by Arno Joubert
She lay back and closed her eyes. “And that was what I was doing until you let these two barge in here. What are you two on about, then?”
“I want to take you home, Alexa,” Neil said, squeezing her hand. “You’ll feel better there than in this unfriendly place,” he said and cast the doctor an apologetic smile. The man shrugged and nodded.
“Over my dead body,” Bruce said, taking Alexa’s other hand. “Neil knows nothing about treating you. You’ll be worse off than when you started.”
Alexa smiled weakly. “Would it be okay for me to recover at home, Doctor?”
The man nodded. “It doesn’t matter where, you need to get your rest and eat lots of healthy food.”
Alexa turned to Bruce. “I’m going with Neil, Dad.”
He pursed his lips. “But, you need professional help, Alexa.”
“I need to rest.”
“You’ll rest in hospital.”
She shook her head and sat up. “No, I want to go home. I miss Yumi. Give me my bag.”
Neil handed her the bag. The men stood around her bed, Neil smiling at Alexa, his head cocked at an angle, looking worried. The Doctor nodding knowingly, seemingly deep in thought. Bruce stood there, fuming, gritting his teeth.
“Do you mind?” Alexa said, looking at them expectantly.
“Mind?” Neil asked.
“I need to get dressed.”
“Ah, yes, sure thing,” Bruce said and the men turned around apologetically. Neil ushered them outside.
“We’ll be right outside.” Neil held the door open for the other men. “I’ll go fetch a wheelchair.”
“I don’t need a bloody wheelchair.”
Neil chuckled as he heard Alexa mutter, “Merde, bloody men.”
CHAPTER THREE
Alexa's phone vibrated on the night stand. She mumbled and sat up, waving a hand at Neil. "Please give it to me," she said.
"No way." He picked it up and swiped his thumb across the screen "Get some sleep," he ordered.
She flopped back into bed, looking grateful.
He walked into the adjacent room. "Yes?"
"I need to speak to Captain Alexa Guerra." She was French and she sounded like she smoked too much.
"Who is this?"
"This is President Nicole Rue. I haven't heard from her for two days."
"She's fine. She's recovering."
"Who're you?"
"I'm her fiancée, Sergeant Neil Allen."
"Where is she?"
Neil opened the door a crack. Alexa was sleeping, her hand on her brow. She looked so...vulnerable.
"She's resting."
"Oh, sorry, am I bothering?"
"Yes."
"Oh, okay. Sorry. I'll phone back later."
"Phone me back tomorrow at ten. You will not be able to speak to her, she's recovering from injuries suffered on her last mission."
She was silent for a moment. "I heard."
"You did? Okay, then. Phone me and I'll keep you updated." He recited his number to the President.
"Thank you."
"Good bye," he said curtly and disconnected the call.
He looked around helplessly, trying to think of something that he could do to help make Alexa feel better. He leaned against the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to shake off the feelings of guilt he felt. Had this been his fault? He trudged to the living room and flopped down in the sofa.
Could he have done anything different that would have avoided Alexa's suffering? He didn't think so, the way she reacted was entrenched in her since childhood, having grown up being constantly on the run. She had told him that Bruce had moved her to a different location every couple of months, fearful of an underground organization called the Dalerians.
Alexa's dad, Zachary Cohen, had been a senior officer in Shin Beth and had managed to uncover their smuggling operations. Bruce was sent in to terminate a rogue field agent, Owen Callahan, the head of the organization, but he had failed.
The Dalerians got Zachary first, killed him while he was trying to protect his family. Luckily, Alexa and her mom managed to get away, but Bruce had felt that it was his fault that Zachary, his best friend, had died. So he swore a vow to himself, undertaking to keep Zachary's daughter alive, no matter what.
Bruce adopted Alexa, changed her name and taught her how to defend herself. Taught her to become a killer.
He sighed. Maybe Alexa was afraid that Yumi was going to turn out the same way she had? He sometimes saw her looking at Yumi, a faint smile on her lips, shaking her head incredulously, as if she couldn't believe that Yumi was her daughter. And then she would chew her lip and Neil could see the self-doubt in her face, although she never told him so.
He bounced up off the sofa and went to the kitchen to see how Yumi was doing. She sat working on the kitchen table, tracing the letters of the alphabet in a workbook, her tongue doing as much work as her hand.
If there was one thing that Alexa had taught him, it was about home schooling. She had become a professional at being a student on the run, graduating from college at the age of fifteen. Although Yumi attended a private school in Tassin, Alexa insisted that she also complete an International curriculum, geared toward the three R's.
"All done?" he asked.
She nodded, pulled a piece of paper from a file and handed him a picture of a bear walking on a tightrope. It was colored in with crayons, a red head and blue body holding a black balloon in its hand.
"Very nice."
Yumi nodded. "I call him Mr. Bluebear."
Neil laughed. "I can see why."
"Can I watch some TV?"
"Okay, but don't bother your mom. Watch in my office."
She pouted. "Awww."
She was wrapping him around her pinky, the way that only little girls knew how to do with their daddies. "I'll wake her later, then we can eat dinner together."
Her face lit up. "Okay," she said and scampered out of the room.
He brewed a cup of coffee and strolled to the bedroom. He leaned against the doorframe. Alexa was laying on her back, her hand over her brow, breathing rhythmically. She was thin, he needed to fatten her up. She had dark circles beneath her eyes, her skin almost translucent. She looked like a ghost of her former self.
He sucked in a sharp breath, his throat constricting. The thought of almost losing her made him feel dizzy. Laiveaux had asked him to protect her. But how could he protect her from her own...memories?
Alexa propped herself up on the cushions as Neil carried the television set into their bedroom. “What are you doing?”
He grunted as he placed it on Alexa’s dresser. “You can watch TV between you naps,” he said with a smile. He hurried outside again and returned with a tray loaded with coffee and toasts and jams, Alexa’s favorite. “I come bearing gifts.” He placed it on the bed and sat down beside her. “Here, have a bite,” he said, bringing a slice of toast to her lips.
“I’m not a damn invalid, Neil,” she said and took it from him. She crunched into it. “Thanks,” she said, holding her hand to her mouth.
He smiled, nodded. She had never seen him look as concerned as he did.
She ate in silence, Neil watching her, sipping his coffee.
She put her cup on the tray and lay back, her arm over her forehead. It felt like she had run a marathon.
Neil stood up and she felt him pick up the tray. He walked out and clicked the door closed behind him.
She fell asleep a second later.
Carousel Casino, Salt Lake City
Sam East ambled through the boinging and ringing racket of the slot machines on the casino floor, heading for the poker tables. He checked his Rolex. It was a quarter past two in the morning. He chose a table with a bunch of high-rollers, drunk and rowdy businessmen, he guessed. They had probably left the wife and kids at home, which meant they left their inhibitions behind as well.
He pulled up a chair and tossed five one hundred dollar bills on the table. “Mind if
I join?” he asked without expecting an answer. The croupier passed him his chips.
Four hours later he stood up and drained his Rock Shandy and collected his winnings of fifteen thousand dollars. He had played them like a river card.
He sauntered out of the casino and headed towards his car. He had a long night’s driving ahead of him, he wanted to bunk down at a halfway motel, then head on to Vegas the following day. He tossed a coin as he walked, whistling a ditty his dad had taught him.
He heard the padded footsteps on the blacktop and turned around. Four guys, wearing black T-shirts, jeans and black sneakers. They wore masks resembling Disney characters. One guy lifted a Browning compact and aimed it at his chest.
He chuckled. “What, you going to shoot me with a pop gun?”
Donald and Mickey exchanged quick glances. “Hand over the cash,” Donald said, waving the miniature weapon.
He turned to walk away, but Pluto bolted towards him with a bat. The shot hit him squarely between the shoulder blades. He grunted and blocked another blow with his forearm as he lashed out with a hard boot to the man’s groin.
Donald’s Browning barked twice. He looked down, saw two smoking holes in his jacket, both in his left shoulder. He strode over to Donald Duck and received another bullet through the hand before ripping the gun away and slapping him over the head with it.
He felt a strong arm clamp around his neck, and the cold tip of a sharp knife on his Adam’s Apple. “Give me the money,” a gruff sounding voice ordered. He lifted his hands defensively. He was losing blood, he would need medical attention soon. He fished the roll of bills from his pocket and handed them over.
The knife dug into his neck, splitting his skin. “Car keys,” the man said.
“Okay, okay. Just chill. It’s in my inside pocket.”
“Slowly,” the voice said.
He pulled the keys from his pocket, unclipping the white rabbit foot from the chain.
The guy grabbed them. “Which one?”
“The silver Lexus.”
The man pressed the remote and saw the flashing indicator lights. He shoved East away and scampered to the car, his sneakers making squelching sounds on the wet blacktop as he ran.
Sam East checked his wounds. Two bullets to the shoulder, busted hand, hand-stitched rattle skin jacket ruined. Shit. He’s had worse. With two fingers, he gingerly pulled his phone from his pocket and punched in the numbers.
“911, What is your emergency?” the operator asked.
“I have multiple gunshot wounds and I need an ambulance.” And a new jacket, he thought.
“All right, sir, what is your location?”
“I’m outside entrance six of the Carousel Casino in Salt Lake City.”
“We’re dispatching an ambulance—“
The blast wind from the explosion knocked him off his feet. He landed flat on his back and he heard a crack as he knocked his head on the road. He lay motionless for a moment, shook his head groggily as he propped himself up by his elbows.
“Sir, sir! Are you okay?”
He placed the phone on his ear. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“What happened?”
He grunted, he thought 911 operators had training to stay calm in emergency situations. This one was flipping out.
“A bomb,” he said and pushed himself up as pieces of glass and plastic rained down on him. He straightened his jacket as he examined the carnage that the car bomb had caused, then dangled the white rabbit foot in front of his face and smiled. “You’ve never let me down before.”
He pocketed his lucky charm and strolled toward the crackling wreckage of what remained of his luxury sedan. A side-view mirror rolled up to him and he stopped it with his boot, picked it up.
Damn, he had loved that car.
Bruce had visited every day, sometimes twice. He treated Alexa like a porcelain doll, like he was afraid that by touching her she would break. He ignored Neil, answering only in gruff nods and grunts to questions that Neil asked. Childish.
Still, the man was probably hurting, the knowledge that your baby girl wasn't all yours anymore, that you had to share her with another man. He wondered how he would deal with Yumi's suitors. Probably bug them and listen to their conversations to make sure that the boy's intentions were pure. Or stick a grenade in his pants and tell him to run before he detonated it remotely. He chuckled. That would do the trick.
Alexa moaned. She was having the recurring nightmares again. Fight them, my baby. Face them and fight them.
Neil tugged his wallet from his pocket and slipped out a photo and examined it closely. He was younger, it had been taken years ago, five, maybe six. He reminisced, a smile on his face as he sipped his coffee.
He had been sitting in the fantastic heated pool of the Ko Phi Phi Don hotel in Thailand. Maddie sat on his lap, only a toddler. She had ink-black hair, and she was looking up at him, smiling. He sat with a stupid grin on his face, squinting in the sun.
He sighed, filing the photo back in his wallet. That's when the bad dream that had been his life morphed into a beastly nightmare.
His wife had committed suicide, and she had taken his beautiful daughter with her. He found them in the tub, his wife, Tamara, clutching Maddie to her chest. They had worked too hard, but they never had enough money. They never saw each other. Life had gotten too much for her. She laced two sodas with cyanide before they drank it and climbed into the tub together. Her suicide note still sent shivers down his spine.
Tamara accused him of a lot of things. Of having affairs, which he didn't. Of boozing out all their money, which he probably did, memories of that time were vague. Of never having enough time for his daughter, always complaining that he was busy when she wanted a hug. He swallowed. That was true as well.
He used to have recurring dreams of that day, finding Tamara and Maddie in the tub. Maddie would turn around, her dark hair plastered to her face, her lips were blue and her skin pale, and she would ask him in a haunting voice, "Why did you do this to me, Daddy?"
He sniffed and wiped at his nose, took a deep breath. He didn't have those dreams since meeting Alexa. You never closed a chapter of your life, he guessed, you merely accepted what had happened and tried to be a better person and move forward.
He believed in second chances.
Alexa opened her eyes as she heard the door open. She smiled when Yumi climbed into the bed and snuggled into her back, cuddling her.
"I love you, mommy."
"I love you too, baby," she said, squeezing her hand. She sobbed, the feeling of guilt weighing on her like a heavy blanket.
"Can I stay a while?"
"You can stay forever, baby."
She drifted into a state of semi-consciousness where all the chapters of her life came back to haunt her. Anderson Fitch repeatedly hitting her, the blows feeling as real as the day that it had it happened.
All the children, always the children haunting her dreams. Dead kids in freezers, dead kids in dumpsters. Their faces distorted in screams of pain, dismembered bodies.
Yumi pointed a blaming finger at her. "You're a bad, bad mommy."
She sobbed as the shame overwhelmed her. She shook her head. "No, I'm not, I'm just doing my best."
Yumi's eyes grew angry, like she hated her. "Well, that hasn't been good enough now, has it?"
"I'll change, I promise."
The little girl walked up to her. "No, you won't. You'll never be a good mommy."
She sobbed.
In the background, she heard a small voice say. "Are you okay, mommy?"
"I'm going to try my best to be a good mommy."
Yumi stood in front of her, her hands on her hips, a scowl on her face. "I'm going to become a monster, just like you! Murderer!"
The voice in the background said, "I know mommy. You are the best mommy I've ever had."
She sucked in a deep breath as she felt someone hug her, then bolted upright in the bed, looking around her, dazed and confused.
&nb
sp; Yumi looked up at her. "You were talking in your sleep, mommy."
She grabbed Yumi and pulled her to her chest. "I love you, baby."
The little girl threw her arms around her neck, holding her tight. "I love you too mommy. I love you so much. Please don't cry."
Alexa laughed and cried, wiping the tears from here eyes, planting kisses on Yumi's forehead. "I love you, always remember that."
Allan Sonti picked up the phone that rang on his desk. "Who ordered the hit?" Sam East asked without greeting.
"The Syrians," Sonti answered.
"Why?"
"You pissed them off. That's what happens when you take out their leader and don't wipe out the cell."
"I want the heat off me."
"That will cost you."
East snorted. "Who?"
"Her name is Alexa Guerra, I'll send you her file."
East sighed. "Get the heat off me, Sonti."
"You have my word," he said and disconnected the call. He punched another number into the phone and waited for it to connect.
"Why are you phoning me on this number?" a voice whispered.
Sonti chuckled. "I thought I told you to phone me whenever pertinent information became available."
"Yes. So what?"
"So, my double agent being killed in Kabul isn't deemed to be high enough on your list of priorities?"
The man hesitated. "Look, Sonti. I can't do this anymore."
Sonti gripped the phone, slammed it onto his table, two, three times. He took a deep breath and straightened his jacket, composing himself. "Now you listen to me you useless piece of human excrement. I put you where you are today. I'm paying for your daughter's tuition in the fancy private school in Geneva."
"I know, Sonti, just listen--"
"Do you want to die, Henrie?"
"No, I don't Sonti," Henrie Dumas answered, his voice cracking.
Sonti chuckled. "First I'm going to kill that lovely daughter of yours. She's hoping to become a model, right? Oh, I hope she puts up a fight. I'll send you the photos."
Sonti, please--"