by D. N. Leo
She shoved the cigarette back into his hand. “This is the last one of the month.”
Lorcan smiled. “That’s negotiable.” He lit his cigarette and took a drag. He glanced back at Orla and saw that she stood next to the van, holding the kitten. Through the screen of smoke he exhaled, she was beautiful—tall, lean, milky skin, big dark eyes, full of secrets. “You’re not taking the cat back in there, are you?”
“Of course. He needs his mother,” Orla deadpanned and left with the cat in one hand and a carry bag in the other. Lorcan shook his head. He squashed his cigarette on the ground and followed her.
A moment later, Lorcan was helping Orla climb in from a window at the back door of the building. He had managed to cut off the security system at that end of the building.
“Are you sure? It can’t be that easy to enter this building,” Orla whispered.
“Well, the guy isn’t exactly a high-profile drug lord. I think he’s just an ordinary rich guy.”
“Ordinary rich guys don’t collect multi-million dollar antique collections without putting decent security systems in place to protect them.”
“Maybe my skills make all security systems look ordinary then.”
“I like that explanation better.”
They entered a wider hall way that led to the collection room. The kitten trailed right behind Orla. It paused and hissed. In front of them was the collection room, trashed. Blood was everywhere. The body of an old man was on the floor in a pool of his own blood. A few feet away was the body of the mother cat.
The kitten kept hissing. Orla picked it up. “Shhh, it’s okay darling. We’ll take care of you.” She slid the cat inside her carry bag, where it stayed still and stopped hissing.
Lorcan checked the man. “He’s dead. We have to get out of here, Orla. Don’t leave anything that might incriminate us.”
“We’re here already. He’s dead. He doesn’t need that vase anymore. We might as well take the merchandise for the client.”
“Jesus Christ, Orla.”
“It won’t take long.” Orla darted to the secured cabinet. She put her gloves on and worked on the lock. In a few minutes, she had the cabinet opened. Inside the cabinet was a large vase, prominently placed in the middle. It was too large to fit in the bag, plus she had the cat in there. She grabbed the vase and held it in her arm. As she walked toward Lorcan, the bony arm that grabbed at her in the dungeon poked up from the floor, grabbing and pulling at her foot. The cat hissed inside the bag. Orla stumbled and fell. The vase dropped to the floor, shattering into pieces.
Lorcan charged toward Orla. He helped her up. “Are you okay?”
“Did you see it?” Orla asked.
“See what?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry. The vase . . . it’s broken.”
“That I can see. Leave it. We have to get out of here before the cops come.”
“I have to get another one. Something else in replacement for this. It won’t take long. We can’t go back to the client empty-handed.”
“No! I said no, Orla.” Lorcan half-dragged, half-carried Orla out of the house.
A short moment later, their little van was zooming rapidly along the highway, heading back toward London. Orla sat on the passenger seat with the cat on her lap. “We can’t exactly take care of a kitten, can we?” she asked.
“Why not? It’ll just be like a kid.” Lorcan smiled at her.
Orla narrowed her eyes. “It’s a cat. Not a kid.” Orla silently cursed herself. She couldn’t offer him a better explanation. A kid between them would make a family. That was no-go territory for her.
“Right. A cat it is. Certainly.” Lorcan glanced at the cat. “Don’t worry. We won’t call you Edward or anything like that.”
Orla laughed. “Of course not. Losing his mother was tragic enough for him! What do you want to do about the murder?”
“Nothing. By the way, the police just received an anonymous tip regarding that murder. The tip must have come from Mr. Edward here.” Lorcan grinned.
“He’s not Edward.”
“Right. No Edward then . . . Listen, do you want me to go talk to the client with you regarding the vase?”
“Why? You think I can’t do it myself?”
“Of course, you can. I’m just saying,” Lorcan smiled, but the smile faded quickly. He kept on driving, while Orla absently scratched the cat’s neck, sending it into ecstasy. The smile on her face had long since faded.
Chapter 3
Orla sauntered into the long hall of the most luxurious restaurant in London. She was tall, slim, and exotic with a river of dark long hair that wrapped around her shoulders. Her siren red gown flattered her flawless body and dazzled people so that they wouldn’t notice her oversized handbag, in which she carried the merchandise.
Orla clenched her teeth when she saw Lorcan standing at the end of the hall, grinning at her.
“You said you’d let me handle this myself,” she growled.
Lorcan smiled. “Don’t pout. It really detracts from that stunning gown. I didn’t see you all day yesterday—I miss you. I’ll let you work with your client, thought. I’ll be sitting over there, keeping my mouth shut.” Lorcan pointed to a table.
“I’m not pouting. And if you keep interfering with my work, I’ll leave you.”
“You need me too much to leave me.” Lorcan smiled and leaned in for a kiss.
A wave of strong jasmine suddenly engulfed Orla. A faint gray mist swirled through the air, forming a funnel and thickening around Orla and Lorcan. She pushed at Lorcan’s chest to stop the kiss, puzzled. She didn’t like what she saw and smelt. It had been a long time since she’d experienced these sensations, and she didn’t care for them at all.
“Are you okay?” Lorcan asked, looking into her eyes.
“Yes, sure. I’m settling a job here. No messing around in public.” She scowled.
Lorcan grinned again. “We’ll mess around tonight in private then.” He nodded toward the entrance. “A minion of your client is here. Don’t take on any new jobs before we talk.” Lorcan walked toward his table.
Orla wanted to punch Lorcan in the face. But it wouldn’t be a good idea to do so in front of her client. She composed herself and turned around to see a tall man approaching her. He nodded at her. She cast a warning look at Lorcan, directing him to stay where he was, and walked toward the man.
“Mr. Turk?”
“Call me William, Orla.”
“I have a table reserved.” She smiled.
“Thank you.” William nodded.
Orla caught a slight accent in his voice, but she couldn’t quite make out its origin. It didn’t matter where they came from—as long as they paid her, she was happy. After they had settled at the table, Orla put the bag on the floor and pushed it toward the man. William placed an envelope on the table and pushed it toward her.
She opened the envelope, pulled out the cheque, glanced at it, and put it back into the envelope. She slid the envelope into her purse and smiled at William.
“Please send my regards to your employer, and tell him I appreciate his business. I suppose if he isn’t happy with the merchandise, I can’t cash the cheque.”
William smirked. “That’s the reason he keeps using you. You’re a smart cookie.”
“Technically, he’s using my services, not me. Prostitution is not my line of business.”
The man nodded. “Getting a prostitute is a lot cheaper than your services, Orla. Trust me, he values your services highly. As a matter of fact, he has a new assignment. If you pull this one off, you won’t need to work again for the rest of your life.”
Orla felt the urge to sneer at the statement, but thought better of it, so she maintained a neutral expression. She could try for a poker face, but she would never be able to pull it off. Acting was not her strong suit, and she knew it. “You have no idea how much money I’d need to settle for the rest of my life. Don’t speculate. Anyway, what’s the job?”
“It’s
a prepaid ransom.”
Orla arched an eyebrow. “Too good to be true.”
William shook his head and chuckled. “You should hear me out first.”
Orla nodded and absently gestured the man to continue.
“A computer game designer was kidnapped from her New York apartment. The kidnapper used her to blackmail her best friend, a reputable journalist, for some information. The journalist will be in London tomorrow. Your job is to rescue the computer game designer at the deal settlement between the journalist and the kidnapper.”
Orla leaned back in her chair, narrowing her eyes at the man.
“I told my boss you wouldn’t take this assignment. You’re a thief. Rescuing is not exactly your expertise.”
Orla smiled. “I take your view on my expertise as a compliment, William. Indeed, stealing is what I do best. I can steal anything from anyone . . . if paid well enough. If I consider the computer game designer as a job, I can steal her from the kidnapper. If that qualifies as a rescue—and I save her life, so to speak—then I get to be a hero. That’s an added benefit.”
The man put on a crooked smile. “Being a hero doesn’t pay.”
“As I said, it’s an added benefit. What’s being exchanged for the ransom?”
“That information is beyond your pay scale, I’m afraid.”
“A thief like me has standards. I won’t kill and I won’t deal drugs.”
“I can guarantee you that. No drugs and no life endangerment.”
“Is that why you didn’t want to do the job yourself? It’s too boring for you, isn’t it, William?”
“You know, if you’d reign back your sarcasm a bit, you could be quite pleasant to talk to.”
“I don’t get paid to be pleasant. How much?”
“Two million.”
“That’s not enough for me to retire on, as you claimed before.”
“That’s the first installment.”
“Do the other installments come from other parts of the task?”
“Of course. But you have to agree on the first part before we move on to the next. You don’t have to do the other parts if you don’t want to. But as for the first part, if you commit, you have to go through with it.”
“I have to think about this.”
William stood up. “You have two hours to make a decision. There are others willing to do this. But as I said, my boss values you highly. He wants to give you the first opportunity.” He grabbed the merchandise, left some money on the table for the drink, and strode toward the entrance.
Orla turned around and saw that Lorcan was no longer at his table.
Chapter 4
Three hours later, Orla carried a bunch of shopping bags into her leased apartment. After accepting the job, she had shopped for new outfits and new gear. She changed her appearance for every new job. Experience had taught her to be cautious of everything. Taking on a new identity was routine.
She found Lorcan leaning against the wall in front of her apartment. He raised a large pizza box and a bottle of her favourite Shiraz as if they were tickets to enter her apartment.
“Perfect timing,” Lorcan said.
Lorcan Brody came from a privileged family. He had a college qualification. With his family’s wealth, he didn’t have to work, but he chose to work as an engineer for an IT firm so that he could stay in London and be around Orla. He could have any girl he wanted. But he chose her for reasons she didn’t quite understand. Regardless of how long they had been together, she never got tired of looking at him—long, lean, and well-toned body, dark hair, striking blue eyes, and a mouth that was made for kissing.
She smiled at Lorcan. She entered the apartment and left the door open. Lorcan followed her inside. Orla pulled out the envelope and removed the stash of money she had cashed. As soon as she had accepted the new job, the client had allowed her to cash the cheque. Not that she thought he wouldn’t be happy with the merchandise, but she could never tell. She had done a countless number of jobs over the years, but this client was the most mysterious. She didn’t even know his name or the purpose of the items he asked her to acquire. The stolen item this time was an authentic sixteenth-century antique.
She split the money in half and gave half to Lorcan without counting.
“You know I don’t care about the money, right?” Lorcan jammed his hands into his pockets.
“You worked for it, you get your share. Otherwise, I can’t work with you for the next job.”
“You shouldn’t have taken this new job. It’s too good to be true . . . And it sounds fishy.”
Orla arched an eyebrow, wondering how Lorcan knew. Lorcan shrugged. He grabbed her purse and peeled off a tiny spy recorder he had placed on it before her meeting with William.
“Is there a camera anywhere else?” She scowled.
Lorcan shook his head, looking sheepish.
“Not only fishy, this job sounds dangerous, Orla. Can you please sit this one out?”
“It could be dangerous, but it won’t be any more dangerous than stealing the one and only White Knight’s dagger out of a private collection in Paris. And we did that job easily, didn’t we?” She pointed at the stash of cash.
“This is not a joke, Orla. The dagger is only an object. Now you’re talking about a person. God knows what he’ll ask you to do for the next installment. The guy kidnapped someone in New York and will transport her all the way to London. You can’t tell me he’s a small timer who picks pockets for a living.”
“Lorcan, I accepted the job. You know I have to go through with it—with or without you. That’s two million. I might save a life for two million. The next lot will be three times at much. That’s six million . . .”
“Orla, you don’t need that money. I can take care of you, of us. We can go back to Ireland and live the lives we want . . .”
“Says who? Lorcan Brody? Yeah right.” Orla sneered and felt her words bubbling in her throat as she fought back tears. She did feel uneasy about the job. But the client had been good to her so far. This shouldn’t be an exception. “Two million might mean nothing to you. But it means a lot to me. I need that money.”
“No, you don’t.”
“The vase I broke yesterday cost one million.”
“What? You don’t deliver the job, you don’t take the fee. How could that cost you a million?”
“Volkov runs one of the most notorious underground dealer networks in Europe. He missed out on a deal with his client because I didn’t deliver. It cost him money, and he charged me for that.”
“What the fuck?”
“He’s not someone to mess around with, Lorcan. I can pay him that money. I just have to take this new job. That lump sum payout for Volkov put a dent in my budget.”
“Budget for what?”
She shrugged and didn’t answer the question.
“It’s only a couple of million. I don’t want you to take the job. I can take care of the money.”
“Listen to yourself, Lorcan! I don’t want you to ask for favors from your family. You can’t take care of me. I take of myself and my problems. I can’t go back to Ireland empty-handed.”
“I don’t need my family’s money to take care of us. Why do you think I’ve hung around you all these years, working at that pathetic IT company?”
Orla waved her arms in the air. “You just want to stay in London. You want to prove to your family that you can be independent from them. Isn’t it obvious?”
“And you play no role in this? You have no part in my life and my decisions? What am I to you, Orla? Your fuck buddy?”
Orla slapped him hard across the face. Lorcan fell onto the coffee table, pushing the pizza onto the floor.
“Whatever you do, you still have a family to come back to. They love you. I don’t even have a last name.”
Lorcan rubbed at his jaw. “That’s because you didn’t want your last name. You can take mine. Be a Brody.”
She stared at him. “I slap you, and you propose to
me. How romantic. Are you nuts? Get out.”
“I . . .”
“I said get out.”
Lorcan stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Orla sat down. She felt like weeping, but she held on. She would give him ten seconds to come back.
Ten seconds passed.
Twenty.
Thirty.
There was still no Lorcan in her apartment. It was quiet except for the sound of the clock ticking on the wall. There was no sound of him clicking on his mouse or tapping on the keyboard. There was no reduced sound of all the games he watched on his computer while trying not to annoy her at the same time. There was none of his loud laughter. And there were certainly no gorgeous smiles or witty comments about the jokes she made about her clients.
Without him, her existence didn’t seem to count as much. What she was doing and about to do didn’t seem to matter. She ran out of the apartment, down the corridor, to the empty foyer, and outside the building, but all she found was emptiness.
Chapter 5
Lorcan stood in front of a small cottage outside Mortlake. It was just twenty minutes away from London, but the area already had a totally different feel to it. Lorcan was not much into cottages. Despite the fact that many people considered cottages to be full of character and cultural charms, Lorcan thought of them as enclosed spaces where people have lived and died. It didn’t help his necrophobia—he couldn’t handle dead things. Even the thought of them made him dizzy. Or maybe a few bottles in an empty stomach made him dizzy. He wasn’t quite sure.
But this cottage was different. It was his best friend Riley’s place. It was a small cottage, but it had a lively feel to it. He needed to crash right now. He wasn’t much of a drinker. He didn’t know why he would even go to that pub. Lorcan hesitated at the door, then thought better of it and turned around. Suddenly the door swung open, and there stood Riley with a beer in his hand. “Come on in. I don’t bite.”
“What kind of an idiot drinks beer at two a.m.?” Lorcan asked, glancing at the beer bottle.