The First

by A. Claire Everward

  Whichever way he would choose, he knew he had to take the other man following her into account in its implementation. The guy was an unexpected complication that needed to be dealt with. He stopped the car down the street and scouted the area by foot, looking for him. He didn't see him around. Maybe—

  The guy came out of the target's building. Kyle could see him clearly now. He was young, couldn't be more than in his mid-twenties, most likely less. Something about him made Kyle frown. He seemed a bit out of place, the way he was dressed, the way he carried himself, and something else, something Kyle couldn't quite put his finger on.

  He was clearly agitated, that much Kyle could tell. He kept throwing glances up to where the target's apartment was, even as he walked to his car that was parked in front of the building's main entrance. Eventually he settled inside, facing the entrance.

  Waiting. So she must be in her apartment. Which made sense, Kyle thought. What happened in the park, it must have taken some toll—

  He pushed the thought away. That never happened, he reminded himself, and focused on the kill.

  Aelia felt energized and focused. The dreams never came other than during the night, and yet this time it was still daylight outside, she had slept so little, and still she had dreamt.

  She remembered, and felt its impact on her. All the effects of what she had done in the park, and what had happened since that morning, were gone. All except that irritating headache, the result of the strain on her body, she supposed. She got up to get a painkiller but then remembered she had none. So instead she got some ice water in the kitchen, then took a cool shower, which made the pain ebb a bit, and got dressed. Finally, she left to go to a drugstore she knew would be quiet, empty in all probability at this hour. She didn’t want to meet people, and she wanted to return here quickly, return and think.

  There was no running from it, no evading, no pushing it aside. She had to try and understand what was going on.

  The other guy following Kyle’s target got out of the car yet again and walked toward the building. Kyle watched him with interest. He seemed indecisive. As if . . . Kyle straightened up as it came to him. The guy was considering going to her, that was the only thing that would explain his behavior. Kyle still had no idea who he was but considering the way he had acted at the park, Kyle's experience told him the guy was guarding her.

  Which made him a potential interference that could not be allowed.

  Kyle started to follow him but then the guy halted, turned, and returned once again to his car. Kyle raised a brow. This guy was getting to be a nuisance. The problem was that he couldn’t kill him before killing the target. That would be too much of a risk. It was broad daylight, and if anyone saw anything, if anyone saw him—

  The gate of the underground parking to the left of the building opened and the target’s car came out. The guy started his car and followed. Kyle remained in place, a small smile on his face. Perfect.

  It was an isolated enough place where it would only be her and him, a place she would feel safe in and would let her guard down, and at the same time a place where her killing could be made to look random, like a mugging gone wrong perhaps. The underground parking of the building she lived in. Whoever her guard—her very unprofessional guard—was seemed to think that waiting outside the building was enough, and Kyle expected him to do just that, wait outside, when the target returned from wherever she had gone, with the guy still following her, no doubt. And what Kyle could only interpret as his indecisiveness as to whether to approach her or not meant Kyle would most likely have time to kill her and leave. The guy would probably think she just went up to her apartment, and keep being indecisive out front instead of following her closely, making sure she was safe and not letting her out of his sight, which was what he himself would do, Kyle thought, then dismissed the thought with irritation. He was her killer, not her protector.

  He rounded the building and entered from the back, unobserved by the day doorman who was deeply engrossed in the small television set on his desk, then descended the stairs to the underground parking. Then he simply waited for the target to return.

  She finally arrived, and Kyle waited until she parked, made sure they were alone, and then walked toward her with determination. He wasn't worried about security cameras, he'd taken care of those. He wanted to make sure he'd be completely focused on one thing, and one thing only. Killing his target. Now.

  She got out of the car and walked to the elevators, a path that would take her through a section of the underground parking lot where he had dismantled the lights to leave it semi-dark, enough for him to approach her through shadows. He walked toward her, the hand holding a gun with a silencer down by his side, then halted. She had stopped in the darkness and was looking around her, as if sensing him. He frowned. She closed her eyes and lowered her head, and he stood still, waiting in the dark silence.

  And then she raised her head and turned to look straight at him. There was no way she could see him where he stood, and yet . . .

  He walked forward quickly, raising the gun and pointing it at her, and when he was close enough that he could not miss, he pulled the trigger.

  As he did, something inside him erupted and he moved his hand to the side with a start.

  And missed.

  Uncontrollable rage rose inside him and he took aim again, his hand on the trigger, ready to finally do it, finally finish this—

  He stopped. She never even moved. Just stood there mere feet away, looking straight into his eyes.

  She would either run or crumble and beg, he thought, suddenly calm, that part of him that made him so good at what he did kicking in. Fear overtook all of them in the face of imminent death, his experience taught him. Part of him truly hoped she would do either, and that it would break this strange hold she had on him.

  Except she didn't. Instead she took a step toward him, her eyes, incredibly, full of anger and irritation. “Will you stop trying to kill me already?”

  Both the hand holding the gun and his jaw dropped.

  She walked right up to him, stopped close, so close, and looked up at him with eyes that he couldn't help think could look so different, so warm, not as furious as they were now. He was surprised to feel a pang at this fury that was directed at him.

  “Fine. There. Here I am. You want so badly to kill me? Then tell me why. You got me, now tell me why.”

  He stared at her, incredulous, and the thing was he couldn't move. At this close interaction, which he was not at all expecting, he felt something within him, that same awakening volcano of unfamiliar thoughts and feelings that had caused him to hesitate twice before and again just now, that same rumbling volcano because of which she was still alive. Except that it had now erupted and was spreading to every corner of his soul, and he couldn't focus, something was wrong, he couldn't.

  She winced and her left hand came up to her right arm, and he jerked into focus as he realized that he'd hit her after all. He hadn't missed her when he shot. He hadn't hit her heart like he meant to, but he hadn’t completely missed, either. A blood stain was visibly spreading on her shirt where she was hit, and only now he realized she was pale, so pale.

  She was irritated and angry and only fleetingly realized that she was not at all scared of this man. At no time since it had all started was she ever afraid of him. Even now, after he'd shot her, it was only fury that she felt, fury toward this man who was after her, she had no idea why, fury at this inexplicable connection she seemed to have to him, of all people, fury at whatever it was that was happening to her, tearing her reality apart. The next thing she knew she was standing right there in his face, prepared to stand her ground, right before she realized her upper arm was warm and burning, and something was flowing down it and it hurt, it hurt so much. Without warning her vision blurred and she felt herself falling, collapsing to the ground, and just before the world disappeared she felt strong arms catch her, circling her body as her killer pulled her to him—

  Pro
tectively. But it couldn’t be, could it?

  She woke in her own bed with this thought and traces of a forgotten dream in her mind. Her head still hurt and her arm throbbed, and when she tried to move, something hindered her ability to move to her right. She breathed in deeply, and opened her eyes. Yes, her bedroom. Her own bed. There was still some light outside, she saw through the gap between the loosely drawn drapes, but most of the light came from the doorway. She sat up with some difficulty, and found she’d been stripped of her shirt to her bra, and her arm had been carefully bandaged. She held the blanket to her neck with her good hand and turned to see that the soft barrier that hindered her from turning was in fact that, a barrier made of her bedspread and decorative bed pillows.

  “So you wouldn't turn on your arm and hurt it.”

  She started at the voice and whipped around. The man who had shot her was standing at the bedroom door, leaning on the doorframe. He had taken his jacket off, and a gun holster was visible against his black shirt. She wondered how long he'd been standing there and found herself feeling oddly self-conscious, exposed. He walked over to the window and opened the drapes a little to peek out, then let them fall back into place.

  “I didn't look, if that's what's bothering you,” he said drily. “I was too busy trying to . . . not-kill you.” He turned to her and stood quietly for a moment, pondering her. “How do you feel?”

  “You patched me up.”

  “Don't worry, I'm trained to do that. And anyway the bullet just grazed your arm, it's just a nasty flesh wound.” He walked back toward the door. “I'll let you get dressed. Try not to get the bandage wet.”

  “You didn't kill me.”

  It was a simple statement, spoken factually, with no anger or fear behind it.

  He halted, but didn't turn back, didn't answer. A moment later he walked out the door.

  She winced as she got up and walked to her bathroom. The face in the mirror was pale, but her bandaged arm held the reason for that. She felt fine otherwise, even the headache seemed to have ebbed. She showered carefully, got dressed and emerged from her bedroom to the smell of fresh coffee and toast in the kitchen. He was at the stove, frying eggs. She walked over to the counter and sat down.

  “First you shoot me and now you're feeding me,” she remarked. As an answer, he placed a rather appetizing plate of food in front of her and indicated her arm.

  “It's fine, I kept it dry. Now talk, and start with your name.” This might have come harsher than she'd meant it to, but then she'd had enough.

  He put a cup of coffee before her. “Eat first. You need the energy.”

  She continued to look at him.

  He sighed. “Fine.” He took some coffee for himself and sat down opposite her.

  “Kyle Rhys.” He looked down at the cup in his hands and nodded slightly to himself, reaching a decision. “I was ordered to kill you at any cost.”

  “Why didn't you?”

  “Why didn't you run?”

  They looked at each other in silence.

  Outside the building, sitting in his car, Benjamin Laree was watching her living room window up above. He'd followed her to the building but didn't go in, just waited outside, not entirely sure how to approach this, and was still there when darkness began to settle and the lights came on in her windows. The man he'd seen at the park hadn't been around all day, and the sensor Benjamin had placed above her apartment door told him no one had gone into the apartment while she was at the drugstore, so he was confident she was alone and safe inside. Still, he had his orders to bring her in. The plane had already landed at a private airfield just outside the city, and the additional escort sent to help him would be here soon, so there was no delaying. This was as good a time as any to talk to her, although he had no idea how he would explain this, convince her to go with him—

  The rear door of the car opened and someone slipped inside. Benjamin managed only to glimpse the face in the rear-view mirror before the bullets lodged themselves in him.

  Kyle considered his words carefully. He never thought he'd have this conversation, never thought he'd say any of this to anyone outside the organization, certainly not to a target. And certainly not to this woman. Every instinct his father and the organization had instilled in him told him not to do it, but a whole new set of instincts was now taking over within him, and they had an altogether different opinion. One his gut told him to follow. He made a conscious decision to go with the truth.

  “I belong to an organization that exists for the sole purpose of eliminating the enemies of humankind.”

  “Enemies?” Anyone else might have found what he was saying downright insane. But not her, not anymore.

  “People who are deemed a danger to the future of humanity, to its existence.”

  “And by eliminate, you mean kill.”

  “Yes,” he said simply. “They use men and women who are trained specifically for that, and I'm one of them.” His smile was mirthless. “No, I'm the best one. I was literally raised to do that.”

  “What, to kill people?”

  “To get to anyone and do whatever it is that the organization wants me to do.”

  She contemplated this. He expected more questions, but instead she simply stated, “You missed me.”

  “I never miss.” He paused. “I moved the gun at the last moment.”

  “And the first two times?”

  He was no longer surprised that she knew. “The first time I never tried to take a shot. I hesitated. And I never hesitate.” Agitated, he stopped, forced himself to calm down. “The second time, I have no idea what happened. Do you?” The question was serious, and his eyes bore into hers but found no answer there. She really had no idea.

  She was silent for a long time, and he watched her, curious at how calmly she appeared to be taking what he was saying. He wondered what was going through her mind.

  She ate absently, deep in thought, and then raised her eyes to him. “Why me? I'm hardly an enemy of anything. I'm just me.”

  “I really don't know how to answer that, not anymore.” He considered her. “See, I was told—”

  Benjamin came to. He was alone in the car and realized that his would-be killer must have left without ensuring that his victim was in fact dead. Lucky for me, he thought, but as he tried to move excruciating pain seared through him, and he almost lost consciousness again. He opened the door weakly and stumbled out. The driver's seat he'd been sitting on was soaked with blood, too much blood, he realized. Willing himself to move, he stumbled to the building. He succeeded in approaching the entrance without anyone seeing him but had to wait until the doorman inside left his station before he managed to slip in and make his way to an elevator. He counted the floors up in an effort to stay alert, stumbled out, and crashed against her door.

  Inside, Kyle stopped in mid-sentence and drew his gun. “Go into the bedroom and stay there,” he said quietly and waited until Aelia did as he instructed, then walked to the door. He looked through the peephole and opened the door quickly, putting the gun back in its holster and dragging the barely conscious man in. He placed him on the carpet and frisked him, then called out, “Aelia!”

  She came out and gasped at the sight of the injured man. She began running to him, but Kyle's voice stopped her.

  “I need some towels. We need to get rid of that blood outside your door before anyone sees it.”

  She changed direction and went to get some water and towels. Kyle took a cushion off the sofa and put it under the injured man's head, then proceeded to look for the wounds. He found three of them in the man's back. A cluster, too close to the heart. He laid him back gently, and the man opened his eyes and met his, starting at the sight of him.

  He struggled feebly against Kyle and tried to speak, and Kyle said quietly, “It's all right, you're safe.” Then, thinking, he added, “She's safe, too. I promise you that.” The young man stopped struggling and lay back, his eyes on Kyle's, wonder evident in them.

  Aelia kn
eeled beside the injured man and Kyle took the towels from her and ordered, “Stay with him, I'll clean the blood.” She looked at him questioningly and he shook his head. This man wasn’t going to make it.

  Aelia looked down at the still figure and started. Him. “What . . .”

  The man coughed, wincing in pain, and she leaned forward and raised his head a little to help him breathe. In a vain effort to keep him comfortable, she covered him carefully with a throw, but the man was now barely responsive.

  Kyle cleaned all signs of blood on the outside of the door, glancing back at Aelia every now and then. The injured man lay still, his eyes closed. After ensuring no bloodstains remained in the corridor or in the elevator, Kyle came back in and closed the door behind him. He washed his hands in the bathroom and returned to the living room. At his approach, the man on the carpet opened his eyes, and, seeing Aelia, raised his hand and found hers. Grasping it with desperation, he struggled to speak.