Текст книги "Night Fury: First Act"
Автор книги: Belle Aurora
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 7 страниц)
Chapter Four
“The key is to not think about them as people,” informs Bob. “You should think about them as pests that need to be exterminated.”
I nod vacantly while making mental notes.
Pests. Not people. Check.
This is really happening. I feel dazed and overwhelmed with the information being drilled into me in such a short amount of time.
Frankie walks with us. She adds, “The thing that’s hard to get past is that they look like regular people. And they may be people, but they aren’t good people, Cat. They’re scum, and they need to be stopped, whatever the crime. They wouldn’t be in our system if they were law abiding citizens. You got that?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
A mixture of excitement and fear causes adrenaline to violently course through my body. So much, it threatens to make me sick. I close my eyes and control my breathing, forcing myself to keep calm.
To tell you the truth, there is nothing about tonight that scares me—apart from the fact everyone expects me to fail.
That scares the crap out of me.
I give myself an internal pep talk.
James was a mistake. Never again. You can do this. You’ve been training for this since you were five years old. This is your second nature—your calling in life.
And most importantly...
This is God’s will.
I have had that fact drilled into me for forever. I have to believe that this is God’s will. If not, I am just a criminal, no better than the people I am to hunt.
Bob leads us through the kitchen, out the backdoor, and past my garden. We walk until we reach the barn that sits at the very back of the property. It’s an absolute eyesore. It almost ruins the elegance of the rest of the property, but that eyesore is there for good reason.
The big barn doors look old; it’s paint is peeling and faded. Bob avoids them, instead, moving to the side of the building to a steel-reinforced door with a keypad on the side. He keys in a six-digit number. “If you do well tonight, you’ll get your own code.”
Frankie smiles at me, and it calms my soul.
At least she believes in me.
The steel door whirs and vibrates a moment before we hear the latch click over. Bob pushes it in and we follow him inside. A spotlight comes on, bathing us in bright light.
Four vehicles sit covered by gun-metal grey covers, taking up most of the space in the barn. Bob moves silently between the cars towards the very back wall of the barn, where another steel door awaits. And my heart skips a beat. Or two.
This is it.
I’ve entered the nerve centre of Mirage only once before. That was two years ago. I was sixteen then, and Bob thought I was ready for my first job. At the time, I thought I was too.
We were both wrong.
Bob stands by the keypad. Without looking back, he asks, “You sure about this, Cat?”
I wish people would stop asking me.
Every time I’m asked this question, a small piece of my self-confidence bails on me. I grit my teeth, holding back the snide remark that sits at the very tip of my tongue, and I respond instead, “Sure as sugar, Bob. Do it. Let me in.”
He keys in his code; the door whizzes and purrs, clicks over, and then I wait.
Bob pushes open the door, steps back and offers a genuine smile, all for me. “Welcome back, Night Fury.” With a jerk of his chin in Frankie’s direction, he adds, “Moon Shadow will take you through. I have some things I need to do.”
“Thanks, Boss.”
He looks at me a moment before pulling me into a bear hug. “Just do your best.”
And then he’s gone.
Frankie—codename: Moon Shadow—takes my hand and pulls me along behind her. The steel door shuts behind us and she says, “You know he doesn’t actually have anything to do, right? He’s just scared shitless of his little girl growing up.”
I know this should make me roll my eyes, but I smile instead. “Well, he’s the closest thing I have to a dad. I guess it would be hard for him.”
She scoffs, “He’s been training you for over a decade, Cat. He needs to put a lock on those emotions. They don’t do anyone any good.”
Of course, she’s right, but it’s nice to have someone care about you that much.
I trail her down the long, dimly lit hall, the sounds of our footsteps echoing through the narrow space.
I’m walking towards my destiny.
How poetic.
We reach the end of the hall. Frankie clicks in her keypad code. More humming and buzzing, the steel door clicks opens and finally—finally—I’m home.I take the first step towards the rest of my life, and I do it wearing a shit-eating grin.
This is exciting.
I’m excited.
My life will be thrown one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. From boring to extraordinary.
I can’t wait.
“Welcome back to Mirage.” Frankie starts her descent down the stairs to the ground floor, but I’m glued to my position on the top floor.
My eyes scan down to the open area. I try to take it all in, but it’s hard, like walking from complete darkness into the intense brightness of the midday sun.
And it is bright in here. The area is completely open, with two desks in the middle of the open space. Four whiteboards full of writing stand surrounding the desks, which are littered with documents and photographs. Sounds come from all around. Computers beep, printers scratch, the fax machine plays its tune, but more clearly, dance music blasts from the stereo down below.
Frankie walks over to the two men who bop their heads to the music, typing away furiously. One man talks into the headset attached to his ear, and the other jumps out of his chair to add more scribble to one of the whiteboards.
I know one of men sitting below, but the other is new, and when I say new, I mean he had to have been recruited within the two years I haven’t been here. So, I guess he might not be so new. Perhaps I’m the new person in this room.
You’ve been here your whole life and you’re the new person?
That stinks.
Frankie approaches the man typing away, leans close to him and says something that makes him stop typing, stand and look up towards the second floor. He spots me and grins, mumbling, “Holy shit.” I chuckle and he booms, “Get your ass down here! Been too damn long.”
I make my way down the stairs towards Clark—codename: Data Stream—the handsome computer whiz. Taller than me, but not too tall, he was my very first crush. His brown hair is now long enough to put behind his ear, and his blue eyes are warm and welcoming. His stubble makes him look manlier than what should be permitted for a computer geek.
Thinking of that causes my face to turn bright red as I approach. I haven’t seen him in a long time.
Smiling all the way over to him, my heart stutters. I wring my hands together. I feel suddenly nervous. “Hello, Clark.”
Smiling softly, he approaches me slowly, as if he would a frightened animal. He holds his arms open to me, and with little-to-no thought at all, I step into his receiving arms. He wraps me up tight, and I close my eyes and inhale the zesty citrus-based scent at his collar. I forgot what it feels like to have a man hold you.
No longer nervous, but dizzy, I breathe into his shoulder, “Hi.”
His stubble scrapes my forehead as he moves to kiss me there. “Missed you, Cat.”
“I missed you too.” Clark had been a great friend to me before I was pulled from the program. We hung out for years before—
Well, just...before.
Someone clearing their throat breaks the spell I’m under.
I gently extract myself from Clark and turn to face a grinning Frankie and the inquisitive looking new guy. His eyes search mine a moment before he masks his curiosity and steps forward, holding out his hand. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess you’re Catarina.”
I’m momentarily stunned.
Stuck in my place in front of Clark, I look at the new guy through lowered brows.
Taller than Clark, but not as tall as Bob, his posture screams military man—legs parted slightly, his presence fierce. His body built the way it is, I feel small next to him. Buzzed light brown hair with green eyes, he watches me as if I may bolt any second.
Not going to happen.
My hand slides into his as I ask quietly, “How did you know that?”
He grins. “I know everything about you.”
Oh, my.
Gently dropping my hand, he clears his throat, crosses his arms over his chest and spouts information as if he himself were a computer. “Catarina White. Age eighteen. 5’6. 140—” I make a noise and glare at him. He smirks and continues, “I mean 130 pounds,” he eyes my body under my plain clothes, “of course. Shoulder-length black hair. Light brown eyes. Birthmark in the shape of a dove on your left inner thigh.” My face flames but he ignores it and carries on, “Trained by the best of the best. Black belt—E1—in Krav Maga. Highly trained in Eskrima. The weapons you are best at are the baston and largo mano yantok. Excelled in Fencing. Also highly skilled in weaponless combat fighting styles, namely Sambo. An expert in sword and dagger knife fighting, you favour the saber grip. You prefer an ivory-handled twenty-four inch Katana sword, which you affectionately named Koneko, which means kitten.” He smiles a cutesy smile my way before it falls and he continues quietly, “Your first job didn’t go too well. Target: James—”
I cut him off by snapping, “I get the point. Thank you.” I work at the pins attaching my habit, removing them one-by-one. When my hair is free, I ask, “Who are you?”
“I’m Marco. Codename: Flamethrower. Been here a year.”
My lip quirks up. “Flamethrower?”
Clark rests his hands on my shoulders, leans down to my ear and says an amused, “’Cause he can burn through any firewall put to him.” He sighs dreamily. “He’s amazing.”
Great. My old crush has a bromance on an asshole.
Marco searches my pink-cheeked face before smirking, knowing he’s shown me up.
“Wonderful. Look forward to working with you,” I blatantly lie.
Chapter Five
My afternoon consists of preparing myself for tonight. I expected to be working closely with my old friend Clark, but instead, I’m put in a mildly uncomfortable situation when I’m paired with Marco to take me through who tonight’s target is.
Frankie and Clark make their way over to the furthest whiteboard, where Clark begins chatting away furiously. Frankie nods her head as he speaks, and I know they’re discussing upcoming contracts.
Feeling a little awkward, I wrap my arms around myself and wait for Marco to instruct me.
He watches me.
I watch him right back, my gaze unwavering.
He grins.
I do not.
He jerks his chin to the second office chair by his desk. “Yo, sit your ass down.”
This pisses me off. “You could ask nicely, you know.”
His grin turns into a smirk. I’m coming to learn is his trademark, and I can’t help but notice he is extremely attractive. It also makes me want to show him how well I was trained by gifting him a broken arm.
Marco surprises me when he stands, moves the chair right behind me and waits for me to take a seat.
I wait a moment...it could be a trick.
When he makes no move to send me flat on my butt and shows unexpected patience, I sit. He pushes my chair in gently, takes a seat next to me and states, “I can be a gentleman.”
Shame tightens my chest. It seems I’ve misjudged him.
His smile dazzles me. “It’s just I choose not to be.”
Nope, I was right on the money about this cocky bastard.
I roll my eyes and he chuckles, low and rough. The sound caresses me into awareness that this man is dangerous in more than one way. Voice cracking, I ask, “So, you’re ex-military, right?”
Clicking away at the keyboard, he jerks his chin and replies, “Yes, ma’am. Army.”
“How’d you get recruited?”
He barks out a laugh. “I’ve got no fucking idea. Bob turns up at my house one day dressed as Father Robert, tells me he has something to discuss with me.” He turns to face me and admits with a soft smile, “The man could sell ice to Eskimos. The very next day, I arrived at Mirage. Sorta never left.”
“I guess I’m wondering how you ended up at this end of the spectrum. You look like you can hold your own; I’m sure you’ve fought before.”
The statement clearly makes Marco uncomfortable. His body stiffens and his features tighten. “Honey, I’ve seen more than my fair share of carnage. I guess you could say I’m done with it. Call me retired.”
The way he says this only spurs more questions in my meddlesome mind. I want to ask a thousand intrusive questions, but instead, I ask, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine last week.”
My brows rise. “Happy belated birthday.” He looks younger than twenty-nine. I’d say he looks more in his mid-twenties.
He grunts, and I take it as a ‘thank you’.
He looks distractedly at the computer screen and mumbles, “Gimme a sec. I just got something to do really quickly, and then we’ll get down to business.”
“No problem. Take your time.”
I swing the office chair side-to-side, pretending to be comfortable and at-home in a completely unfamiliar and alien space. That’s supposed to work, isn’t it?
Fake it till you make it.
Still sounding distracted, he utters, “So Bob’s your old man? Must be nice for him—you steppin’ into the family business. He has to be proud of you.”
“He started training me young, and frankly, I’m looking forward to tonight. I’ve been preparing for it a long time.” I bunch my nose. “Bob is the closest thing I have to a father, but I was brought here as an orphan when I was just a few weeks old. He’s cool though. I’ve never felt anything but loved.”
Marco’s brows pull down in the middle. “Oh, but—”
With a shake of my head, I cut him off, “I know he’s protective of me.”
His confused reaction is understandable. Bob is everything to me a father should be. And I love him.
He shakes his head as if to clear it, brings his palms down on his jean-clad thighs and spouts, “Okay, then. Let’s get to it.”
He hands me a printed document and I read through it. My stomach dips.
I try to hide my reaction, but Marco spots it immediately. “You know him?”
I nod.
“You ever see him act anything shifty-like?”
“No. Never,” I whisper. I try really damn hard to see past the printed photo on the document, but I’m stuck staring. Before I can overthink this, Marco pulls my chair around to face his. His expression unsympathetic, he orders, “Turn the page.”
I’m suddenly anxious. My stomach does somersaults.
The first page of the document is just a target bio; the second page lists the alleged crimes committed.
I swallow hard and turn the page.
The words begin to blur after a minute of reading. My anger pulses through my temples, and I hold the pages so tightly my knuckles turn sheet-white.
I can’t help myself from asking a stupid question. “This has been confirmed?”
Without answering, Marco turns to a third page.
More photographs.
“Yep,” he counts the photos on the page, “one, two, three, four times over.” I feel his eyes on me. I can’t take my wide eyes off the page. They flicker from photo to photo. Quietly, he asks, “You still feel something for this fucking animal?”
My voice shakes with anger as I answer, “Not a damn thing.”
And I mean it.
Unable to glimpse away from the horrifying photos, I jump when a soft hand rests on my back. Blinking, I look up, flushed and emotional. Sister Arianne stands at my back removing her habit.
Ari—codename: War Paint—looks over my shoulder to the photos and jeers, “Choquant, no? Who knew? If I could take care of this salaud more than once, I would take pleasure in it,” she sneers and adds, “Putain trou du cul.”
Silence seems fitting, especially since I don’t know what to say.
“Tonight, we will make sure he cannot hurt anyone ever again.”
I remain silent. Ari softly strokes my hair and asks, “Does this not make you happy, cheri? To make the world safer? To protect?”
My emotions run wild. My anger has always been a problem, and some small part of me prays for a release—an outlet for my fury. Standing quickly, I don’t look at either Marco or Ari. I simply announce, “He’s mine.”
Neither one answers.
I look up at Ari and repeat myself, “This fucker is mine.” Without a backwards glance, I make my way up the stairs, out of Mirage and find solace in the one place I can.
The rest of the afternoon is spent reflecting and praying in my garden. I pray for God to give me the strength to hunt a fucking animal.
Regardless, hunt, I will.
Chapter Six
Name: Marcel Dupont
Age: 48
Hair colour: Grey, short cut
Eye colour: Blue
Weight: 190 lbs
Build: Medium
Height: 5 feet, 9 inches
Other: Distinct scar on upper lip. Large nose.
“This will be easier than most. He knows us. He trusts us,” Ari whispers. “He will be sorry.”
She stands in the middle of the ground floor of Mirage wearing black athletic tights and a black tank. Her arms raised, she stands patiently as Clark and Marco work swiftly, strapping her body with everything we need for the night.
They’re so preoccupied, they don’t notice when I take the printed page of photographs, fold it neatly and place it in my pocket.
Part of me was worried I’d feel too much. Now that same part of me is worried I’m not feeling enough. My mind is at war with my faith.
I choose to ignore both. For tonight.
“Cat?”
I turn to face Ari; she nods down to her body and when I see it, my heart stutters. “Koneko,” I say in awe.
My katana is strapped across her torso. The sword is the most beautiful thing I have ever owned.
Ari winks at me, and the bright light reflecting off her blade causes Koneko to wink at me too.
I get what she’s trying to do, but I’m not sure I want my favourite weapon tarnished by dirty blood.
“You okay?” Clark appears in front of me.
I do my best to sound chipper. “Heck yeah. Tonight is the night.”
Unconvinced by my bad acting, he leans closer to me and says quietly, “You don’t need to prove anything.”
My gaze slides back to Ari and I whisper, “Yes. I do.”
He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to.
We both know it’s true.
Chapter Seven
Final preparations have been made, everyone is in place, and Intel is being steadily streamed through my earpiece.
We are a go.
Ari—dressed in her habit—places herself at the front door of the Dupont residence, while I walk around the small property to await my signal in the backyard.
Marcel will get the surprise of his life tonight. It’s a shame it will be his last.
Perhaps it’s better this way—starting with a person I know, that is. It can only get easier from here, I’m sure.
Marcel Dupont.
Churchgoer. Landscaper. Gardener. Husband. Father.
Wife beater. Drunk. Paedophile.
I cannot let him live. I won’t.
Crackling sounds fill in my ear. Clark all but yells, “Can you hear me? Night Fury? War Paint?”
I answer in a whisper, “I can hear you—a little quieter, please.”
Ari responds in my ear, “War Paint here. Are we a go?”
Marco comes in with, “We have it on good authority Mr Dupont got a little handsy with his wife again last night. She took off right after and took their son with her. It’s just a guess, but I’d say Marcel is having a one-man cocktail party tonight.”
Ari comes in again. “Fantastique. This will be easier than I first thought. Night Fury, are you in place?”
An eerie calm settles over me. I breathe deeply and respond, “Yes, I’m ready.”
“Excellent. My earpiece will be out of service in ten seconds. War Paint out.”
My heart begins to race. I’m out of contact with Ari. It’s unsettling being on my own.
Now, I need to wait.
It’s cold out tonight. A breeze passes over me, causing my body to erupt in goose bumps and my eyes to water from the sharp bite of the chill.
I have dressed myself in black training tights, a black, long-sleeved tee, fingerless black gloves and black hiking boots. My hair’s tied up in a high ponytail, and I cover the majority of my face with a black cotton mask, which covers my cheeks, nose and mouth.
Before I have time to second-guess my part in tonight’s job, Marco’s husky voice sounds in my ear. “Time to go, Fury. Get your game on.”
Although my surroundings aren’t quiet, everything around me is cocooned in a bubble of silence. I take in a deep breath. My mind focuses on nothing but clarity. I smile to myself as I realise something...
I’m ready. Really ready.
My hand rests on the handle of the backdoor. I see a light turn on inside from the back window. Although Ari has removed her earpiece, she has left it live to stream through my own. The front door opens, and I hear muffled conversation.
One, two, three.
I turn the handle of the backdoor, and much to my satisfaction, it opens. When you live in a small town where everyone knows each other, people don’t care much for locking their doors at night.
Thankfully.
The backdoor creaks as I open it, and my heart stutters. Wide-eyed, I open the door the rest of the way using one quick motion. Sweat begins to bead on my forehead, even though warmth is scarce. I force my breathing to remain slow and steady.
Anything could give my position away.
I enter the Dupont household quickly and quietly. I find myself in the laundry room, which has a door closing it off from the rest of the house. A few more steps to the door, and I know this one will take me to my target.
My hand rests on the handle as I press my ear to the cool wood and listen in. The conversation is muffled, but I can still make it out.
Marcel slurs, “Sister Arianne, this is a surprise. It’s a little late for you to make house calls, isn’t it?”
Ari forces herself to sound flustered, “I apologize, Marcel. Is Nancy here? I could really use a woman to speak to. I find myself in a difficult situation.”
I turn the handle and pull the door open a sliver, peering in.
Ari fans her face, looking clearly distressed. Marcel sways in his spot, and I can smell the alcohol on him from here.
He is drunk as a skunk.
Drunk is good.
Accidents happen when people are drunk.
Marcel clears his throat. “No, her mom is ill. She’s helping out there for a little while.”
My lip curls in revulsion.
Disgusting slob. Filth. You are filth.
Ari puts a hand to her cheek. “Oh, my, the poor dear. I understand. I wish she had told me; I would have asked Father Robert to place her in our prayers.” She smiles up at Marcel. “Never mind. Tell me something, Marcel?”
The man looks at her expectantly.
Her eyes become devoid and her face morphs into pure malice. “Do you enjoy beating your wife?”
In the midst of their silence, I pull the door all the way open and step lightly across the short distance into the living room.
A shocked Marcel finally sputters, “You are insane.”
Ari steps forward. “Do you like the way your son cries in agony when you rape him?”
Marcel’s body stiffens, and he growls, “Get out.”
Ari smiles cruelly. “No, I don’t think I will.” She reaches up to her right shoulder, gripping the material of her habit. “It’s time you got yours, Marcel Dupont.” Pulling the material free, her habit falls to her feet, revealing the weapons strapped to her body. She smirks into Marcel’s stunned face. “Tonight, you die.”
Marcel puffs out a humourless laugh. “You have lost your mind, woman.” He points to the front door. “Leave before I call the police and have you charged with attempted assault with a deadly weapon and intent to kill.”
Ari laughs then. “Oh, you silly man, I am not going to kill you. No. Not me,” she jerks her chin over his shoulder, then leans forward and whispers, “but she will.”
As soon as Marcel turns to look behind him, he’s greeted with my swift kick to his head. He flies backwards into the dining room table. The corner point catches him in the centre of his back and he cries out.
Ari whistles to me. I turn in time to catch Koneko mid-air.
Pulling the outer sheath away from the twenty-four inch curved blade, my breathing falters.
She truly is a beautiful sword.
My gaze slips from Koneko to Marcel, who has yet to stand from his fall.
He looks up at me, fear etched into his features. “I tried to get help.”
Rage boils low in my gut. My teeth bare and I growl.
I stride over to him, my katana out by my side. Kneeling by the drunk man, I enquire, “You tried to get help?” He nods. My hand flies out and I slap him across the face roughly. I repeat sternly, “You tried to get help?” He begins to cry, but he nods regardless. The sound of the second slap echoes throughout the room. My palm tingles and itches from the impact. Reaching behind him, I grip his hair tightly and pull it so hard his head snaps back. My voice shaking, I relay the words my father figure has drilled into me: “There is no try. There is only do.”
I release my grip on his hair and stand, lip curling. “You are disgusting, you filthy pig. You deserve to die.”
Marcel shakes his head, whimpering and trembling. “No. Please. Don’t.”
Ari walks up behind me. “You are doing wonderfully, petit fille. Do it. The quicker the kill, the quicker we can leave.”
I nod soundlessly.
“Marcel, I think you should pray for forgiveness.” I point to Ari. “Crawl over to Sister Arianne and pray for God to forgive you.” When he makes no move to do so, I add, “Now, you sick fuck.”
Body quivering, his tear-filled, worried gaze darts from Ari to me, and slowly, he starts to crawl over to her, shaking in terror. He reaches her feet, lowers his head and mumbles his prayer.
“That’s right.” Ari looks down at him. “You know what you are doing is wrong. Pray for God to forgive you, Marcel. You must beg for his forgiveness; your sins are great.”
Marcel mumbles louder, his words slurred.
My feet move of their own accord. I tread lightly, moving to stand directly behind Marcel’s kneeling position.
Without another thought, I lift my katana and place the tip at the base of his neck.
His body stills. He stops breathing.
I breathe in deeply, and then out slowly. I add the slightest pressure to the handle of the blade; it enters the back of Marcel’s neck, and a moment later, exits through the front of his throat.
His body quakes and jerks uncontrollably, and at this moment, I realise I am thankful for one thing:
I can’t see his face.
Holding up the quaking body of Marcel Dupont by a blade through his neck, I lift my gaze to Ari. Her eyes sad, she smiles gently. “Come, Cat. Release him. There is still much to do.”
With a small jerk back, the blade is free, and Marcel’s body falls motionless to the floor with a dull thud.
My heart jumps.
I did it. I killed him. I didn’t need help. I did it on my own.
I don’t even feel bad about it.
Ari pulls her leg back and kicks the lifeless body, “Cochon sale!”
The night has officially become overwhelming.
A small giggle bubbles up my throat. The more I try to hold it back, the worse it becomes. I start to chuckle. My chuckle becomes full-blown laughter, bordering hysterical.
Tears stream down my face as I laugh, letting out my anxiety, anger and worry.
Ari watches me, a cautious smile playing at her mouth. When I get myself under control, she asks, “Okay?”
Tears trail my cheeks for another reason altogether as I begin to cry uncontrollably. Ari comes forward, wiping them away. She tuts, “Why do you cry, chéri?”
It all comes out. “I just killed a man—a man who had his back to me praying. He didn’t even see it coming.” I sniff. “He didn’t know it was coming, and...” I look up in her face and whisper “...and I don’t even care.” My body shakes with silent sobs. “I’m glad he’s dead.”
I’m pulled into a warm hug. Ari chuckles in my ear. “Oh, ma colombe. Be still.”
My tears begin to wilt away. Detachment takes over. I like it when my heart numbs. Numbness is good. It’s feeling that hurts.
Ari kisses my temple. “You were born for this. You have one of the toughest jobs in the world, and you have just proven you can do it with ease.” She pulls away and smiles. “That is a gift.”
I don’t say a thing.
I’m not sure I should be congratulated for that.
She holds out her palm and I hand her Koneko. She wipes off the blade with her discarded habit and kneels by the body. Her hand motions me over, and I help her move Marcel onto his side.
Confusion sweeps through me as she takes my blade and begins adding small cuts to his face, fingers and neck.
Sensing my uncertainty, Ari explains, “I should have explained beforehand. We need this to look like a robbery gone wrong.”
Oh.
Crap.
“I’m sorry.”
She scoffs, waving a dismissive hand my way. “It is nothing. Next time, we will go into details how we want the kill to look. It was my fault.” Reaching into her pants pocket, she pulls out a pair of gloves and hands them to me. “Now, make a mess of this place, please.”
The gloves feel strange on my hands, as though they are suffocating my fingers.
I walk from room to room, throwing things around, breaking ornaments and frames, and moving things around.
Ari calls me over to her as she puts on another pair of gloves. “We need to pick up the television, take it into the main hall and drop it, so it looks as though something interrupted a robbery.”
Brows rising, I look at her in disbelief. “You know a lot about this stuff, Ari. I’m impressed.”
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “My life before Bob found me was not a good one.”
The television drops to the ground with a boom. We collect our gear, and before we leave, I watch as Ari walks over to Marcel. Looking up to the ceiling, she mutters a few words under her breath before reaching down and coating her fingers in his blood. Her eyes close as she runs her blood-coated fingers from her forehead, down the side of her face to slide down her chin.
My eyes glued to her in shock, she stands and walks over to me wearing her victory on her face. Suddenly, I get it.
Arianne. Codename: War Paint.
She reaches into her pack and pulls out two black hoodies. I waste no time shrugging into mine, pulling the hood up. Ari follows suit.
We exit through the backdoor and stroll to the back gate as though nothing is wrong, as if we are meant to be here. Once on the street, we jump into the waiting Mercedes Kompressor, and Clark drives us back to Mirage.
Satisfaction flows throughout my body. Hearing, but not listening to Clark and Ari converse, I melt into my car seat, suddenly feeling the pull of exhaustion.
My eyes flitter, flutter and then close as I drift into a peaceful sleep.