Beauty and the Assassin

“Oh my God. That’s a lot of cream of corn.” More than half the shelves are stocked with it.

A faint smile crosses his face. It softens him, but only a little. Still, it makes him a thousand times more approachable. “Take whatever else you like, but don’t touch any of that.”

“Okay. But why?”

“You know how to handle C-4?”

My mouth dries as I try to process what he just said. “Isn’t C-4 like…a bomb or something?” I ask, my stomach suddenly jittery.

“Metastable plastique-style malleable explo…” He sighs. “Yes.”

“But this is a pantry,” I say. “Not an armory.”

“In an emergency, I might not be able to reach the armory. This is a backup.”

“Backup. Right…” I look at the cream of corn. It’s basically an entire wall of explosives. “What if something sets them off?”

“That won’t happen. C-4 isn’t nitroglycerine. Very safe so long as you know what you’re doing.”

Right, except I have no clue what I’m doing around explosives of any kind. Everything I know about them, I learned from Hollywood. I study the huge reef of “cream of corn.” Holy shit.

I wipe clammy palms on my pants. I don’t think I can ever get used to the sight of it. Or learn what to do with it, not when just the thought makes my hands slick with sweat.

“Do you have backup…stuff…in the fridge?”

“Yes.”

Good thing I asked. “Anything I shouldn’t touch? I don’t want to eat a C-4 pork chop and blow myself up.”

He lets out a short laugh. “There’s only a gun in there.”

Still. I make a mental note never to grab anything to eat or drink myself. He might’ve forgotten some camouflaged dynamite masquerading as a hot dog or something.

We stop right at the huge glass door to the balcony. He points at a black box on a shelf to my right at my eye level. “The parachute. Make sure to grab it before jumping. There’s also a hatchet next to it for extra self-defense if you want.”

The hatchet?

He points to another black box, but this one has a red D on the edge, which must stand for defense. It’s right next to the box with the parachute inside.

He gives me a long stare. “I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the weapon.”

I shake my head.

“Thought not,” he says.

He then shows me a staircase tucked between the living room and the corridor. I missed it because of a half-full bookcase that partially blocks the view.

“What’s upstairs?” I ask.

“Two rooms and the pool. Let me show you.” We walk up the stairs together. He points to the farthest door. “That room is off-limits.”

“Another office-slash-armory?” I ask, although the door doesn’t have a fancy super-lock like the one downstairs.

“No. It’s Lyosha’s room. He complains when people go into it.”

“Who’s Lyosha?” I haven’t seen any sign of another person living here. Tolyan also hasn’t invited this person to dinner or breakfast. Hopefully, Lyosha isn’t a hostage who’s held inside naked.

“My son.”