by Arthurs, Nia
Doubtful. If any other man with Alistair’s face exists, I’ll probably combust.
“Sure,” my friend chuckles, “I love you, Kendall. You keep me young.”
“What can I say? I’m just a magnet for trouble… and calories.”
“You are something else.”
We speak for a few more minutes and then hang up.
The mystery of Alistair Rinaghi, formerly John Doe, grips my attention and won’t let me go. I love a good puzzle. I’ve got a feeling that this guy may turn out to be a whopper of a thousand piece jigsaw.
Chapter 8
Alistair
I remain with the Caribbean Assassins for seven days. Tatum bestows his favor and generously allows his agents to retrain me in the art of sword-play, fist-fighting, and endurance. Each session is brutal.
My body is bloodied and bruised. Every limb burns with fire from the coals that rained upon my opponent and me as we fought in the boiler room. The accident produced painful scars on the both of us, but we fought through the pain until a victor was crowned.
My left eye is swelling slightly thanks to the errant elbow of a rather enthusiastic new recruit, eager to prove his abilities. The young assassin was not the first to forget the rules of faux battles.
Though the fights are supposed to be relatively harmless, I fear that my body is more tired and weak than I would like. If Shadow were to approach me today, I would fall in exhaustion at his feet.
Still, I am indebted to Tatum and the Belizean Assassins. As it has been so long since I’ve trained with an Order, I’ve had little opportunity to sharpen my skills in battle.
Even in the height of my missions, my targets required no heightened levels of skill. Rather, my ability to blend into any environment was prized and ultimately led to my success.
I’ve grown soft with the years. My adversaries had been heavy on their feet, incredibly dependent on their weapons, and more muscled in their arms than in their brains.
With this complacency coupled with my inactivity, I fear I shall be no match for Shadow. An assassin who has been trained in every manner of combat and wit will not be so easily defeated.
Today is my last match, but given the state of my body, I have no guarantees that I will win. In the Brotherhood of Assassins, the loser must give his respect to the victor. I’ve had no issues doing so with the Belizean recruits that I do not know.
But I will be damned, if I bow to the buck prancing on the balls of his feet on the other side of the cavern.
“Are you sure you don’t want to back out, Old Man?” Damien shouts.
He is entirely serious and this enrages me.
“I am quite fine. Thank you for your concern.”
I shift the cape of the robe behind my back. It is a custom of this sect to wear traditional outfits in training. It is a bothersome thing and was the cause of the accident in the boiler room. The robes are highly unnecessary. I doubt that Shadow and I will battle in the ancient garbs.
Damien seems to have no problem with the clothing. He prances about confidently, parrying with his sword. His black robes are striking against his very pale skin. The hood flaps against Damien’s back, leaving his oval face and Asian features to shine in the light.
Tatum was hesitant to allow any of the recruits to fight with swords. They are too green and the risk of injury, though necessary to promote endurance, was too great. When Damien heard of the quandary, he graciously offered to oppose me in a duel.
We are surrounded by nearly the entire league of Belizean assassins. In their full battle dress of black hoods, black gloves, and heavy brown boots, they appear as demons in the flickering light. This is more than a simple training exercise and everyone knows it.
An energetic crackle tinges the air. Booted feet stomp against the floor and echo a heavy bass rhythm in the cavern. The assassins surround us in hopes of seeing a show. Damien seems quite eager to deliver and I am eager to put him in his place before the assembly.
Tatum steps into the middle of the cavern and holds his arms up. Immediately, a hush descends. The Cheif glances at me and then at Damien before his opening address.
“We have always worked in the darkness, without gratitude, without the spotlight. Yet, we bring light.”
“He speaks the truth!” The assassins reply.
“Today we witness two brothers combat in the dance of the ancients. Those who have gone before gifted us with knowledge. They live on through our honor, our courage, and our strength! They live on in our traditions.”
“He speaks the truth!”
Tatum swings his arms to his sides. “Let it begin!”
I fit the hilt of my sword securely in my clasp. The razor sharp edges run to a point six inches in length. The weapon is heavy in my palm, but adrenaline pumps through my veins. In this moment, the sword is as light as a feather.
Damien and I circle one another. I’ve parried with him before. He is weak on his left side, but his movements are quick. My hope is that the fight will end quickly with the point of my sword against his armored chest.
In my current state, endurance is not something I can guarantee.
“Yah!”
A shout escapes Damien’s mouth as the younger assassin ends our circling maneuvers and sprints forward. The silver metal of his sword glints in the light. I block his weapon with my own. The clang of steel against steel rattles my teeth.
We fight valiantly for ten minutes. Each second feels as a lifetime. Damien has discovered the impaired vision in my left eye and exploits it every chance that he can. My experience is the only thing keeping me from the tip of his sword.
Sweat slides down my face. The temperatures are excruciatingly hot and the robes have begun to cling to my body, further hampering my movements. Damien seems energized. He still bounces each time he strikes.
I have yet to deliver a blow and have turned to defending my stance and waiting him out. Unfortunately, my limbs are too exhausted to compare to his boundless energy. If I don’t do something, and soon, Damien will win this fight.
While avoiding his strikes, I watch the flow of his movements. I’d been too caught up in my pride to do so before, thinking only of my embarrassment if this young buck were to win.
Damien’s parries attack in a flurry at first and then peter out. He takes a breath between each cluster of blows.
I breathe deeply and step forward, keeping my balance as he delivers his last strike before the inevitable pause. Gathering my last bit of strength, I focus my energies on moving with speed.
In a fraction of a second, my feet shuffle. I strengthen my stance and lift my sword, feeling its weight like an anchor strapped to my shoulder. Working on the force of my swing, I disarm Damien.
His weapon clatters to the floor with a resounding clash. He rushes forward to retrieve it but freezes when I stick the point of my sword against his armor.
I am breathing harder than he is. It was a stroke of luck that I moved speedily enough to thwart him. Despite this understanding, Damien steps back and bows in respect.
The room is silent, but I feel the regard of each warrior.
Tatum strolls to my side and lifts my arm. My chest is heaving with each labored breath.
“We have a victor!”
Only then do the assassins surrounding us raise their voices. Damien straightens and strides forward. His hood flaps against his back with every step. He clasps my arm.
“I thought I had you for a minute there, Old Man.”
“So did I.”
I dip my head in respect of his prowess. Together, we raise our hands to the crowd.
Chapter 9
Kendall
Alistair Rinaghi has left the building. Or maybe the country. All I know is, since the kitchen door collided with my face last week, I haven’t seen him around. Courtney refuses to confirm whether he’s checked out.
Apparently, it’s against the company policies.
Blegh!
What’s a little twisting
of the rules in the game of love?
It’s sad because I was really hoping to have a second chance at that date. Even if it was just to unravel the mystery of Alistair’s false name and the cash payment to La Ruba.
The suspense is killing me. I’ve restrained my inner Curious George for seven days. The monkey is shrieking and aching to burst out. So I’m considering a plan. But it’s not a very good one. It’s definitely not a smart one.
The truth is I could have moved on my idea days ago. But there’s something about getting fired and falling behind on my bills that snaps me back to reality.
Today, as I mix the flour and cornmeal for the orange cornmeal cake I’m making for dessert, the doubts are fading. I’m being dragged farther and farther from reality as the plan I’d concocted a few days ago in the middle of an old, black-and-white detective movie gains a foothold.
It’s a simple plan, really. Not too dangerous at all. I’d head down to the service floor of the hotel where I’d meet my contact, Martha.
Last year, Martha couldn’t afford to buy the fancy birthday cake that her son wanted. I heard about her problem and offered to supply the pastry. She’s been a staunch supporter ever since.
Martha works in the house keeping department. I plan to borrow her outfit and sneak into Room 104 using her master key.
After some light snooping and a little cleaning, I’ll leave. If Alistair’s still staying at La Ruba, I’ll know. If he’s not, at least the room will get some loving Kendal Villanueva attention.
By the time I’ve stuffed the cornbread in the oven, I’m completely convinced. This is the most brilliant idea and nothing could possibly go wrong.
I know. I’m delusional.
Still, it is with enthusiastic energy that I wave goodbye to Serachi as I head out on my lunch break. He answers my cheer with a grimace. It’s our thing. I shove my tongue out at his back when he returns his attention to the counter.
The service elevator yanks on my back muscles as I turn the lever. I absolutely hate using this old thing. And the dark storage closet that I have to pass before I reach the door is creepy.
I descend into the darkness, pretending that I’m brave while I keep one hand on my phone so I can use it as a flashlight. I dart safely through the obstacle course of the hall and then fly through the door leading to the main, illuminated corridor.
The light is a welcome relief. I stride down the narrow hall until I hear the low tones of Hispanic music. With little effort, I push the door open and greet the workers scurrying about in their netted caps and white aprons.
“Kendall!” a melodic voice with a heavy accent squeals.
Thick, bronze arms are thrown around my waist.
“Martha!” I return the embrace. “How are you?”
“I’m good.”
Martha steps back and tucks a wisp of dark brown hair behind her ear. She’s a pretty forty-something single mom with two boys at home. Martha and I sometimes go shopping together at the thrift stores down by the market.
She’s the sweetest person that I know. It’s why I’m having such a hard time asking her for this favor. If I’m caught, Martha could get in a lot of trouble. I would feel responsible.
We’re beating around the bush and pursuing idle conversation when my friend gets to the point.
“What do you need, Kendall?”
I glance at the tiled floor and shuffle my feet.
“It’s nothing. I’ve changed my mind.”
“Come on,” Martha shakes my arm. “Whatever you ask is yours!”
I blink at her easy promise. It was a heck of a birthday cake, but I don’t think it deserves that much credit.
Taking a deep breath, I push past my fears and my conscience.
“I was wondering if I could borrow an outfit and your master key.”
Martha doesn’t even blink.
“Of course.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m charging down the hall in a tight white blouse and navy skirt. My hair is restrained by a netted white cap. The shirt rides up whenever I bend or twist so I keep pulling it down as I awkwardly push my cart to the elevator.
This is so stupid.
My heart is thumping like a maniac. As much as I wanted to pursue this Alistair business, I didn’t think I would actually go through with it. I’m more of a dreamer than a go-getter. This go-getting business is nerve wracking.
A couple on their honeymoon saunters down the carpeted corridor. They walk hand-in-hand and smile at me as they stroll.
“Hello, hello!” I say in a Spanish accent.
They send me strange looks. I realize that I need to tone it down a bit. Thankfully, the love birds don’t linger and I’m once again alone in the hall. I quickly extract the master key and swipe it over the door.
It opens with a silent click. The curtains are drawn but the harsh afternoon sunlight is spilling past the blinds over the windows. My shoes squeak against the tiled floor as my eyes rake the surface of each dresser.
I’m not a criminal so I don’t want to take or touch anything, but if I can find something that can clue me in to who this guy is, I’ll count that a success. Then I’ll get the heck out of here.
I’m squirreling around in the sitting room when I hear the door open. I freak out and dive behind the full length curtains in front of the French doors leading out to the balcony. Only after I slip behind the thin material do I realize how stupid my decision was.
Because it’s still daylight, the rays from the sun cast a shadow. The outline of my body will be clear to anyone looking in. After a few moments of stillness, I decide to give up my position and surrender to the consequences.
Shoving the curtain aside, I stare blindly into the pointed end of a sharp dagger.
A squeal escapes my lips. I freeze up, certain that I’ll be swimming with the angels in the next minute. The sharp point nicks my neck before the knife is yanked away and my attacker steps into the light.
Alistair?
“Kendall?”
The guy who –just a second ago–was ready to chop my head off is looking down at me with concern and relief.
“Hi,” I awkwardly wave my fingers.
His face contorts as he focuses on my throat.
“You’re bleeding.”
I touch my fingers to my neck, suddenly realizing that the area indeed stings a bit. My hand falls away with the stain of blood.
“Oh, I am.” I straighten my shoulders. “Well, I’ll just be on my way so I can deal with that.”
“Wait,” Alistair clutches my hand.
I’m wigging out because I’m sure he’ll ask me questions that I don’t have good answers to. Instead, he presses the width of his palm against the un-hurt side of my neck.
“Come on, let me clean that up.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he slants me a look. His gentle tone was just for show. It wasn’t a question.
Chapter 10
Alistair
The last thing I expected after my long drive from the hidden fortress to the hotel was Kendall Villanueva behind my curtains. Given my grueling week among the assassins, I’d managed to push her to an obscure corner of my mind.
But now I’m here.
And so is she.
“Hold still,” I caution as I remove the cotton swab from the First Aid Kit packet and swipe it against her bleeding skin.
She hisses.
Kendall’s been strangely silent since our meeting. I’m curious to know why she’d been lurking around my suite. But I’m more shaken by the memory of holding a knife to her neck. Had she not made that sound when she did, I would have killed her.
It’s a disturbing thought.
“Almost done.”
She simply nods.
I work quietly, removing the bandage from its package and fastening it to her skin. When I’m through Kendall pops up, nearly knocking me backwards. Her curly bun, along with a strange white cap, flops down into her face. She keeps it upright with one hand, while ext
ending the other like a traffic officer.
“Thanks! Got to go!”
She makes it halfway to the door before I catch up to her.
“Hold up just one minute.”
I hear her mutter ‘rats’. Her back tenses. She continues to stare at the exit. I’m amused, but the initial fear for her safety is receding. Now I want to know what this woman was after.
“Why were you in my room?”
She spins around and blinks at me with thick, dark lashes. It’s mesmerizing, but I focus on my exhaustion instead of her appeal and hold firm.
“Um,” she coughs, “it’s actually a funny story.”
I lift an eyebrow and tilt my head to indicate that she should continue.
“Well, the thing is…” Kendall sputters, “I’m kind of helping out a friend with her job.”
“The hotel allows pastry chefs to assist the house keepers?”
She snorts. “Well, when you say it like that it sounds stupid.”
I have her backed into a corner and she knows it.
“What were you really doing?”
Kendall sighs and steps near my bed. The picture unlocks a plethora of feelings. The girl is absolutely stunning.
Her light, brown skin is as soft as it looks. Her curly brown hair, carelessly tossed into a bun, is simple yet elegant. The maid costume she wears is especially tight and reveals her deep curves which only serve to distract me.
I could ravish her. Right here. Right now.
I fold my hands into fists and restrain myself from such thoughts. If Kendall is an enemy assassin or worse, an associate of Shadow, then she cannot be trusted. In addition, forcing myself upon a woman is against not only the assassin’s code but my personal code of honor.
“I was looking for clues.”
Her sweet voice nudges me from my reflections.
On the outside, I remain stoic. But inside, I’m beginning to sweat. Perhaps Kendal is with Interpol. If so, I shall have to account to the government for my past crimes. Though the police may not be as fatal as Shadow, they are a different headache altogether.
“Did you find them?” I draw her casually away from the bed and into the sitting room.