by Evelyn Glass
“I’m okay,” I say, trying to pull my arm free. “I’m fine. Seriously. I’m okay.” I wish I knew some French! It seems my backpacking holiday was cut short before I learnt even a single word. I had a phrasebook, but that was lost when the Russian men abducted me.
“Seriously,” I say, my voice a growl. “I’m okay. Please.”
Her grip is like a vice and for the first time it occurs to me this woman might not be just another festival partier. She smiles and laughs, but she leads me deep into the alleyway. It’s blocked off, wedged between a cobbler’s store and a pastry shop.
“Let go,” I breathe, my heart beginning to pound frantically. Why would she lead me here? I realize I’ve made the mistake of assuming the entire smiling crowd has kind intentions. Stupid, but the colors and the music and the festivities got to me.
Finally, at the end of the alleyway, she releases me. I take a step back, my arm sore from where her hand held me.
“What’s your problem?” I snap.
I turn toward the way we came, meaning to get out of these alleyways and find Roma. I imagine how he must be feeling right now. Terrified. He’s got a steely exterior, sure, but I’ve seen underneath it and I know he must be freaking right now.
I’m no farther than a few steps when two men step out in front of me. They are huge, bouncer-like, wearing tight suits which show their grotesque muscles. Their faces are scarred and their noses are broken. There are two of them, but they look so similar it’s difficult to tell them apart. They’re twins, I realize. They sneer at me with the same superior lips and then laugh with the same coughing laugh.
I swivel on my heels, looking toward the French woman, but she just smiles at me and shrugs.
A man steps from beneath the shadow of an eave, reaches into his pocket, and hands the woman a rolled-up bundle of euros. Then he waves her away. He’s tall, bone-thin, wearing a black suit with shimmering obsidian cufflinks.
“Hello, Felicity,” he says. The French woman jogs out of the alleyway, giving me a wide berth. The twins grunt and let her pass. “My name is Mr. Black, and I would like to have a conversation with you.”
My mind spins. I’ve heard that name before, I’m sure.
Bear!
He said it, when he had the gun pointed at Roma: Maybe Mr. Black sent you to finish the old bear off, aye?
I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But Mr. Black must be Roma’s employer. Why would Roma’s employer trap me like this?
The man lets out a laugh. More of a giggle. He looks like a gangly teenager who’s grown too fast, except for his eyes, which are as black as his name and give away nothing.
“It seems I’ve surprised you.” He grins.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Roma
Goddamn it!
I’m thrown to the opposite side of the street by the sheer mass of the crowd. I make to step forward, but the marching men and women form a wall. Each time I make to pass through it, I’m met with another marcher, their legs moving like soldiers on parade. I grit my teeth and make to push through the crowd. It’s mean, sure, but I’d be a hell of a lot more than mean to get to Felicity. But I don’t make it to the crowd. I feel a hand on my shoulder, a huge, paw-like hand. Bear? I think.
That’s what does it, that split-second of hesitation.
I turn and the man—not Bear—punches me directly in the nose. The people around me are so caught up in their festival they don’t even notice. Blood sprays from my nose, down my shirt, and the man hits me again. I stumble backward and then weave aside, feeling the man’s fist clip my ear. If that landed, I think numbly, I’d be out cold.
I look up at the man. One of Mr. Black’s cronies. He’s burly and tall with thick trunk-like arms. His face is burnt away at one side, the flesh raw and red. Mr. Black, I know, likes to recruit from hardcore mercenary organizations for his personal agents. These are the kind of men who’ve been to war for most of their lives and now go on with the killing and fighting on behalf of the rich and corrupt. These are real killers, like me.
He lunges forward. I step back, dodging his strike, lean to the side, aim, and hook him with all my power across the jaw.
“Uh,” he grunts, shaking his head.
A hit like that . . . it should’ve floored him.
Still, I think I can take him. No matter how tough a bastard you are, get hit in the face enough times and eventually you’ll fall. He strikes at me twice, uppercuts, and I step left and then right, weaving out of his range. He grunts again and throws a hook at me which would snap my neck if it landed. I know Mr. Black must’ve told him to take me alive, otherwise a silenced pistol would’ve been pressed into the back of my head and I wouldn’t have known anything about it, but this man doesn’t seem to care.
“Heard a lot about you!” the man roars over the crowd. “You don’t seem so tough.”
“Are we fighting or talking?” I growl.
He grins, a grin that says: Ah, finally, a worthy opponent. And then lunges at me again.
I let the full force of his weight charge me—and then step aside and reverse-elbow him in the back of the neck. He tumbles forward, headfirst, into the feet of the crowd. I don’t wait to see what he does next.
I push past him, straight through the center of the marchers, ignoring their cries of protest. When I’m on the other side, I roar: “Felicity!” Then I listen, listen with ears trained through years of the life, but I hear nothing.
“Where the fuck you think you’re going?” From my left.
I turn. “Over here, asshole.” To my right.
I step back, hit something.
“What’s the phrase? Oh, yeah, you’re surrounded, motherfucker.”
Before I can respond, three war-hardened killers lay into me, fists and feet pommeling.
They smash into my face, my arms, my legs, my belly—wherever their strikes land. My nose explodes and a thousand cuts and bruises bloom with fiery pain all over me.
The crowd finally sees what’s happening and screams.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Felicity
“I want to talk to you about your new best friend, Roma,” Mr. Black says, his smile that of a snake’s, gums flashing. “I would offer you a seat but . . .” He waves a hand over the alleyway. “This isn’t exactly five-star accommodation.”
“You’re Roma’s employer,” I say. “I’ve heard your name. If you’re Roma’s employer, then why would you—”
“Oh silly, sweet princess.” He giggles again. I feel like wormy hands have just trailed over my body. He rubs his hands together as a man does before beginning a fine meal. His black eyes move up and down my body. He licks his lips. He is repulsive, I think, as the twins snigger behind me.
“Let me first tell you who I am.” He looks at me with a quick snap of the head. It’s a teacher’s gaze, trained on a student, a gaze that says: Don’t you dare interrupt me! I swallow. Despite his thinness, his gaunt face, his bony cheeks, his effeminate gestures, there is something dreadful about this man. “My name is Mr. Black. I have no first name and the second is a lie. But it suits me well. Mr. Black. It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?” I immediately get the sense that this man enjoys the sound of his own voice. “Yes, a certain ring, lovely-sounding, soft on the ears. When I was very young, I learnt something exceptionally important about people. They are astoundingly easy to manipulate. I was bullied, of course, as all young geniuses are. That was before I took a Polaroid photograph of one of the bully’s mothers sleeping. I was worshipped after that.
“Anyway, that was how I made my name. I can play people like instruments. There are many ways for a man who knows how to play people to make money, sweet Felicity. Over time, I gathered . . . I guess who could call it a gang. But organization would be more apt. We call it the Agency. Just the Agency. Secrecy is important, you know. This Agency of mine operates very similarly to the mafia and the gangs on the streets, but we have no allegiance, except to money. Money, you under
stand, is the simplest thing there is. You earn it or you lose it, you save it or you waste it. Numbers tic up and down. Simple. Much simpler than decades-old feuds and blood rites and all that nasty business.”
“What does this—”
Mr. Black darts forward until he is an inch from my face. His cheeks tremble. He looks like he’s about to explode. Then the anger turns inward and he forces the snakelike smile back onto his face. “You would be wise to keep your mouth shut,” he says, taking a step back. He waves away the twins, who must’ve been about to attack me.
“If you must press the matter,” he sighs. “We are paid money by people who want other people killed. It’s very simple. That’s where your sweet Roma comes in. He told you he worked for your father, yes? That is a lie. I sent him here to save you so that your father would come out of hiding, so that Roma can kill him, as I ordered.”
He watches me for a long moment, eyes glistening hungrily. At first, I don’t register his words. He speaks quickly and in a singsong voice, a voice meant for lulling people to sleep. Then, slowly, his words sink into me. They filter through my mind, I close my eyes. Roma . . . sent to save me . . . to kill Dad. I swallow. A thousand blades cut against my throat. It can’t be true, I say. No—I think I say. I open my mouth but no words come out. But it’s Roma. But do you know him, really? a voice whispers. Do you know anything about him? You don’t even know his last name! I think about the way he stole that man’s car, the way he punched the tree, the absolute red-hot rage he displayed.
I am devastated to discover that it is not entirely unbelievable that a man like Roma could work for a man like Mr. Black.
But what about the kiss? The sex? The closeness?
I’m sure I didn’t imagine all of that.
“You’re lying,” I whisper, voice hoarse. It is only when I hear the crackle in my voice I realize tears are streaming down my cheeks.
“If only it were so,” Mr. Black smiles. “But no, Roma has worked for me this entire time. He purchased you with money I gave him. You see, he was too cheap to use his own funds. At no point has he cared for you, poor damsel. He is an Agency man, and Agency men care only for money.”
“Damn right,” one of the twins grunts.
“Hush,” Mr. Black says, pouting at one of them.
An innocent enough expression, but I’m sure I hear one of them gulp. They fear him. Those huge brutes fear him.
“But . . .”
The tears squeeze out with more force, sliding down my cheeks like rivers. I taste them on my lips, salty, tears of betrayal.
He fucked me and he was going to kill my father. He fucked me and he was going to ruin my life.
“There, there,” Mr. Black steps forward, unable to hide his giggling. “I do hate to see a lady cry.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. I make to step back, but he clamps onto me. “He betrayed you, sweet mademoiselle. Think of all the opportunities he’s had to come clean with you, but . . . Ah, did he? No, because he liked the look of those pert little titties too much.”
I cringe at his words. He giggles again, stepping back.
“Ah!” He claps his hands together. I feel like everything is happening around me, but not to me.
He betrayed me, I think, but not matter how many times I think it, it doesn’t seem true.
“Here he is now, your knight in shining armor!”
I turn and when I see him, I force myself not to gasp. He used you. He fucked you. He was going to ruin your life. But still, it’s difficult.
He is being carried between three men, his face a patchwork of blood and bruising. His clothes are covered in blood and when he breathes, it’s a deep wheezing noise. He just manages to look up at me. The men holding him—big brutes, just like the twins, one with a scarred face—exchange smiles.
“I’m . . .” His lips tremble and his head sags, eyes closing.
“Is he . . . dead?” My voice barely a whimper.
“That is of no concern of yours,” Mr. Black says. He presses the barrel of a gun into the small of my back. “I’ll deal with him later. Now, I have a car waiting. I trust you won’t be a nuisance. I would prefer you unharmed. You wouldn’t make very good bait covered in cuts and bruises, now, would you? But, alas, some of my men are not as noble as I, and that scar-face over there in particular can be an extremely nasty fellow.”
The scarred man grins at me, but the grin doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Let’s get you back to the States, sweet lady. Carry the cur, gentlemen. I want to have a little chat with him later. I’ve got this one.”
Numb, betrayed, and terrified, I have no choice but to let Mr. Black lead me to his car.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Felicity
For two days, I live in a world of darkness. I am moved from car to boat, from boat to plane, from plane to car, and finally from car into an elevator which descends deep into the earth. The elevator lurches as it goes farther and farther down.
Mr. Black has left me in the hands of his goons, but he ordered them not to touch me. And if I’ve learnt one thing over two days of listening to his men talk, it’s that they all fear Mr. Black. I’ve heard them say he can kill a man with the nod of his head. Judging by the ease with which he transported me from France to here—wherever here is—I believe them.
When the bag is pulled from my head, I squint against the light. It’s only a bulb which hangs from a loose wire, but to my eyes it’s an explosion. After a time, my sight begins to adjust. The bag has only been lifted over these past days to shovel food and water down my throat. Even when going to the toilet, it was with one of Mr. Black’s men propping me up. I blink twice, my eyes watering, and look around the room.
There isn’t much to see. A small rectangle of a cell with a thin-mattress bed, a sink, and a toilet. The air is thick and musty. I feel like I’m underground, like the entire weight of the ceiling could come crashing down at any moment. The cell door is made of solid metal, with a tiny slit at head-height and a trap door in the bottom, presumably for pushing food in.
I go to the slit and look out. One of Mr. Black’s goons stands outside. His face is much the same as the others, squashed and inscrutable, his arms huge. A scar runs from his neck up his chin and onto his lip. I wince as I imagine what could’ve caused such a mark.
“Hello,” I say.
He stares at the wall, not registering that I’ve spoken.
“Excuse me!”
Nothing.
“I’m talking to you!”
I might as well be shouting at a brick wall.
I retreat into the cell, flopping onto the bed.
Cogs within cogs turn in my mind.
I try to straighten my thoughts, but it’s difficult. My chest aches, but that has nothing to do with the way Mr. Black or his men have treated me. My chest aches when I think of Roma. Like it or not, I was falling for him. Falling hard. I slept and I dreamt of his eyes, his stern face, his handsome good looks, his capability, his strength, the security he seemingly gave me. I think of the sex and even now, despite everything, my body longs for the touch of his. I try to kill it. He betrayed you. The record is stuck in my mind and the words have no effect. He betrayed you! I know he deserves no excuses, and yet I try and find justification.
It’s his work. It’s who he is. Maybe he came onto the yacht with one intention and left with another. Maybe the smiles and the touching and the closeness and the sex are not meaningless. Maybe the love you felt blossoming inside of you was, truly, blossoming inside of him, too.
But even if that’s true, I can’t bring myself to let it go. Circumstances or not, the fact remains that the only reason he bought me on that wretched yacht was so he could kill my father. My father. The only parent I’ve ever truly known. A man who wants to do good in the world. The man who’s shown me so much love over the years. Dammit . . . my father!
Roma, I think. Who are you? Did you feel anything, ever? Or was it all a lie?
I can’t know, not here,
and it’s killing me. I force it aside. I can’t ignore the heartache, but I can focus on other things.
Like how the hell I’m going to get out of here, for one.
When it comes to that, I have nothing. At no point during the journey did I feel like there was a weakness in Mr. Black’s organization. I was handled carefully, but impersonally, the same way men would handle an expensive antique. Nobody showed me any sign that they pitied me, would want to help me. Perhaps I could kick the door down, with enough effort. I laugh grimly. Even if that was true, then what? That big brute out there isn’t exactly going to step aside and let me prance out of here.
I stand up, feeling restless. I want something to happen, something which would give me a chance to do something, anything. I hate feeling powerless. I didn’t even feel this powerless on the yacht. Terrified, sure, but not powerless. On the yacht, at least I had hope in the form of the stolen kitchen knife. At least I could tell myself: I’ll kill anybody who tries to touch me. Mr. Black’s men are a far cry from the clumsy, drugged-up, drunken Russians on the yacht. I haven’t heard any of these men slur their words. I haven’t sensed any lack of control in them.