by Toby Neal
One photo is shot straight on. Her hair is snipped off level with her ears, a shiny curling helmet. Her incredible eyes are brimming with tears. Deep emotion reaches out to me from the pages, grief and pain beyond beauty. Looking into those wide, shadowed eyes, I know she’s thinking about me in that photo. The death of dreams on her face is because I killed them.
“Fuck!” I crumple the photo, ripping the pages out of the magazine, stuffing them in my pocket. I fumble with the buckle and shoot up out of my chair.
“What?” Derrick’s thick blond brows draw together as he looks up from the portable computer console at this outburst.
“Nothing.” I head to the gym at the back of the plane. I don’t bother to change, just throw a bunch of weights on the bar and lie down on the bench, hefting at top speed with animalistic grunts. I’ve got too much weight on the bar, and I know it, but only working until I can’t anymore is going to help this.
Because it hurts me to have hurt her, damn it.
Derrick holds a hand above and blocks me, and I can’t push the heavily-weighted bar past him. “What the hell’s going on with you, Mag?”
He’s the only person in the world who gets to call me that. “Mind your own damn business,” I snarl, and he pushes the bar down across my chest. I can’t lift it, and it’s compressing my lungs.
“You’re my business,” he says calmly, and pushes down harder on the bar.
I huff out a breath and push up, but seriously there’s more than three hundred pounds on this bar plus the force of him pushing down. I can’t get it off, and I can’t breathe. I see stars and black dots.
Finally, Derrick hefts the weight bar off me and throws it into the cradle with a crash.
“It has to be a woman. Whenever a man’s this fucked-up, it’s always a woman,” Derrick says as blessed air fills my lungs. “Who is she, Mag?”
“No one you need to know about. It’s over.”
“So that’s why you’re so miserable.”
“I’m not miserable. I did the job. Everything’s fine.” And I did do the job. Not a hitch. Slid off the fishing boat that Derrick drove to the coordinates. Used a scuba transport to get to the anchored yacht. Climbed up the side in the dark, in my black wetsuit. Disabled the guard with a blow dart. Snuck inside, darted the chick sleeping in bed with the rich terrorist Turkish dude, and then took him out with a silencer and a pillow. Left the way I came.
No fuss, no muss.
I admit I was on autopilot the whole time. I never enjoy what I do, but the danger aspect of it is usually an adrenaline rush. This time, nothing. I felt like I was flogging myself through my obstacle course at home, but removed from the whole thing as if watching it under glass.
“Whatever you need to tell yourself, man. But I don’t like it.” Derrick stood up. “I’m going to find out about this woman, do a threat assessment. Or you can tell me, and I’ll do a threat assessment.”
“Screw you.” I’m not telling him one thing about Pearl, and with any luck at all, he won’t be able to find out anything.
I lift the weight bar out of the cradle and pump it some more. Derrick shakes his head, spins on his heel and leaves.
I pump until I can’t anymore, and finally throw the bar back in the cradle. I lock it down with the in-flight safety straps and go to the rack mounted on the wall. Turn my back to the wall, rest my arms on the handles, and lift my legs straight out to waist height, and lower them.
I feel her fingers, cool and light, tracing the lines that run down my abs to my pelvis. “Visual poetry,” she said at one point, and put her lips where her fingers had been.
I mutter a curse, turn my back and lift myself by my arms, crossing my dangling legs as I push my body weight up and down between the bars, my back flexing.
I hurt her. I hurt her so bad she let them cut all her hair off. And she’s getting skinny, like all those other stick-thin models giving women complexes.
I hate the new look. The haircut everyone praises makes Pearl look like an orphan, vulnerable and too young—but too old at the same time.
I wonder if she’s been tempted, if she’s had a slip into using. I need to call Valley when we get back to check on how she’s doing.
Until then, nothing will do but that I hurt too, just as much.
Chapter 31
Pearl
Dubai is a freaky place. The air is so dry my hair goes flat instantly the minute I get off the plane, even in the sleek, luxurious airport. Out the window, heat shimmers over the desert in the distance. I’m staying in one of the luxury hotels built on artificial reefs out in the smooth aquamarine water of the Persian Gulf.
The sand has been tamed with oil money into luxe oases of palaces and homes, discreetly fortified behind white stone barriers and walls. I’m whisked by Odile and our stylists, along with the other models, to the crazy-high skyscraper where we’re staying until the show.
The elevator is glass and on the outside of a building that really has no business being so tall. I’m fortunate not to be afraid of heights, but as we zoom into the stratosphere, several of the girls are clutching each other with their eyes on the door. I’m plastered against the glass, taking in the sight of the city: a green and glossy jewel set in the gold of the desert, the blue Gulf glittering against the land in stark contrast.
We’re here for an international show of seven designers, and Odile is exuberant. “These Arabs have beaucoup money,” she tells me as she slides a keycard into the door and lets me and Naomi into our palatial room. “They’re bringing their wives and girlfriends to shop.”
“As long as they don’t plan on adding us to a harem or something, I’m down with it,” Naomi says, taking off the platforms she loves to wear and flopping back on one of the satin-covered beds. “I need a nap.”
“Great idea,” I say, unwinding the laces of a pair of Louboutins from my ankles. They make my legs look great, but hurt my feet.
“You ladies do that. I’ll send up the facialist in an hour or two. Tomorrow it’s work, work, work all day, so today you need to exercise, rest, hydrate, and get your skin acclimated to the desert air.”
“Odile, you have a way of making even a facial sound like work,” I say. “I don’t see when we’re going to actually be exposed to any of that desert air.” I walk over and look out the vast plate-glass window over the stark line of where the sea meets the desert at the edge of the city. We are on a palm-shaped, manmade extension into the Gulf, and I can see fantastical gardens, gleaming white yachts, and even an extreme-looking water park from this vantage point. Exciting as it looks, we’ve been on planes for twelve hours, and I feel my eyes getting heavy. “Anyway, I think I will lie down for a few minutes.”
“Sweet dreams.” Odile dims the light and as I stretch out on the other bed, she tucks the satin cover under my chin as if putting a toddler down for a nap. As I close my eyes I know I’m going to dream of Magnus again.
Damn that man...
Magnus
I’ve barely been home a couple of days when Derrick contacts me with the next job. “Pickup at oh-eight hundred,” he says. “Plan for a week.”
“Roger that.” I call Mom about Whiskey. “Going out again.”
“You were barely home. That dog mopes when you’re gone,” she complains.
I glance down at Whiskey, draped over my feet. He looks back up at me, his brown eyes sad. “Nature of the beast.”
I hang up, not sure if I’m referring to “the beast” as my work, or Whiskey. Either way, I don’t mind the hectic pace Derrick has me on. The busier I am, the less time I have to think about Pearl.
I clean my weapons carefully with rags infused with gun oil. I hope it’s a distance mission this time. I can still see the pouf of feathers exploding from the pillow over the Turkish magnate’s face, his girlfriend sleeping beside him, the red tuft of the dart protruding from her neck.
The flashbacks will fade after awhile, replaced by memories from this next job.
The post
op debrief with Efficiency Solutions’ psychologist, Dr. Barrett, was accompanied by the light bar used in Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. Best practice for post-traumatic stress, Efficiency Solutions rolls both an EMDR treatment and the op debrief into one session. Why wait for me to get PTSD from the job when they can do both at once?
I hate to admit it, but the sessions seem to help. I have fewer bad dreams the sooner they’re held after a mission. Still. I’ve begun to have the feeling that my kills are impressed on me. It’s as if the memories are stylus marks on wax, made through plastic. While the plastic can be ripped up and re-laid, the surface appearing unmarked, underneath the wax has been scored again and again and is a mogul field of gouges.
One day I won’t be able to register any new impressions, and I wonder what will happen then.
Chapter 32
Pearl
In the morning at the hotel, we rehearse the lineup and wardrobe changes. The show is going to be in a huge ballroom on a raised stage. The theme is springtime fantasy, and I find myself almost looking forward to the amazing hair and makeup the designers have planned. Tonight’s going to be a big night.
After we’re done with morning rehearsal, several of us, along with Odile, go shopping. I’m not a shopper usually, but it’s a chance to see the opulent, completely enclosed mall attached to the hotel.
Striding along in a group with the other models, I feel more like a giraffe than ever. In our heels, we dwarf the Arab women, some covered in traditional garb, but many dressed in Western fashions. Everywhere we go, people stare.
I ignore it. Just an idea of me, not really me.
After the shopping, Naomi and I take a little rest in the darkened room with cucumber slices on our eyes—and then it’s show time.
We meet the other models in the big, well-lit dressing area. Pre-show music is playing to get everyone’s energy up, and I feel the excitement bubbling. This is only my second big runway show since the haircut, and I am very aware of the feel of the air conditioning on my unprotected neck. The hairdresser has an idea to make me look like a dandelion, which sounds awful—but as usual, I have no say in the matter.
Still, by the time she’s done coloring my short hair to a pale silver-blonde, has dried and styled and sprayed it so that every strand stands up in a nimbus around my head, I change my mind. With the heavy eye makeup and shell-pink lipstick they put on me, I embody otherworldly spring.
They strip me down, airbrush me with a white base, and then apply opalescent body glitter to every inch of my skin with an artist’s brush. Standing in a tiny g-string and no bra, I’m surrounded by an ebb and flow of people. My almost-nudity doesn’t bother me after so many times prepping in front of others.
The stylist hands me the first of the outfits and gets me carefully into it so as not to disturb the body glitter or my fragile hair creation, and when she’s patted and adjusted and pinned to her satisfaction, she puts me in line to go onstage.
I’m third up from the lead. I can hear the swishing conversation of the crowd intertwined with the thumping techno music they’re using to set the mood.
The music stops, the designers go out, are applauded, and say a few words. Models keep lining up behind me, three deep. My heart rate ratchets up as I mentally practice my runway walk, fiddling with one of the many tiny silver tassels swinging off of the outfit, a minidress they’ve paired with a pair of sky-high clear plastic platform heels.
And finally, the cue light goes off. The first woman walks out, and I hear the swell of the applause and exclamations, and when she’s halfway down the runway the little red light signals the woman in front of me, and a minute later it pulses red for me. I step out, taking great stomping strides, giving a little extra oomph in the hip swing so the tassels catch the light with their movement.
I’m blinded by the lights in my eyes but I can see the silhouette of the woman in front of me, and I can feel my heart pounding as I move, and I walk to the heavy techno beat, keeping my gaze on the remote black of the middle distance, a little smile on my mouth that says I’m indulging in some naughty fantasy.
And when I reach the little dais at the end I spin and pause, spin and pause, and I hear the murmurs of awe, different reactions to my hair, an undercurrent of comment. Possessed by an impulse, I lift my arms overhead and twirl, not an easy move on these platforms, to a roar of applause and the bursting strobe of flashbulbs.
I step off the dais and head back for the next wardrobe change, feeling the adoration of the crowd lift and carry me.
Magnus
My mouth has gone completely dry and my heart stutters in my chest. The model on the runway steps up onto the dais and spins twice, silver tassels all over her skimpy dress swinging like a thousand fishing lures. Suddenly she shoots her arms up and swings them wide, tipping back her dandelion-head of pale blonde hair and spinning on crazy see-through heels like a little girl all alone in a field of flowers.
It’s Pearl.
I recognize her body language, that physical joy she so easily projects, that sexy abandon with its hint of innocence gone wrong.
What the hell is Pearl doing here? I thought she only did magazine work. My brain just doesn’t want to compute what I’m seeing.
I didn’t recognize her at first because my eye has been looking through the scope at the target, a traditionally-dressed sheikh in flowing robes in a back row, a concubine on either side of him. We don’t usually work targets in public venues like this, but this man is so elusive that this is one of his first appearances outside of his heavily-armed compound in years. Apparently he’s backed one of the young Arab designers participating in the show, and wanted to show his support by appearing publicly.
I’m up in one of the ventilation shafts in the ceiling, the metal panel nudged aside to accommodate my weapon. Getting in here was a project, and getting back out won’t be easy either. Crawling in a freezing metal ventilation tunnel wearing a tux and carrying a sniper rifle—not high on my list of favorite activities. At least I’m not out in the open of the hot sandy desert.
My earbud crackles with Derrick’s voice. “Take the shot. Crowd is distracted.”
I don’t want to take the shot.
I know what will happen when I take the shot. When the concubines realize the sheikh has been hit, which will hopefully not be immediately, the hue and cry will set off a panic. Everyone will run. People could be trampled, including beauties wearing ridiculously sky-high heels.
But maybe if Pearl’s backstage when it goes down, she’ll be okay. I’ll have to check on her regardless. I know that’s a bad idea, but I have to. I can’t leave without seeing her, somehow.
I refocus on the target.
The chair’s empty. He’s gone.
“Why didn’t you take the shot? He’s gone to the restroom.” Derrick’s voice is impatient.
“Doing my own threat assessment.”
“That’s what you have me for.”
I don’t reply. I’ve got my scope on the empty chair. I won’t look at the models streaming along the stage anymore. I can’t afford to.
Finally, the terrorist comes back. Sits down. Adjusts his robes. Reaches over to pat one of the women beside him. Both women are excited, talking and gesturing. I don’t like watching that. It reminds me this is a man whose loss is going to bring grief and shock. Never mind what a monster he is, at least according to the file.
I look away to check on Pearl and make sure she’s still backstage.
She isn’t. She’s in a different outfit, halfway down the stage. It’s a drifty, gauzy thing, with iridescent panels that hang down like petals to brush her amazing legs. She’s wearing yellow heels this time, and I realize she looks like a lily. That’s probably the plan.
At the dais, she does the usual spin and pause, then a low, graceful curtsy, the skirt-petals lifted high to showcase her legs. The crowd goes wild. She’s playing this up, and the kiss she blows to the room feels like it hits me alone, a warm reminder
of all we shared.
“Dammit,” I mutter, and refocus on the target.
“Get your head in the game!” Derrick hisses in my ear, and I take the shot.
Chapter 33
Pearl
I hear screams break out behind me, and I whirl around, catching one of the crazy-high yellow heels on the floor and stumbling. I can see what’s happening out there now that I’m out of the hot spotlights. An Arab man in white robes has collapsed, and people are hunching over him. There’s a spreading red stain on his chest.
The lights come up, the music stops, and the entourage around the man is lifting him and carrying him away amid the screams of his female companions. People are standing up, milling around, looking uncertain.
Suddenly I realize that’s not the only thing going on. Several men dressed in black are backstage with us, and they’re grabbing the models. Cries break out as the women fight back and try to run away. The chaos happening around me translates to the audience around the stage, and full panic sets in as people knock over chairs, rushing for the exits, screams filling the air.
I dive into the darkness between the heavy black curtains that separate the stage from the audience area. Whatever is going on is not good. I need to stay hidden and be able to move.
I squat down to hide between the dark draperies, unbuckling the tiny straps of the ridiculous shoes—and just as I’ve got them off, a hand grabs my arm, yanking me upright.
The man’s face is masked, and he’s all in black. He says something in Arabic as he hauls me up against him. He smells of garlic and body odor. I try to remember my self-defense skills, and elbow him and stomp his foot—but he’s wearing boots. My feet are bare, and my struggles don’t seem to do anything. He yells something and an accomplice appears. He has a black cloth hood in his hand, which he stuffs over my head, tightening it around my neck with a cord.