A Spy Is Born

by Emily Kimelman

  Dropping my hold on the ankle, I jump onto Red’s back. She’s warm between my thighs, her waist narrow and hard. The woman is made of muscle. I grab a fistful of curls and, yanking hard, force her into a backbend before slamming her face into the tile floor.

  Blood explodes from her nose, flowering across the white tile, and she goes still. Where electric energy raged seconds ago now is dead space… like when the lights go out on a stage: brightness to blackness in a split second.

  I grab my bag from her loose fingers and stand up, my feet on either side of her waist, my breath coming in heaving pants. She’s not moving at all.

  I use my sneaker to roll her over. A shiver of disgust races over me, and my stomach flips. Her eyes are open, staring up at me, unseeing.

  I killed her.

  Chapter Ten

  My eyes jump from Red’s destroyed face, hopping around the room like terrified bunnies. They land on a maintenance room door and freeze.

  Put her in the closet and get out. Now.

  What about the blood?

  One step at a time.

  I cross to the closet door and rip it open. Brooms, mops, extra paper towels and toilet paper. A sign that reads “Closed for cleaning” in several languages.

  I pull that out first and step to the entrance door. It’s locked. Red must have done that when she came in. My hands shake as I open it. A breath of fresh air flows in. Smelling of carpeting and normal life, it brings tears to my eyes.

  I slip the sign onto the outside handle and lock the door again, sealing myself in with the blood and the death. I return my attention to the body on the floor.

  This makes three people who died at my hand. Three!

  There is no time to think about that now.

  Lips pressed tight, eyes avoiding Red’s mangled face, I grasp her under the arms and drag her to the closet, laying her torso against the shelving and then pushing her legs in. Do not cry. Do not cry.

  One last thing to do. I grab a mop, wet it in the sink and then proceed to remove every trace of blood from the sparkling white floor.

  Lurching into the hallway outside the bathroom, I stumble against the far wall. The sign on the door sways as the door swings shut.

  My purse gripped tight in my fist, I push off the wall and start back toward the lounge. There is blood on my shoulder. My hair is loose from the bun it had been in. I look a wreck. I can’t go out there like this.

  The family bathroom is to my right. I step into it and lock the door, closing my eyes against the florescent lights. I'm shaking.

  I don’t have time for this.

  Forcing calm, I step up to the mirror. There is a bruise blooming on my chin and a blood-stained tear in my shirt on my right shoulder. I delicately pull the fabric apart; there is a stab wound from her stiletto oozing blood.

  Grabbing paper towels, I wad them up and press them to my shoulder, hissing at the pain the pressure brings. Pain is screaming to life all over my body as the adrenaline drains away. I pull the paper towels away, and they are bright red, the wound still bleeding.

  Crud, crud, crud. How am I going to explain this to Julian? Would they even let me on the plane looking like this?

  Sing. I open my purse with my free hand, keeping the other pressed to the wound. Pulling out my phone and wallet, I find his card and dial the number. It rings twice before he picks up.

  "It's Angela," I say, my voice coming out breathless.

  "Angela, I didn't expect to hear from you."

  "I'm having some trouble at the airport..." Was it safe to say anything over this line? Why the hell didn't Temperance give me more information—a better way to reach out for help? Because I'm not going to get any. I shake my head, pushing away the paranoid thought.

  "At the airport," Sing says. "Your flight is in about an hour, right?"

  "Yes, but..."

  "It's okay," he says, low. "This is a secure line."

  My shoulders relax. "I just got attacked in the bathroom of the first-class lounge. On the far side of freaking security!" I bite my lip as emotion wells again.

  "Oh," Sing says.

  A long silence follows. Long enough for me to find my gaze in the mirror, look at the wad of red paper towels at my shoulder, and see the mark on my chin darkening into a hell of a bruise. "Sing," I finally say, prompting him. "I need some help here. I look like I’ve been in a bloody fight. And…” I drop my voice to a low whisper. “There is a body in the maintenance closet.”

  "I can send someone." He sounds way too calm. Like this happens all the time. It probably does. There is a shadowy world filled with spies—good guys and bad gals—waging a war under the surface of our calm society. “Tell me precisely where you are."

  I tell him, and he hangs up.

  I sit down on the closed toilet and put my head between my knees, just breathing.

  What did I sign up for?

  My phone buzzes. It's Julian. He must be worried about me. I send him to voicemail and then type a text. There is a woman getting sick in the bathroom; I'm helping her.

  Doesn't that just make me sound sweet?

  Okay, he writes back. Let me know if you need anything.

  Returning to the mirror, I pull out my makeup bag and start to work on the bruise on my face. A knock at the door jerks my head up. "Cleaning service," a perfect American accent says.

  My heart thundering hard enough that I can feel fresh blood pooling to the surface of my wound, I stand and creep to the door. I throw away the bloodied paper towels and take a deep breath, putting my purse back over my chest.

  Unlocking the door, I tense, ready for another attack. The woman is petite, barely five feet tall, and waif thin, with long black hair and a serious expression.

  She pushes into the bathroom then closes and locks the door, her gaze raking me up and down. She turns to the sink and puts a case on the counter next to it. "Take off your shirt," she says.

  I don't move as she opens the bag and begins to pull out instruments in sterile packaging. She comes prepared.

  Throwing a look over her shoulder, she says it again. “Take off your shirt."

  This time I start to move, gingerly unbuttoning the blouse and hissing as I pull it off my shoulder, keeping my purse strap over my body. The woman points for me to sit down on the toilet.

  I sit, exhaustion beginning to take over my limbs. She stands in front of me, wearing latex gloves, and starts to clean the wound. "I'm going to stitch you up," she says.

  "I need stitches?” I ask stupidly. Obviously I need stitches.

  "Yes."

  "My…boyfriend will notice," I say.

  Her eyes meet mine. "You shouldn't have a boyfriend." She says it simply, matter of factly.

  My mouth opens a little in surprise. "Excuse me?" I say, pulling on my cloak of queendom.

  "You wouldn't have to explain this to him if you didn't have him in your life."

  I don't argue with her, just narrow my eyes. I can have my boyfriend and eat my cake too, lady.

  She pulls out a hypodermic syringe and, without even a this will only pinch for a second warning, stabs me in the shoulder. I wince, but it's over quickly, and a wonderful numbness spreads from the injection point. She begins to stitch me up.

  My phone buzzes again. Everything okay? Julian writes. They’re boarding our flight.

  Yes, out in a few, I write back.

  The woman ties off the stitches and cleans around the wound before putting a bandage on it. "There," she says, turning back to her bag. "Anything else?”

  "My ankle hurts," I say. She steps back and I raise it up. She holds my sneaker in her hand and examines the ankle. It's only slightly swollen. Feeling it with deft fingers she nods to herself.

  "Just a mild sprain. You'll be fine."

  She turns back to her bag and pulls out a black cashmere sweater. It will look great with my jeans. I can tell Julian that the woman in the bathroom got sick on me.

  I pull the sweater over my head, feeling the stitche
s pull. How the hell am I going to explain the puncture wound in my shoulder?

  "Go," the woman says. "You can't miss your flight."

  "What about…the person who attacked me?”

  She meets my gaze, her expression calm, but bright. “Everything will be arranged.”

  A shiver runs over me, and I sense that I am in a small, rickety rowboat—the water looks calm, but underneath me, beasts battle.

  The airplane doors close right after we settle into our individual pods. I sink into the seat and take a deep breath. Julian leans across the aisle. "You okay?" he asks again.

  I nod. "Yes, I'm fine," I give him a tired smile, like I’m a Good Samaritan who just had to help an ailing traveler, not a secret agent who just killed someone in the ladies room. "I feel bad for the woman."

  Julian nods, brow serious—he’s concerned for her too. “I hate stomach bugs.”

  An image of Red pushed into the closet, her broken face and unseeing eyes tilted toward her chin, sends a wave of disgust over me. One more harmless nightmare? Like Vlad convulsing on the dance floor and Jack’s teeth on my breasts…

  The flight attendant approaches, interrupting my train of thought. "Can I get you two anything before we take off?" she asks.

  Julian orders himself a glass of wine, and I get a seltzer…"Wait," I say. The woman turns, her elegantly arched brow raised. "I'll take a brandy, too.”

  “I have a nice cognac.” She leans toward me a little. “Basically the same thing,” she almost whispers. What a fantastic cap to this day. Clearly I so belong here. The flight attendant moves off and Julian gives me a smile. The rumble of the engine vibrates up through my seat.

  I may not know the difference between cognac and brandy but I survived.

  Drink in hand, I begin to relax as the plane speeds down the runway and lifts into the sky. This wasn’t a nightmare. This happened. An assassin attacked me, and I killed her. Jack attacked me, and I killed him. I’m the one who lives.

  The apartment is empty when I get home, everything is where I left it, as far as I can tell. Archie is at Mary’s, and I'll pick him up later, but right now I need a shower. Dropping my bags on the bed, I move through to my bathroom and strip.

  Holy crap.

  A fresh layer of makeup and the dim light in the plane had kept the darkening of my chin hidden on the flight home. Now, in full daylight, I can see it clearly under the foundation. It's going to be a bitch to cover up as it changes color and will take weeks to fade.

  The press rollout for the film is done, but I'm sure Mary will want me at meetings. Maybe I can tell her I need a vacation. That sounds so nice…just going away. Archie and me in a convertible, a scarf fluttering behind me as we race up the California Coast.

  My hip is a mottled storm cloud of bruising. And as I peel off the bandaging on my shoulder, I discover red swollen skin around the stitching.

  I still have the pen.

  What am I supposed to do with that? And what is stopping Red’s friends—whoever they are--from coming after me? Should I go stay in a hotel? I need to reach Temperance.

  Steam from the shower curls around me, fogging the mirror and hiding my reflection behind misty gauze. My grandmother, holding a broom, reaching onto her tiptoes to knock down a spider web—the delicate artistry clumping around the worn wood handle—flashes across my mind

  A sound in my bedroom shoots adrenaline into my system. There is someone in here.

  Stepping silently to the bathroom door, I turn the lock, tensing at the sound. “Angela.” It’s Temperance calling out to me. My shoulders relax, but the adrenaline is still spiraling. His footsteps reach the closed door. “Angela,” he calls louder. “I’ve been knocking."

  “You should wait outside until someone answers,” I try to put bite into my words but they come out shaky. Crap, I can do better than this. “I was about to get in the shower.” That’s closer—higher octaves, steadier tone. “Give me two minutes."

  “I’ll wait in the living room,” he says.

  Turning off the water, I grab a robe and wrap it around my naked body, slipping on a pair of clean panties as I move through the bedroom.

  Temperance is waiting on my couch, all relaxed male, legs wide, phone in his hand. He’s wearing a sport coat over a T-shirt and dark jeans. “Are you okay?" he asks, those tiger eyes of his locking on to the bruise on my face.

  "I survived," I say, indignation starting to bubble. "But I did get attacked. What the hell, Temperance? How did that woman know who I was or what I was carrying? I don't even know what I was carrying!"

  Temperance is unfazed by the sudden hysteria creeping into my voice. "Give me the pen,” he says, slipping his phone into his jacket pocket.

  “That’s all you have to say to me?” Now there are tears in my voice. Great. “I killed her.” The words come out on a whisper—almost an accusation. He made me kill her.

  His gaze remains even, tempered… his mother named him well. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” He doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds bored. Like murder is nothing to him.

  But it’s not nothing to me. “And Vladimir?” Is it really three?

  Temperance stands, moving slowly, like I’m an injured animal he hit with his car that he doesn’t want to frighten further—I might hurt myself trying to escape from him. “Where is the pen?”

  I gesture back to the bedroom where I dropped my purse on the duvet. He gives a small wave of his hand, indicating I should go get it. Temperance follows me and watches as I unzip my purse and reach into the interior pocket, pulling the slim, black pen from inside. Anger rises in me again.

  "Here's your stupid pen," I say, all I'm an angry toddler.

  He takes it from me and slips it into an interior pocket. "You were injured?"

  "Yes." I pull my robe aside, exposing the puckered, stitched wound.

  His eyes narrow, and he leans closer, his breath not quite hitting the wound, but the nearness of him raising goosebumps none the less. "Not that bad," he says.

  I pull the robe closed and step back. “Good that you don't wear a lot of strapless gowns. This is going to leave a scar." Anger is really gurgling now. This guy is messing with my life. I could have died! I killed a woman.

  "You did well," Temperance says, his voice low.

  I open my mouth and close it again, clenching my jaw. "I don’t want to do this anymore," I grind out.

  He raises one eyebrow at me. "That's not an option."

  "Yes, it is. I just won't answer your calls," I'm making this up as I go along. "And I won’t do what you ask. Seems pretty simple to me."

  "That's not how it works."

  "Really? Because I'm not interested in dying, or getting any more scars." I lower my voice. “Or killing anyone else.”

  "I'll have a doctor—a plastic surgeon—come over and look at that." Temperance’s eyes focus on my shoulder.

  I stamp my foot in a pathetic attempt to make him listen to me…to gain some power. My anger and exhaustion have handed him all the cards. Or maybe fate dealt Temperance all the aces—I never had a choice in this, and I still don't.

  Depression, a stifling fog, surrounds me, and I slump under its arrival.

  "Don't worry, you'll be safe here,” Temperance says, his eyes scanning my bedroom.

  "How can you say that?" I ask, all the anger leached away by the sadness. "Someone knows who I am, and that I'm working for you. If they can get to me in a secure airport lounge, they can get to me anywhere. I don't even know what I'm doing, but others—killers—do."

  The skin around his eyes tightens. “Yes, but they wanted the pen. And you don’t have it anymore. So you’re safe.” For now.

  "The pen has something to do with Vladimir?"

  "You're better off not knowing."

  "Really? That's funny. Because if I had known I was in danger, maybe I would have been a little more prepared."

  His gaze returns to mine. “Assume you're in danger then."

  Oh, that’s comfo
rting. Hallmark should give this guy a show.

  Temperance's hand lands on my good shoulder. "I'll get the plastic surgeon over here this afternoon. Don't worry, the scar won't hurt your career. You'll have some calls this week. Your next big role is coming soon."

  "I'd like to be alone," I say, my voice wooden. I'm too tired for this.

  Temperance steps back. "You did great," he says again, before turning to the door. I don't respond, just listen as he leaves, the front door automatically locking behind him. Taking a deep breath, I put the chain on before heading back to the bathroom for that shower.

  All I want is to climb into bed and cry, but that's not me. I'm going to shower, then I'm going to pick up Archie…and I'm going to buy a freaking gun.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sweat beads on Temperance’s forehead, dripping down his temple. His eyes are bright, hypnotic. I can't reach him. Searing pain lances through my shoulder, and I wake with a start, twisted in my sheets, damp from my own sweat. The light in my bedroom is the gray mist of dawn.

  Archie stirs in his cage, flopping over so that his collar jangles against the metal. I should have taken it off last night.

  My breath is evening out. The dream is fading quickly. I reach to my side table, feeling for the pistol I bought. I've got a lesson this afternoon. My eyes catch on the alarm clock. It's 5:45 a.m. I roll away from the window and close my eyes, but my heart is still hammering, and there is no way I'm going to sleep again.

  So I grab my phone and check it. There is a text from Julian; it came in at midnight. He wants to see me today. I bite my lower lip. I've been avoiding him for the past week as my shoulder healed, but it's doing a lot better now, and I can just lie about it. The plastic surgeon Temperance sent to me suggested I say that I had a mole removed.

  The thought churns my stomach. I don’t want to lie to Julian. In the dusty light of dawn, with the memories of my dreams swirling, I can admit that I really like Julian. He's gorgeous, fun, attentive and great in bed. What's not to like?

  He's a movie star with more notches on his bedpost than Don Juan.