Young Love Murder

by April Brookshire

  He shrugs his shoulders. “Fine, here’s what Simon heard. In Brazil you pushed the target out the glass window of a VIP booth at a soccer game.”

  “Check,” I say while making a ‘checking off’ gesture with a finger in the air. This list is going to be long if Simon’s computer geek gathered the info. The dude is nothing if not efficient.

  He narrows his eyes at me, but continues, “In China, you . . . nunchakued to death the target.”

  “Check two,” I say, adding another check mark to my invisible list. “I also threw some throwing stars at his jugular first.”

  I think he’s trying not to laugh, but I can’t be sure. “In Mexico, you took a wooden baseball bat to the target’s head.”

  “Check three.” Another check marked on the hit list. “And I’d like to add that his head was rather large. It reminded me of a piñata.”

  He chuckles before clearing his throat, putting his serious Jackson face back on. “My personal favorite, you used a machete to make the kill in South Africa.”

  “Check four,” I say, then grumble, “I would not recommend that one, bro. Messy as hell, I hate when the blood splatters on me.”

  He grimaces and continues, “I’m surprised you didn’t car bomb the former IRA member when you were in Ireland. What’s up with shooting them in front of witnesses? And Simon heard that you stole a bottle of whiskey from the bartender.” Wow, what a thorough report, I think sarcastically.

  “A car bombing crossed my mind, but I was in a bad mood that day. By the way, check. And that damn whiskey gave me a nasty hangover the next day.”

  He gives me a ‘whatever’ look. “Moving on, in India, you dressed up as an extra and sent a poisonous snake into the dressing room of that Bollywood actor.”

  “Dirty rapist,” I mumble under my breath. “And lastly, check six. That took some delicate planning and the snake was a bitch to catch afterwards.” I still feel guilty about giving up the chase and shooting it.

  He shakes his head. “Oh no, after tonight, I’m adding another check mark to the fuck-up list. A garrote, Annabelle? You know it takes forever to strangle someone to death.”

  “They say you should try everything at least once,” I remind him sarcastically.

  He looks amused by my annoyance. “And who, exactly, are ‘they’?”

  I make an exasperated noise. “Uh, you know . . . ‘they’, people, everyone.” Pointing towards the hotel room’s windows, I add, “Out there.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” In a superior tone, he says, “I don’t really think that there’s a general opinion that every method of assassination should be tried at least once. Simon taught us well, Annie. You need to stick to the basics. Gun, poison, bomb.”

  I lean forward excitedly and point at him in triumph. “Ha! You forgot knife! It looks like someone needs to re-read his assassin manual.”

  He looks as though he’s about to finally lose his patience. “There’s no such thing as an assassin manual, drunktard. Why don’t we finish this conversation when you’ve sobered up?”

  “Maybe I don’t plan on sobering up.”

  And, yep, he loses his cool. Standing up, he practically growls, “And what’s up with that? You never drank to this extent before. How many of the last seven jobs have you been drunk for?”

  I look up at the ceiling. “If I had to estimate, I’d say somewhere between one and seven of them.”

  “So it’s all of them, then? Are you still having that hard of a time getting over him?”

  I shoot my brother a dirty look and say through clenched teeth, “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “Well that’s too bad, because he’s the other reason I’m here.”

  “What do you mean?” Not sure that I’ll like what I’m about to hear, as my heart begins to race.

  “He’s become a problem.”

  “He’s my problem, not yours.” I don’t like Jackson even mentioning the word ‘problem’ in the same sentence that’s referring to Gabriel.

  “Simon doesn’t think so.” Dammit! I definitely don’t want Simon thinking along those lines.

  “What does Simon think?”

  “He thinks your ‘experience’ with Gabriel is affecting your work. He thinks that you’ve become reckless on your assignments because you’re heartbroken.” Jackson gives me a pitying look that makes me want to poke him in his fake gray eyes.

  “I am heartbroken,” I whisper and my eyes well up with tears. Squeezing them shut, a few slip out to roll down my cheeks. I am never drinking again. It turns me into a big damn crybaby.

  When I open my eyes, Jackson has a sad expression on his face. “You were going to quit for him, weren’t you?”

  I nod my head and then shake it. “It doesn’t matter. We weren’t meant to be anyways.”

  “Either way, Simon’s asked me to accompany you on your jobs for a while. Just to make sure you’re alright and keep you from continuing on the path you’re on.”

  This annoys me, I’m not a child. At least in two days, I’ll no longer be a legal minor. “I don’t need a babysitter, Jackson. Nor do I need you tagging along to evaluate my work.”

  He ignores me, saying, “There’s another thing that Simon mentioned.”

  “Please, do tell,” I say in a hostile tone.

  “It seems that someone has been trying to find you,” he explains cautiously.

  “Simon told me that Gabriel never told the police I was the one who killed his father,” I respond, alarmed.

  “He still hasn’t,” Jackson reassures me. “The police still believe you’re a possible kidnap or murder victim. Or a runaway before you’d even moved to Miami, given the lack of records for an Anna Walker.”

  “What’s Simon worried about then?” For whatever reason, Gabriel is keeping his mouth shut. I miss his mouth. I miss him. My eyes begin to fill again in self-pity and I blink rapidly before Jackson notices.

  Jackson nods. “Simon received a call from Marie Perrot.” He clears his throat and blushes. Really, Jackson just needs to get over it. So Marie had one of her former employees teach Jackson about sex a little more thoroughly than I was taught. Big deal, the virginal blush is years too late. Avoiding eye contact, he continues, “Anyways, Marie told Simon that a young man by the name of Gabriel Sanchez, along with a private investigator by the name of Steven Russo, showed up at her home in Paris. The two went around the city, going to all known Madams and former Madams, asking if they knew a girl by the name of Anna Walker, showing a sketch of you.”

  I tense up at this revelation. “Gabriel’s looking for information on me in Paris?”

  “Yes. I guess he left school early for spring break.”

  “And we’re going to Paris tomorrow?” I try to hide my excitement, but obviously fail, by the expression on Jackson’s face.

  He gives me a suspicious look. “Why do you seem happy about this information?”

  “I’m not,” I squeak out.

  He still looks suspicious, but slowly says, “Anyways, Simon’s asked us to go to Paris and meet with Marie. Also, we need to find out any information we can on Gabriel’s intentions. Why he’s looking for you.”

  Aw hell, it’s useless. I give up and stop trying to hold back my grin. “Okay.”

  “Annie,” he says sternly. “Simon’s instructions are that we’re not to make contact with Gabriel or the private investigator without receiving permission from him first.”

  Squirming in my seat from excitement, I agree, “Okay.”

  “Annabelle,” Jackson says in a warning voice.

  “Jesus Christ! Quit acting like you’re my father.” Rolling my eyes, I pretend that he’s the one being unreasonable.

  “No, I’m not your father. Our father died for the very same reason you’ve been acting so recklessly, for love.”

  I scowl at him. “That’s heartless, Jackson. Our father died trying to save our mother because he loved her.”

  He looks at me gravely, leaning forward to
rest his arms on the chair he’d vacated. “That’s right, but we’re the only family each other have left. I don’t want to lose you too.”

  Getting up and going over to him, I give him a hug. “Don’t worry, Jackson, you won’t. I’m the best assassin in the world. No one is going to be able to hurt me.”

  He smiles reluctantly, returning the hug. “Second best, you mean.”

  Chapter 19

  Annabelle

  Paris, France - March 10th

  Waiting for us at the garish front desk of our infinity-star hotel in Paris is a package from Simon. The man always seems to be one step ahead of us. Jackson’s French is flawless as he thanks the concierge. Our father spoke French almost exclusively with Jackson up until the time he died. To speak as well as the natives, I have to actually make an effort.

  We own a flat in Paris, but whenever we’re concerned about the possibility of being compromised, we stay at hotels instead. It’s more anonymous and allows us to scope out our private home before settling in for any length of time. Within the next day or so, we’ll park ourselves outside of our Paris flat to see if it’s being watched. It’s always a joy to stakeout your own home. I doubt Gabriel or his private detective have found out its location. In each country that we own property, we have a different alias that we list them under. Not that we get to enjoy our own vehicles and residences very often.

  I already know what the package is, so I snatch the manila envelope out of Jackson’s hand as soon as the gold elevator doors close. He frowns in disapproval. “Annabelle, you shouldn’t get your hopes up.”

  “Shut up,” I say dismissively. Giving his reflection in the mirror a dirty look, I rip it open, too anxious to wait until we get into our hotel suite. On top of a stack of papers are pictures of Gabriel. It reminds me of when I first got the assignment to kill his father and saw his picture for the first time. This time, though, the effect is a hundred times more intense. Because this time, I’m in withdrawal for him, needing my fix. Like a drug, the sight of him is racing through my blood.

  He looks different. The hardness in the lines of his face disturbs me. As though in a constant state of tension. The coldness in his piercing green eyes makes me want to cry. He’s dressed differently too. More mature, like a young exec on Wall Street, not a senior about to graduate high school. From the background, I can tell the picture was taken here in Paris. Obviously recently since he’s been here for only the past week. There’s a man in the picture standing near him. The older man is in his forties with sandy brown hair and a pleasant face, cigarette pressed between his lips. His suit looks less expensive than Gabriel’s, more practical. He must be the private detective, Steven Russo.

  I look through the other pictures, mostly of Gabriel in different touristy parts of Paris. A picture of him slouched in a wrought iron chair at an outside cafe makes me smile. Way to wrinkle your fancy suit, Gabriel. Some are with Steven Russo, some without. One of the pictures is of Gabriel and Steven Russo, taken on the steps of my old friend and sexual mentor, Marie Perrot’s home.

  By the time we enter our large hotel suite, I’m rifling through the paperwork. The stuff Simon sent gives us details on the hotel they’re staying at and all of the places they’ve been spotted at in the past couple of days. I roll my suitcase into one of the bedrooms and return to the living room. Sitting down on a jacquard Victorian loveseat, I curl up to read the remainder of the information. Unbuttoning the top buttons of his wine-colored dress shirt, Jackson grabs the TV remote and opens up the armoire to flip through the channels, stopping on a McDonalds’s commercial.

  Ignoring my brother’s sounds of amusement from watching the commercial, I continue reading. The paperwork also gives background information on this Steven Russo person. He’s a well-established and sought-after private investigator in Florida. With experience on cases that have taken him worldwide, a majority of them have been based in Florida and the nearby states. He’s a former Navy Seal and was in the FBI for a number of years before retiring. He also belongs to a network of higher-caliber private investigators in the United States who share information and resources.

  Looks like Gabriel found the right man to hire. Not that Steven Russo stands a chance of finding me if I don’t want to be found. I’m not worried about Marie giving them information about me. She can be as secretive as a spy. A former lover of Simon’s, I know she’s as loyal to me as she is to him. I wouldn’t call her ‘friend’ otherwise.

  The first order of business is to do what Simon asked of me and visit with Marie, no hardship there. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen Marie and, while I can’t wait to talk to her, it won’t be a purely social call. Being a Madam gave her an insight into people, particularly men, and I want to know how she interpreted Gabriel’s visit.

  Looking down at my jeans and sweater, I figure I need to change before going to see her. Normally, I dress down when I’m not on an assignment, but I have a lot of respect for Marie and she believes that a female should dress to the hilt whenever possible. She’s all about the feminine image. Plus, I don’t want to hear her bitch about it.

  Putting on a short silky red dress with black heels, I smooth out my hair and apply full make-up, including red lipstick. Since it’s a chilly spring day out, I throw on over the dress a fitted dressy black leather jacket that reaches just below my ribs. Marie will approve of the siren look. Plus, it’s my birthday. I’m in the mood to look good. My hair is black at present and I apply a little product and a brush to smooth it out, giving it a glossy shine.

  Jackson insists on coming with me to see Marie. I'm sure he plans to keep an eye on me and prevent me from sneaking out to find Gabriel. Whatever! I do what I want. It’s not like I haven’t given him the slip numerous times in the past. What makes him think he could really stop me if that’s what I wanted? Of course, when the tables are turned and he’s ditching me that can be pretty damn annoying.

  Do I want to seek out Gabriel? More than anything! I’m dying to see him in the flesh, pictures just aren’t enough. On the plane ride to Paris, I was practically jumping out of my seat. I’m surprised the energy I was giving off didn’t cause turbulence. Will Simon and Jackson be pissed at me? Hell yeah, but I don’t care.

  The thought that Gabriel is scouring the globe for me has me dying to know why. On the taxi ride over to Marie’s home, I turn to Jackson, “Why do you think he’s looking for me?”

  Jackson shrugs. “I don’t know. There are many possibilities. Maybe you left a shirt in his car and he wants to return it to you.” Jackass!

  I hit him on the shoulder. “Be serious, Jackson! What do you really think?”

  He looks at me with a serious expression, arching an eyebrow. “Annie, try to keep in mind that you killed his father.”

  “Believe me when I say that I haven’t forgotten anything. He’s constantly on my mind.” Something I probably shouldn’t admit to, but this is one subject I know my brother won’t tease me about. He feels too damn sorry for me.

  Jackson’s expression turns sympathetic. “What if he wants to hurt you?”

  My head shakes in denial. “He’s not like that Jacks. He’s too good of a person for that. He loves me.”

  “Loved you,” Jackson corrects me. I shoot him a dirty look at the reminder. “Remember what he said the last time you saw him.”

  Choosing to ignore Jackson, I stare sullenly out the car window. I’ve always loved Paris and the familiar timeworn sights cheer me up a bit. Our father was French and our mother was American. Paris is where they met. I feel closer to them whenever I’m here, like I’m in their company when I’m in this city.

  As soon as the taxi parks in front of Marie’s home, I jump out, leaving Jackson to pay. Running up the steps, I’m anxious to see her. Besides Adala, my former nanny, Marie’s the closest thing to a mother figure I’ve had. Of course, most mothers don’t tutor their daughters in all the ways to pleasure a man or how to use your femininity to reel in the male gender. But perhaps they should.
From the teen girl madness I witnessed in Miami, it could be lifesaving, because that affliction is contagious. They could teach a class, How Not To Act a Fool For a Man 101.

  Glancing up at the gray clouds as I wait for the door to be answered, it looks like it may rain. Her house is in a posh area of Paris. Pimping paid off well for Marie. She’s old school, so a butler opens the door. Ralph recognizes me even though it’s been months and my hair is a new color. He knows I speak French, but he addresses me in accented English, “Miss Annabelle, Marie has been expecting you. Please wait in the front salon and she will be down in a moment.”

  “Jackson’s here too,” I tell him as I step into the elegant foyer, hearing my brother pound up the steps behind me. Ralph’s worked for Marie for about as long as I’ve graced the earth with my presence and he’s her most trusted confidant. Now in his early fifties, with salt and pepper hair and a craggy face, he’s conservative as can be. But I’ve always known that, in a time of need, he could get down and dirty. The guy’s a closet bruiser. I mean, someone had to keep all of Marie’s admirers on the doorstep. He’s a stocky man and still fit, despite being middle-aged. He’s served as both butler and bodyguard to Marie since her early days as a procurer of women. On more than one occasion, I’ve thought it’d be fun to spar with him. Not in this dress, though, it was kind of pricey.

  Marie’s now retired from the Madame business, but at one time, she had over thirty girls working for her. We’re not talking your common French streetwalkers either. Marie’s girls were in high demand and highly paid. From what Simon says, she was good to them as long as they stayed in line. An odd relationship, but it worked.

  I don’t know how serious she and Simon were back in the day. She had many lovers in her younger years, probably still does. Despite being in her forties, she’s still beautiful and can pass for being a decade younger. Although they no longer see each other as lovers that I know of, Marie and Simon are close friends.

  Before leaving the foyer, Marie appears at the top of the stairs. Waiting at the bottom of them, I get the expected hug when she reaches me. “My sweet Annabelle, you have come to see me so quickly. I did not expect you for a couple more days.”