They are similar creatures, I'm afraid to admit.