by Box Set
“What?” I straighten my legs, pushing my top half out of the water so I’m sitting up. Canada? Toronto? I can’t have heard him right. He’s never sent me there.
Never sent me back there. My mind screams, betraying the barrier I’d solidified to keep that part of my past shrouded away.
Jorge doesn’t even bat an eye, not for my reaction or my nude form. He’s seen every inch of me and knows it all intimately even if not sexually. That was a whole different side of his training regimen. We’d never fucked—not in the literal sense, but that didn’t stop him from fucking with me to the point of pain.
“Miguel will be here at five am to drive you to the airport.” He pulls back the left side of his suit jacket and drops a zip-lock bag on the stool next to the tub. “Get your new persona together.”
“Yes, Sir,” I say automatically.
Cold and distant is nothing new for him. That’s just how he is, it’s not an act, but it is very intentional at times. He knows how his harsh tone heightens my need for his acceptance. How one tender moment can break me and make me yearn for the opportunity to please him. When I think about it logically, it doesn’t make sense. I understand the fucking psychology. I use it. It shouldn’t have that same effect on me, but it does. Every fucking time.
Something inside me, something logic and reason will never touch, wants to be more than the beautiful facade I’ve been crafted into.
When I think he will leave without another word, my lungs refuse to move, like they’ve been filled with cement instead of air. But, for a split second, his shoulders relax and the two wrinkles between his brows vanish. “Mi poco cierva,” he says softly, leaning down just enough to cup my cheek and trace his thumb just under my cheekbone. “No me falles de nuevo.” Don’t let me down again.
He straightens so quickly, it’s as if the movement pulls the air from my lungs, and suddenly, I’m all alone again. I don’t want to hate it, but I want my master’s acceptance again. His touch—although unforgiving—is the only one I know. And he’s been making a point of leaving me in the cold. Usually I can handle that too, but I don’t know how to navigate his increasing violence over details that don’t seem to make a difference. Something has him rattled. And I know if I fuck up again, it will be my end.
I reach for the bag and stare at the contents. A smart phone—like every other he’s given me, it will be equipped with a hidden app with everything I need. And official documents. As fucking official as it gets. My photo on a Toronto driver’s license and passport, and a birth certificate all bearing the name Carley Martin.
New me. Canadian citizen. Sometimes I wonder how Jorge comes up with such documents at the drop of a hat, but it wouldn’t be such a surprise if he had contacts in every government. Every embassy. Certainly he has one in nearly every major gang, cartel, syndicate. You name it.
He plays them all like a delicate game of chess. Sometimes I’m his queen, but usually, I feel more like a pawn. His only pawn. Expendable, even if rare and expensive to replace.
I’m who he wants me to be on any given night with little to no notice. Some would call my kind chameleon, others a fox, Jorge prefers his “poco cierva,” little doe. Soft, unassuming, deadly.
I reach forward to return the paperwork to the stool, but the pain catches in my back again, and for a long moment I can’t breathe. Something torn, pinched, broken, I don’t know, but it’s the price of failure.
Even though my failure wasn’t a “fail” in the literal sense. Jorge classifies failure as he sees fit. And when he does, it’s often followed by a blind rage that makes me long for the cold and distant.
I give the bag a toss, and it lands on the corner of the stool, balancing there while I sink into the water, letting what’s left of the heat ease my aches and pains for just a moment longer before it’s time to transform.
TORONTO
Staring up at the partially lit buildings against the evening’s threatening grey sky is like stepping into a dream world. There’s something familiar about it, even though it seems like I’ve never set foot in the city before. Maybe I haven’t. Maybe that life really didn’t exist.
The cab stops outside a fancy high-rise hotel. It’s fitting that Jorge would send me now, when it seems like he’s still trying to teach me a lesson. But what is this lesson? Why send me back to the place I once called home? In another life. I’d be hard-pressed to even consider that girl me.
I hand the driver a twenty from my pocket, knowing the fare has already been taken care of. “Thank you,” I mumble, grabbing the small bag I’d brought with me on the flight.
I walk straight to the front desk with my ID in hand. “Reservation for Carley Martin,” I say automatically. After several minutes and repeat failures at small talk on the part of the front desk clerk, I have my card key and I’m on my way up to my penthouse suite.
No luggage. No packages.
I plop onto the edge of the bed, exhausted by little sleep and the long, boring flight that made the hours of waiting in airport lobbies seem enthralling. I open my phone, expecting an update, but I find nothing there either. No orders. No information. This is not normal for Jorge. He makes the devil in the details look lazy and disorganized. But apparently, he’s pissed enough to send me in blind.
I rub my finger over the scar next to the base of my thumb, feeling the lump of the tracking device just below the skin. He leaves nothing to chance. I imagine this whole sit and wait thing is part of his plan, so I grab the hotel phone and dial room service. If he’s going to be a twat, I’m at least having an expensive meal on his dime.
After a large meal—at least half of which I didn’t even touch—and a long shower, I check the phone again. Still nothing.
Part of my brain screams that something is wrong, but I quickly silence it. Jorge is testing my loyalty. He wants to know I’ll follow his orders without question. Or maybe, he wants to show me what it’s like when he decides to leave me dangling. I’m certain there’s a lesson in it either way, so instead of focusing on that, I climb into the center of the bed, close my eyes, and focus on the silence and the steady rhythm of air passing through my lungs.
When someone knocks on the door, my heart rate quickens, and I roll off the bed and glance through the peephole, hoping it might be the rest of my supplies. A man in a suit with a hotel name-badge stands outside the door with a small box tucked against his side. Better than nothing.
“Carley Martin?” he asks.
I nod and hold out my hand for the box, slipping him the last of my small bills. “Thank you.”
The box is lighter than I expected, and as soon as the door is closed, I tear it open. Inside, I find a pair of red heels, with a matching clutch, lacy underwear, and a cocktail dress neatly rolled up so as not to wrinkle. Perfect.
As I unroll the dress, a slip of paper falls out. Be ready for your taxi at 8:00.
I glance at the clock as I carry my attire to the bed. 7:45. I rush to pull on the ensemble, twist my hair into a passable bun, and grab my makeup kit—I’d have to apply that on the ride over.
———
At eight on the dot, my taxi pulled up to the curb and whisked me away to a glowing nightclub on the outskirts of the Toronto entertainment district where I now stand under the blaring music, letting my eyes drift over the crowd. No one stands out, but I wish I had just an idea of what I’m supposed to be looking for. Usually by now, I have an entire dossier on my mark. Likes, dislikes, history, family, photos. The works. Usually, I know exactly what Jorge wants. Find the mark. Follow my orders.
But what are those orders now?
I smile as people pass, while I inwardly try to recognize their faces. I try to recognize anything that might jar my memory. Without one person to set my gaze on, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to focus. I shake my head and lift a glass off a passing tray when the waiter offers it. I don’t intend to drink it, but I need to blend in until I can figure out why I’m here.
What if I don’t figure
it out? My heart does a somersault.
The long sleeves of my dress cover my bruised arms, but I find myself tugging at them incessantly as the heat within the club seems to climb. I make my way around the exterior, where I find a flight of stairs that leads up to a loft area overlooking the party. It seems like a good place to wait things out until I can get my bearings.
Around me, I hear mixed conversations. Some in English. Many in French and Spanish. Possibly a spot of Arabic… Russian… A typical gathering as far as Jorge’s standards go, but the sensory overload makes it hard to sort through the noise. What has Jorge sent me into this time?
Jorge is a picky, finicky, paranoid man and he always knows exactly what he wants me to bring back. Whether I come back with more or less doesn’t matter if it doesn’t meet his very narrow expectations. I’ve learned to live with this. I’ve learned to master navigating his detailed needs. But I feel duller than the last time I set out into this world as if I haven’t fully found my way out of the darkness since Jorge’s last explosion.
As I navigate through the crowd toward the stairs, a man in a suit takes my right shoulder. “My boss would like to speak with you.”
“Sounds like a personal problem,” I say lifting my glass to my lips even though I have no intention of drinking. Whatever the reason for sending me here, it’s not in my playbook to go where they tell me when they tell me.
Hard to get is always more effective.
But is it even his boss I’m here for?
My gaze drifts back to the stairs, and I see a familiar figure descending. It can’t be. I narrow my eyes and focus on the balding, middle-aged man. He glances quickly in my direction, then disappears into the sea of bodies huddled in the center of the room.
Hostia puta. Holy fuck.
I move to follow, forgetting the man whose hand is still on my arm. When he doesn’t release me, I cock my head, looking him dead in the eye. “Pardon me.” I lift my shoulder and pull away from him, then raise my glass in a faux cheer as I back away and mix into the crowd.
I rush through the center of the room, carefully ducking around the tight groups of people, laughing, chatting, and sharing drinks and hors d'oeuvres until a shoulder collides with mine, sending my drink sloshing over the edges of the glass.
“Excuse me,” a man says with a thick Spanish accent, grabbing my arm to steady me. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice is deep, so deep, it’s as if the vibrations somehow reach my core. And although I heard every word, I find myself staring at him unable to answer. His face is chiseled and framed with long black hair, pulled back into a low ponytail, and a neatly trimmed beard. My gaze stops on the tattoo of a sparrow just under his collarbone, peeking out above the buttoned portion of his black shirt. For an instant, I think the tattoo moves, comes to life. Then, I blink.
“Estas bien?” he repeats, in Spanish this time. I certainly don’t remember so many people speaking Spanish here, but then again, I did for as long as I can remember. As did the man I think I’m chasing.
I narrow my eyes at him, reminding myself I speak English today. “I’m sorry,” I say, holding up my now half-empty glass. “It must’ve gone straight to my head.”
He nods, but doesn’t look entirely convinced. His brown eyes seem to look right through me instead.
Then, I catch the same familiar face over his shoulder again, ducking into a back hallway. “Excuse me,” I say, somehow finding my balance again. “Thank you for your concern, but I must catch up with an old friend.”
I hope that whatever my problem was has truly passed as I make my way through the crowd toward the hallway. I hand a waitress my half-empty glass and rub the back of my hand over my forehead. It comes away streaked with sweat and makeup. It must be at least ninety degrees in here. How can anyone stand to dance in this hellhole?
“Estás perdido?” Are you lost? A man asks, leaning against the far corner.
“Eh?” Shit. I quickly switch back to English hoping he didn’t notice. “I’m looking for the bathroom.”
A man brushes up against me from behind. “No one’s buying that, Poco Cierva.”
Little doe, Jorge’s name for me. I feel my thigh for the weapon I usually carry, but it isn’t there. Nothing. Nothing. I remember I’m unarmed.
His fingers brush my bare arms as he circles to my right. Then, one lone finger touches my skin, tracing over my collarbone from the base of my neck outward, pushing my hair over my shoulder. Then, he taps the underside of my chin for me to raise my head.
“I don’t—” I feign ignorance, but anyone who knows what Jorge calls me can’t be acting on intuition.
“Don’t,” he growls, shoving me backward with his mass.
“Can’t blame a girl for trying.” Somehow, I mutter the words, even though I can’t seem to find air in my lungs for anything else.
His stoic expression slides away, like a melting wax figure. He snaps at the man who’d been standing near the corner and I glance quickly over his shoulder to assess the situation. The lone man has multiplied, and at least six more wait at the opposite end of the hall. They all wear black trousers, adorned with fancy black leather belts, and topped with white tailored shirts.
I could fight the man closest to me. I could easily take him, but there are at least half a dozen men at either of my exits watching our every move, including the one who’d called me out by the stairs.
They out number me. No matter how I react, they're going to take me, and it won't be quick.
“Show us what you’ve got, zorra.”
Fox. Spy. My heart flutters in my chest, and I swallow hard, almost choking on my attempt not to show him my reaction. He doesn’t just suspect it. He doesn’t have a hunch that I can disprove or brush off. He knows, I’m a spy.
3
“Olvidado,” I say, my voice toneless and empty. Forgotten. The word had been ingrained in me since the moment I went into training for Jorge. Until it became automatic under duress. The only acceptable answer. The point in which I let my mind go blank. No one will get anything out of me. As much as they want it.
Its significance is ironic now.
My need for it would usually come with the insinuation I actually have the desired information. This time, they probably know more than I do. Unfortunately, they sure as hell aren’t going to believe my ignorance.
That ignorance is easily the most terrifying enemy I’ve ever faced. Worse than the cartel leaders I’ve been sent to seduce and kill, worse than the Barones I’ve been sent to collect information on, worse than their wives I’ve been sent to blackmail.
Worse than Jorge when I don’t come home with exactly what he wants.
I don’t know what I’m doing here, or—considering my lack of supplies and information—if backup even exists anymore. And I have nothing to leverage.
Which leaves me with two choices. One, put up a fight and let them start the inevitable torture with a beating. Or two, let myself be captured and maintain whatever physical and mental strength I have for as long as possible before I either escape, or I finally convince them to kill me.
I hold my arms out, slightly lifted from my sides, my empty palms flat, facing the man in front of me, and let the world fade to a dull grey where little they do will ever reach me. “Olvidado.”
One of the oddities in my world is that you seem far more suspicious for surrendering when surrounded by at least thirteen hostiles than if you just suck it up and fight the losing battle.
Hell, given the circumstances, I’d be suspicious of myself, but the whole thing makes for one lame standoff. They stand and wait, prolonging the inevitable.
“I’m unarmed,” I say. “What do you want?”
The man towering over me smirks. “Jorge said you wouldn’t crumble, although I expected more of a fight.”
“Yeah, well…” I shake my head. “I’m smart enough to know when the odds aren’t in my favor.”
He growls, pushing me backward into the wall. “You know it’s not goin
g to be that easy.”
I feel a sharp pinch in my hip and gasp.
His left eye twitches as he steps back and raises his hand. His knuckles leave nothing to mercy as they connect with my cheekbone. Whipping me sideways as everything flashes black for a millisecond. “Nochnaja babochka.”
Russian? Hooker. I draw back unconsciously. Spanish, Russian, he knows Jorge, he knows me. And I don’t know jack shit other than I’m screwed.
“Olvidado,” I scream back at him. I shouldn’t be so angry. I shouldn’t be letting emotions take over my thoughts. I should already be in my blank space, but my mind dances and skitters around like a restless animal.
He grabs me by the throat, lifting me to the tips of my toes as he shoves me backward, into reach of several of his men. “Olvidado? Poco zorra, I’m intimately familiar with training your kind, but breaking you will be far more fun.” His eyes narrow, searching down my throat, my chest, my center…. For what?
Ironic, isn’t it? I’m trained to profess my ignorance to death to protect my master, and the one time my ignorance is real, there’s no one under the sun who would believe me. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know what this man wants. Who he is. And if he doesn’t kill me, Jorge will.
“Do what you will,” I say with what little room he gives me to breathe.
He shoves me back and two sets of hands grab my arms, another yanks a fabric hood over my head, pulling the fabric tight around my neck until I choke. White patches flash in my eyes as my body struggles for air. Then I feel another pressure on my neck.
Nothing.
———
I wake to the sound of a bone-gnawing scream. It’s not until I feel the pain in my throat that I realize I’m the one doing the screaming.
Someone smacks my face. “Silence. I haven’t done anything to you, yet.”