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. H
e 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.