Without missing another beat, I start off after him.
The bathroom is long and luxurious, with mirrors all along the wall with the sinks. The lone sound of urination tells me that I’m fortunate enough to be alone with Jean. Quietly, I slip out my wire and keep it tight in one hand, moving to one of the sink mirrors to pretend to be adjusting my collar.
Jean finishes relieving himself and goes to wash his hands, the water creating some white noise in the long bathroom. As he does, I see him glance over at me.
“Fine wine,” he remarks curtly, “a rare thing in this country.”
“Very,” I reply, chuckling lightly and stepping in his direction as if headed to the urinal myself, “rare as a talented young dancer from Yakutsk.”
In the mirror, I see Jean’s brow furrow as he digests what I’ve said, and in half a breath, I bring the garroting wire around his neck and yank back tight.
“I have a message from a loving mother,” I growl into his ear in my lightly accented English as the wire digs into the skin of his neck, and I see him try to shout something as he watches his face turning purple in the mirror, arms flailing uselessly.
I pull the wire tighter around his neck much harder than usual as the thought of Cassie in Sonya’s place flashes into my mind. Jean’s body is lithe, but he’s out of practice. I was expecting more of a fight from him, and after only a short time, I feel his body go limp, eyes rolling up into the back of his head as I let him gently to the ground on the bathroom floor.
With white-gloved hands, I drag the strangled man to the handicap bathroom stall and set him up on the toilet. That should buy me all the time I need to slip out of the building. I lock the door on the inside and crawl out under the door.
I adjust my tie, checking myself over for blood in the mirror. I’m clean. There’s always a certain weight off my shoulders just after the job is complete. After that point, all I need to worry about is the getaway. After checking over the sinks for stray hairs I might have dropped, I start to head for the bathroom door.
Then I hear a sound that makes my blood curdle.
A choked voice croaks something out in French from the bathroom door. “Brother...murder... the Russians…”
As soon as I hear the voice, I sprint back to the stall, sliding under the door with practiced dexterity, my heart pounding a thousand beats a minute.
To my horror, Jean is holding a cell phone to his ear, his face still swollen and blood trickling out his mouth as he gets a message out, bloodshot eyes staring straight into me.
Springing to my feet, I deliver a swift strike to his neck that ends the last sliver of life in his cold heart, and the phone clatters to the ground.
I hear a voice crying something from the other line in alarm. “Jean?! Jean! What’s happening?” Before another word comes out, I crush the phone under my heel.
Shit.
I crouch down and put my fingers to Jean’s neck, checking his pulse. Nothing. Crawling out from under the stall again, I make my way out the door and take a walk that feels far longer than it is down the stairs and out the doors of the Metropolitan Opera House, knowing that every second I lingered now put me closer to being caught.
Some time later, I’m back at my apartment, slipping in as quietly as I exited.
My heart calmed itself long ago; I’d had to learn to become adept at maintaining composure even in the midst of disasters like that. But while I manage to keep panic away, the fury I feel at myself for making such a slip-up is unmitigated.
One more second, and I’d have been out of that room. Jean would have survived, and I would be exposed.
I recognized the name on the phone Jean had uttered his last words into. It was his brother, a lesser known but well-off gentleman back in France. I’d have to do some careful research on him, but the name alone doesn’t send off any alarms. But no matter what, when the investigation starts, the police will have a lead.
I’m going to have to grease some palms in the NYPD to take the heat off me.
As I slip out of the ridiculous outfit I had to don for the evening, I stare out the windows in the living room, watching the city skyline in the distance.
Does being so cold really define my skill?
I was distracted by the thoughts of the bed I shared with Cassie earlier today, that much was without question. But putting that man down after he had been allowed to victimize a woman not at all unlike my new wife, knowing that I was saving Sonya’s life by my actions...I felt a unique purpose in executing Jean Bouchard that was new to me entirely.
I’ve defined my career by my coldness. Just a killer from Siberia, I’ve been a lone attack dog for so long. But how long can I be so detached? How long before I’m called upon to take another life like the one I spared in the beach house?
The last of my clothes stripped from my body, I quietly get into bed alongside Cassie. Unconsciously, she presses herself into me as I take up space on the bed, her body warming my side as I get comfortable.
I pause for a moment, then slip my arm around her, and she murmurs quietly in her sleep.
No. I can’t be cold forever.
I cannot continue as a mere killing machine when there are men alive in the world of the kind that would sell women like cattle. Who would push them to the limits of their lives for prestige.
Who would buy a young woman like Cassie.
My hand clenches around the sheets briefly as I remind myself of my own complicity, and I glance at the outline of Cassie in the dark.
I can tell myself I’m better than some other dreg all I want, but I still bought this woman. So if I am to be her husband, I’m going to bring her every pleasure I can afford her. If her sweetness was what affected my work so dramatically, I will make it grow and thrive.
And if I’m truly sick of working for the lowest of the low in this city, maybe this fire will let me bring some justice to those who have it coming.
Cassie
A sliver of fading moonlight through the lightly billowing curtains falls across my face, waking me up sometime before dawn. Once again, my half-asleep brain expects me to be in my twin bed back in upstate New York, waiting for my mother to knock on my door and get me up to make breakfast. But I don’t hear anything but the constant hum of life from the city streets several stories down. Even in the near-total darkness, my eyes begin to adjust to the lack of light. I glance sidelong at the curtained window and see the faintest glow of moonlight mingled with neon lights and sleepless billboards, night-shift workers working by lamplight through wide, executive windows. Then my eyes turn to the space beside me in the massive bed,
There is a solid few inches of clear space between my body and the one next to me, and I realize with a jolt that I have tangled myself up in the entire blanket, leaving my new husband’s shirtless body completely uncovered. He’s obviously made no attempt to steal the sheets from me, letting me sleep comfortably while goosebumps rise along his limbs from sleeping in the cool air without a blanket. And the space between us sends a little vibration of appreciation through me, as it occurs to me that he has been lying perfectly straight and still, nearly on the edge of the bed, just so that he wouldn’t touch my sleeping body and wake me up.
Or perhaps, a cruel voice in the back of my head suggests, he is just so repulsed by me that he doesn’t want to brush up against me in the night.
I shake myself internally of that thought. He has married me. He has chosen me. So he must really want me — right? Then the events of last night come rushing back to me in a series of rapid-fire images and sound bytes: his face between my legs, my own cries of astonished pleasure, his words to me, low and possessive.
I want you.
I swallow hard, my eyes lingering on the chiseled outline of Andrei’s muscular stomach and chest. Last night I didn’t get to see any of this, the hard abdominals and rock-hard chest, his bulging biceps and solid jawline. The soft, dim light plays along the contours of his handsome face. Even in sleep, his expression is cold
and hard. I almost want to reach out and touch his full, sensual lips, run my finger along his straight nose and heavy brow. I want to smooth away the slight worry lines and convince his beautiful mouth to smile.
But instead, I slowly sit up in bed and look down at myself.
I have to suppress a gasp at the sight of my totally naked body.
I cannot believe I have slept next to a man in the same bed without any clothes on! My mother would be so disappointed, my father enraged! But then, I think bitterly, they are the ones who forced me into a smelly basement in only my underwear, surrounded by revolting men.
Except for one man. The one who saved me.
Or did he? Perhaps he was just another bidder, surveying me like a customer at the butcher, appraising each pound of flesh with a detached hunger...
Biting my lip, I feel a lump rising in my throat and tears stinging in my eyes again. It isn’t fair. All the other girls in the congregation have been married off to men we all knew. Upright, conservative, godly men who wore khakis and sweaters and sang in the choir. Men who would surely avert their eyes and condemn the very sort of meat market I was pushed into. I’ve spent my entire life waiting for my Prince Charming, and now I’m stuck with this dark, ominous man I first saw in a dark and terrifying basement. This is not at all how I envisioned my life.
Getting out of bed carefully so as not to wake Andrei, I quietly pad out of the room, searching for a bathroom. When I walk into the living room, my stomach drops as my eyes land on the huge, floor-to-ceiling window across the room. A flash of last night invades my brain and I recall the cold glass against my spine, my new husband kneeling between my thighs, his tongue eliciting such sensations from my nether parts that I never thought possible.
I shudder to myself, thinking of how many transgressions against God I have made in this past week alone. Naked in front of men. Impure thoughts. Resentment toward my mother and father. Forgetting to pray. Marrying a man who doesn’t seem to be of my faith…
One solitary, insistent tear finally escapes to roll down my cheek as I fumble for the bathroom door handle. Pushing inside, I pat at the wall in the darkness until I find the light switch and flip it up. My mouth falls open the second the light illuminates the room.
This is the biggest, most luxurious bathroom I have ever seen.
My eyes must be the size of saucers as I walk slowly around the room, my hands roving over every polished edge. This bathroom is bigger than my bedroom back home, with the bricked left and right walls lined by gray stone counters, deep marble sinks, and brushed metal finish, with mirrors perched over the length of the counters. The floor is made up of some kind of dark gray stone, cut irregularly to give it a natural, outdoorsy look. The light fixture above my head, in the center of the ceiling, is a heavy-looking, impressive candle chandelier. At the end of the room is an elaborate stone shower with multiple spigots and a massive, deep bathtub big enough to comfortably fit at least three people.
Not that three people should ever sit in a bath together.
With awe, I walk over to the bathtub and, after having to examine it for a couple minutes to figure out how it works, I turn both spigots to start the flow of water. I search under the counters and find a stack of neatly-folded, fresh-smelling black towels. This is the warmest room in the apartment so far, in both temperature and ambiance. I wonder if Andrei ever uses this bathtub, or if he is strictly a showering kind of man. It is difficult to picture him sinking into a bubble bath, that hard body and solemn face sinking in among the floral-scented bubbles.
A smile twitches at my lips, but fails to follow through.
To my dismay, I am unable to find any bubble bath, anyway. So I settle for a hot, bubble-less bath, taking a bar of very standard, utilitarian soap from the shower. It looks like the kind of soap one would use to remove excessive gunk, as for someone with a very dirty, grimy job. My mother used to buy soap similar to this for my little brother, as he was a particularly messy child, always jumping into mud puddles and playing with bugs. A twinge of heartbreak hits me then, imagining Isaiah with dirt smeared across his chubby cheek, a mischievous grin on his lips, revealing a gap where his two front baby teeth fell out.
I sink into the bath and splash my face with hot water, letting it mix with my tears. I miss him more than anything else. I wish so badly I could run to his room and hug him, read him his favorite passages, tickle him and make him burst into those infectious peals of laughter I love so much. Under our roof, there was always an air of sternness, of still and slightly oppressive calm. But Isaiah broke the silence — he was loud, he was rambunctious, and he injected some much-needed joy into our household.
I miss him dearly. I wonder to myself who will hug him and swing him around now? Who will make him grilled cheese sandwiches and read nursery rhymes in silly voices? I know my mother loves him, and she will keep him properly fed and clothed and cared for, enough to maintain his health and appearance. But she is not particularly affectionate. Isaiah is a difficult child at times, and I worry that she will not be able to tame him on her own, or that my father will step in to beat him into shape.
The thought almost makes me want to jump out of the bath and run all the way back to upstate New York and scoop Isaiah up in my arms, keep him safe.
But I know that isn’t an option. I am a married woman now, at eighteen years old, and I cannot play caretaker to my baby brother anymore. I have someone else to care for and attend to — my husband. I only wish I knew how to do that.
He is so strong and silent that I wonder if he even has needs. Surely he feels lonely sometimes, living all alone in this big, beautiful apartment, in this relentless and anonymous city. But he seems so put-together. How can I possibly contribute to his lifestyle in any meaningful way? He appears, for all intents and purposes, to be doing perfectly well without me. As far as I know, he doesn’t have a maid or a cook or anyone to keep his home for him. I am shocked at the idea of a man taking care of his own home without a woman’s help.
And the apartment is flawless! All my life I have been trained to cook, clean, and serve. But how can I do any of those things where they aren’t needed or even requested?
But then, I remind myself darkly, there are other needs a man must satiate.
Ones that I have not been educated about at all.
I can clean a house, cook a meal, and wait on a man hand and foot but I don’t know the first thing about pleasing a man… sexually. And last night, I never even got the chance. Or did I? A feeling of shame and regret passes over me. It was our wedding night and I was the only one who had received any pleasure! And my pleasure is irrelevant! A woman is not meant to feel such ecstasy — it is her duty to serve, not to be serviced! Perhaps I only misread the signals, missed my cue. Maybe Andrei was hoping I would return the favor somehow, instead of lazily letting him do all the work.
My first night as a wife and I was already drenched in failure!
I cover my face with my hands and cry, letting the pent-up emotions finally bubble out of me, the tears streaking down my knuckles and into the bath water. I sit that way for quite some time, my shoulders shaking, my knees pulled to my chest, my long blonde hair floating like a massive halo around me in the water.
“What’s the matter?” asks a deep, throaty voice from the doorway.
Startled, I let out a gasp and wrap my arms around my knees, trying unsuccessfully to cover my exposed body in the bath. Andrei is standing near the door, even taller and broader than I remember. His black hair is slightly ruffled from sleep and his eyes have the faintest of dark half-moons below them. There’s stubble shadowing his jaw and his muscles ripple as he moves toward me slowly, with some trepidation.
“I — I hope I didn’t wake you,” I reply weakly, my voice thin and warbling from tears.
He stops suddenly and cocks his head ever so slightly, surveying me with an expression bordering almost on pity. I can see a flash of something like regret flicker in his eyes. Then he averts his gaze and kee
ps walking closer.
“You didn’t,” he answers simply, refusing to look at me even as he sits down on the edge of the bathtub. He passes a large hand back over his hair and lets out a heavy sigh. Then he asks, with genuine concern, “Why are you crying?”
“It’s nothing,” I assure him, hastily wiping my face. “I’m alright. Just washing off.”
He starts to turn his eyes toward me again, then stops and shuts them. “May I — may I look at you?” he asks gruffly.
My heart swells a little at how gentlemanly he is. The rush of sudden affection I feel causes my lips to form the word, “Yes.”
With that, Andrei turns to fix his eyes on mine, his nearly-black gaze locking on me. To my surprise, I don’t feel ashamed to have him look at my naked body curled up like this. There is no cruelty, no disgust, no admonishment in his expression. He simply looks at me like I am fully-clothed, like I’m a regular person deserving of respect.
“I guess I’m a little homesick,” I admit finally.
Andrei nods slowly.
“I understand that,” he replies after a long pause.
I tilt my head to the side and, without thinking about it much, I reach for his hand. He doesn’t seem to mind that my hand is wet and pruny as he takes it in his.
“Where is your home?” I press, truly interested. I wonder what kind of land must produce a man like Andrei, all rugged lines and dark countenance.
“Siberia,” he answers.
I can feel my eyes growing large at this answer. I remember seeing the wide expanse of Siberia on world maps in my geography textbooks. It’s always been a total mystery to me, and in fact, I didn’t know that anyone really lived there. I’ve generally assumed it to be inhabited only by the occasional bear or reindeer.
“Really?” I ask breathlessly, staring up at him expectantly.
“I come from the coldest region inhabited by mankind,” he says.
Sights on the SEAL: A Secret Baby Romance Page 22