by Jillian Dodd
He leaves Clarice’s room and searches the kitchen, finding a stack of cash in the freezer and taking it. Maybe this is the money she was referring to. They can trace the cash and have it analyzed for fingerprints. Finding nothing else of interest, he moves to the living room. The model of the envisioned Montrovia is not there, just a photo of Clarice and Ophelia, the two girls arm in arm.
He goes across the hall and finds a closed door. Cautiously opening it, he discovers Ophelia’s room.
It is the complete opposite of her sister’s.
Pale grey walls, pristine white bedding. Everything neat and orderly.
There are a few photos of her and Viktor together. Viktor has money, he thinks.
He checks his watch. He’s been searching the house for two minutes. Although he managed to get Clarice out of the street quickly, someone will have called the police.
He needs to call them too.
He takes out his phone, makes a frantic call, and knows he doesn’t have much time left.
He wonders why Black X didn’t have them continue their mission. Why didn’t they investigate Ophelia and Clarice? Was there more to it? Did they believe killing Lorenzo was simply fueled by her hatred for her father? That’s it, her father, his death started it all. Who killed him and why? Or did they believe it stopped with her? Is Lorenzo still in danger? If there is a bigger plot, he most definitely could be.
He looks under the bed, under the mattress, and through the organized bookshelves. No books on money, mostly French history, poetry, and art. Notably not a single book about anything Montrovian.
The sounds of sirens are getting closer. He checks the bookcase and the desk for hidden panels, and then moves to the closet. It is almost completely bare, not even a stray hanger. All that is there is a shoebox sitting on a shelf. He flips the lid, hoping to find something, but instead he finds it empty.
Which is odd. Why would it be here?
Afraid it could be important, he shoves it in his backpack, then returns to the computer and pulls out the flash drive.
He runs back to the entry where Clarice’s body still lies—blood pooling under her. He digs in her jacket for her phone, finding it and scrolling through the recent call list.
“Are you getting all this?” he asks Terrance, holding the phone up so the camera can record this for later.
Then he sees that she has messages from her boyfriend, urging her to see him. Sixteen of them actually, since the death of her sister.
“Bring the phone with you,” Terrance instructs. “The police are close.”
Ari rushes out of the home, noting the siren does sound much closer. He quickly throws his backpack in the car and then rushes back to the dead body.
“You can’t be calm when the police arrive,” Terrance yells in his ear, but he knows this and is already mentally working himself up.
When the police arrive, they are greeted with the sorrowful scene of a handsome man cradling a beautiful girl’s lifeless body, smoothing her hair, and telling her repeatedly that help is coming and to just hang on.
The man is obviously in shock.
And the girl is quite dead.
They question the man, and upon discovering that the woman is former royalty and a friend of his, they take down Ari Von Allister’s passport number, pat him on the back in condolence, drive him to a hotel, and request he stay in town overnight.
I see the muzzle flash from the corner of my eye and quickly determine which building it came from—four stories over a restaurant.
But if the assassin is as good as they say, I know he will simply walk out the front door. The restaurant will remember a business man with a briefcase who had brunch, tipped well, but spent a few moments longer than he should have in the public loo, probably indigestion from his busy life. Or he could have been carrying a shopping bag, pretending to be a tourist. He’d have a map and a guidebook of walking tours through Paris. He’d tell the story of how he got off the trail and stumbled upon the quaint restaurant, which is clearly a hidden gem.
In a perfect operation, I would send Ari to the back, just as a precaution, but I’m on my own now. Therefore, I’ll have to go with my gut.
I’m going through the motions of putting my helmet on and sliding my leg around the motorbike when I spot him.
Businessman, shiny briefcase a bit larger than normal—possibly a sniper’s case. The man stops and looks down the street. Seeing Ari pull a bleeding Clarice out of the street doesn’t give him pause.
And I know for sure I have my man. Anyone else would be startled by the scene. He’s not, because it’s exactly what he expected to see.
I look downward as I start the bike, knowing the noise will cause the assassin to glance in my direction. Once it’s running, I pull my phone out, pretending to call someone, as the assassin stops a taxi and gets in.
I recite the license plate for Terrance, in case my looking down caused him to miss it.
Then I take off in the opposite direction of the taxi. It’s important the assassin doesn’t think he’s being followed.
“Don’t you lose that cab, Terrance,” I say.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”
Above the cab is the surveillance drone, one that probably has the Von Allister stamp on it. The drone is virtually soundless, and if the assassin did happen to look up, he’d think it was a bird. It was smart we sent the drone up earlier.
“Turn left now,” Terrance says. “You’ll be on the street parallel to the taxi. It looks like he’s headed for the train station.” He gives me further directions then I park the bike and go into the station.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“I can’t take the drone inside, so we’re having to rely on the station’s security cameras. Give us a minute.”
“We don’t have a minute,” I say as I purchase a ticket then move to the center of the station where I spot the assassin among a group of people staring up at the arrival boards.
“I’ve got him,” I say softly. “I’m going silent.”
The assassin, along with others who are all carrying suitcases, make their way to the airport express train.
Following an assassin by myself is going to be tricky, even with a backpack full of disguises.
Right now, I’m goth girl—tatted sleeves that are really just flesh-colored hosiery with tattoos printed on them, but which look like the real thing. I have numerous fake piercings. My contact-lens-green eyes are heavily made up, but the eyeliner and heavy shadow is a sticker, expertly placed but easily removed. I choose the seat directly across from the assassin and slip my tongue out, revealing a fake piercing that is painfully clamped into place.
My gesture has the desired effect. The assassin gives me a smirk.
Truth, the assassin is quite handsome. Dark hair, stubble on his cheeks, and the kind of olive skin that both tans beautifully and makes it difficult to determine his ethnicity, but his eyes are dark and calculating in a way that defies the easy-going smirk.
Although his face is far different than I remember—most likely the work of a skilled plastic surgeon—his eyes are the same, even though he’s attempting to hide them behind glasses with a heavy frame.
I could take him out right now. All I’d have to do is slip my hand inside the backpack and pull out the gun.
Bang.
My retribution would be complete.
But it wouldn’t be very satisfying.
And I wouldn’t properly complete my mission. I need to get him somewhere alone so that I can interrogate him before I kill him.
I take earbuds out of my backpack and put them in, cuing up a playlist of death metal and playing it so loudly I’m sure that he can hear it. I’m also worried my ears may start bleeding.
When he looks out the window, I bend down to retie my combat boot and stick a teeny piece of film onto his briefcase. Most assassins would ditch the gun right away. The fact that he didn’t either shows stupidity or extreme confidence, and I’m betting it’s
the latter. On the other hand, it could just be a prop.
As we come to a stop at the airport, he picks up his briefcase and stands. I blow him a kiss then grab my backpack off the floor and depart, as well. While he heads toward ticketing, I follow the route that employees of the airport take.
“I put a tracker on his bag,” I say to Terrance. “Figure out where he’s going. I need to change.” I step into a restroom, go into a stall, and strip off the leather jacket, hanging it and the backpack on the hook.
I change into a microfiber business suit, pull off the eye makeup stickers, and quickly twist my hair into a severe bun. Then I stuff what’s left in the backpack into a French designer tote, minus the gun and the disguise—dropping them into a trash receptacle on the way out. When I emerge from the restroom, I look completely different.
“He’s purchasing a ticket,” Terrance says into my ear. “Hang on. I’m hacked into the airline’s database. Okay. He’s going to Lyon.”
“Which is a major train hub,” I reply. “That’s smart. From there he could go anywhere.”
“Wait, shit,” Terrance says.
“What?”
“Olivia—I mean, Plague—just found a passport photo for a man whose facial recognition has a ninety-two percent match. That man is flying to Nice. And get this, the flights depart just five minutes apart from adjacent gates.”
“Is Ari going to make it here?”
“No, he got held up with the police. You’re on your own.”
“Buy me tickets for both flights. Huntley goes to Nice. Businesswoman goes to Lyon. How much time do I have?”
“The first one starts boarding in fifteen minutes.”
“Merda,” I curse as I run to the self check-in, scan the business woman’s passport, check in with no bags for the flight, and then go through security. The only problem is I need to go through security as Huntley, too.
“Wait. Did he go through security twice? As two different people?” I ask Terrance.
“No, he didn’t—wait. He’s headed out the security exit. Hang on. He’s in the restroom. Is he doing what you just did? Changing the way he looks?”
“Probably.”
“Terrance, have you been watching to see if anyone else is following him? Have you seen any sign of surveillance?”
“No, we haven’t.”
“Me neither,” I reply as the assassin comes out of the restroom wearing a different shirt, a more casual hairstyle, and minus the glasses.
“Terrance, we’re going to have to make a call. Will he go to Nice or Lyon?”
“Lyon,” Terrance guesses.
“Which flight leaves first?”
“Nice.”
“Then that’s where he’s going. He’ll be the last man on the plane. I have to hurry.” I run to the nearest bathroom, change into a designer dress that makes me look like a princess, topping it with an expensive leather embroidered bomber jacket and high heels. I remove the contacts, quickly apply makeup, and fill a clutch with a few essentials.
An announcement informs me that the flight to Nice is now boarding, so I make my way through security then breeze on the plane, never even looking in the assassin’s direction.
Once Ari gets checked into a five-star hotel, he gets updated by Terrance on the situation with Huntley. He wishes he could go help her, but the police requested he stay in town until tomorrow in case they need him for further questioning. And his hightailing it to the airport, playing Ares Von Allister or not, would have been deemed suspicious.
He changes clothes, tossing his blood-soaked ones away, and has a driver take him back to the car—and more importantly to his backpack filled with potential clues.
I sip on champagne and take selfies to kill time as the other passengers board. Once the plane is mostly full, save for a single first class seat in the aisle next to mine, final boarding is called.
I’m starting to get nervous. If I chose the wrong plane, we’re screwed.
One of the flight attendants holds out a tabloid, which has side-by-side photos of me on it—one where I’m dancing with Lorenzo at the Queen’s Ball and the other holding hands with Daniel at the President’s swearing in. “Will you sign this?” she asks discreetly just as the assassin slips into the empty seat.
“But of course,” I say in French, then sign Huntley Von Allister across the front, adding a heart over the I.
“Merci beaucoup,” she says then turns to the assassin. “Monsieur Durand, may I offer you a glass of champagne?” I note he’s using a very common surname, the equivalent to a Smith.
He starts to wave the attendant away, but then glances at me. “Actually, I will have a glass. It’s not often I am so lucky to be seated by such a beautiful woman.”
It’s not so often I’m lucky enough to be seated next to the world’s most deadly assassin.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Concierge: Designer Marcus Latrobe confirms your appointment. He will greet you upon arrival and take you to lunch at his club, where he will sketch designs for you.
“What brings you to Nice?” the assassin asks me. “You missed the Cannes Film Festival.”
“I’m meeting a Parisian-based designer in Cannes. He’s going to design a few gowns for me.”
“Are you famous? Should I know you? You speak perfect French but look American.”
“I am American. Do you speak English?” He nods. I roll my eyes and switch to English. “I’m really not famous. I’ve just been in the press lately due to dating a few high profile men.”
“Such as?”
“Daniel Spear.”
“The Olympic athlete?”
“And now the President’s son. I usually fly charter, but when I got the call from the designer today, I had just enough time to get to the airport and get on this flight. Thankfully it’s a quick flight, and I did not have to endure coach.”
“Who is the other high profile man you date?” he asks.
“Well, we’re more friends now, since the whole kidnapping thing.”
“That’s why you look familiar.” He points his finger toward me. “You’re the girl who was kidnapped with the Prince of Montrovia and refused to be interviewed by the press.”
“I would prefer to forget the incident,” I state, tightly closing my eyes and shuddering. “People were shot in front of me. While I’m grateful to have been rescued, part of me would have rather been fed to the sharks than to have witnessed such gruesomeness. There is no way I could ever speak of it to the press. The British agent was good at his job, that’s all I will say.”
“Before the incident, there were rumors you would become the next Princess.”
I frown. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry if I’m intruding,” he says sincerely.
“No, it’s okay. The Prince—I mean, the King—seems to have taken the ordeal in stride. I have not. And the Prince’s cousin who was killed was a friend of mine who had just gotten engaged. Her sister, Clarice, was so distraught, she relinquished her crown and moved back to France.
I study his face for any reaction to Clarice’s name.
There is none, whatsoever.
I can see why he has the reputation he does. He is very calm and collected for someone who just committed two high-profile murders.
We talk through the entire flight, pausing only to listen to the announcements. The assassin known as The Priest tells me his name is Henri and that he’s a retired real estate investor who moved to Cannes and took up selling local real estate to keep himself out of trouble. He even produces a business card with his full name, Henri Durand.
“My brother and I were considering a purchase on the French Riviera, maybe I’ll call you next time we are in town.”
When we land, I get a text.
Marcus Latrobe: My dearest Huntley, I regret to inform you that a small fire broke out in my Paris studio, and I will be unable to meet you this afternoon as I must deal with the authorities and the laborers who were treated for smoke in
halation. My driver will pick you up as planned but I will not arrive until later this evening. Please accept my deepest apologies. We have lunch reservations at Les Bourges, and I suggest you go without me. It takes most people up to a year to even get a reservation and their food is quite divine. Because I am a founding member, you will be allowed access in my absence. Please enjoy yourself.
Me: I completely understand and will see you when you arrive. I’m looking forward to it and appreciate you taking time during your holiday to meet with me. And I will definitely keep the reservation.
The assassin politely gestures for me to deplane ahead of him, and it goes against all my training to allow a man of his talent to follow me.
When I get to the terminal, I stop right in front of him and mutter, “Merda.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I hold up my phone and roll my eyes. “I rush here on a moment’s notice. I don’t even have a change of clothing with me and now the designer is delayed. And he says I should go to some private club called Les Bourges by myself for lunch.”
“You are uncomfortable dining alone?”
“No, not at all. I’m just”—I pout—“disappointed.”
“It just so happens that I am also a member of the Les Bourges club.”
“You are? Is it really that good? Am I going to look stupid being there alone? You know what, I’ll just go shopping to kill the time. It was nice meeting you.”
Then I turn my back on him and make my way out of the airport where I greet the driver holding a sign with my name on it. As the driver leads me to a car that’s idling at the curb, I fight the urge to turn around to see where the assassin is. I know he’s behind me, though. I can still feel his presence.