Ravaged

by C. R. Lacerte

  “Don’t call me that,” I snap, “I’m no one’s baby girl. Least of all yours.”

  “Just keep on telling yourself that,” he coos, “You’ll come to your senses once you’ve cooled down a little bit.”

  “Stop talking to me like I’m a petulant child,” I tell him, feeling my composure slipping away.

  “When you stop acting like one, I will,” he says meanly.

  “Sloan, you know that I don’t want to get a restraining order,” I say, “I really don’t want to embarrass you like that, but I will absolutely do it if this doesn’t stop.”

  “You’d only be embarrassing yourself if you actually went through with it,” he replies coolly, “Then you’d have your paranoia on record for everyone to see.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Shut up,” he snaps, “I’m trying to speak. Now, listen. My dad’s got a big fundraiser party coming up in a couple weeks’ time. And, since you’ve started all this idiocy, I am without a date for said event. It’s going to look awfully bad if I don’t show up with a beautiful girl on my arm. Now, I would prefer that the beautiful girl be you, but if you’re going to keep giving me the frigid bitch treatment, I’ll have to go find some other piece of arm candy.”

  “Though I’m loathe to inflict you on some other poor woman,” I say, “There’s no way in hell I’m going to see you again. Much less pretend to be your date.”

  “Fine,” Sloan says, “You'll come around. Have a good day, baby girl. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “No you—” I begin, but the line goes dead before I can get out my closing line. Irene averts her gaze as I hand the phone back to her with trembling fingers.

  “I know it’s none of my business,” she says, “But—”

  “You’re right,” I snap, “It’s none of your goddamn business. At all.”

  I storm away as Irene’s jaw falls open. I know it’s ridiculous to take my anger and fear out on an innocent bystander, but I can’t help it. I race to my car, hot tears stinging my eyes. It’s bad enough that I have to live in constant fear of Sloan showing up on my doorstep someday, but this harassment from afar just turns the entire world into one big mouse trap. How long before he gets bold enough to simply come and find me?

  I feel exposed and vulnerable and I slide into my Buggy. My hands shake as I start the car and pull out of my spot. I don’t have time to go off on a crying jag now. I’m expected at the Roth home. Hopefully, this new job will be engrossing enough to take my mind off the shambles that is my personal life. Maybe spending time with a family that’s actually experienced heartache and tragedy will help me put my own problems into perspective.

  Cranking up the radio, I drive back toward McClean, forcing every stray thought out of my head. Sloan is a brash, maniacal man, but he’s not stupid. He knows that one wrong move will get him pegged with a restraining order. I can still hold that over him. I’ve still got the power, despite what he’d have me think.

  Chapter Eight

  -Lukas-

  I spot the client at the corner of the bar and make my way across the smoky room. I’ve only met the man once before, but I took an immediate liking to him. He’s about my age, and certainly isn’t in the business of funding hits. I could tell from the first time we spoke that he was a first-timer. A one-timer. These are my favorite people to work with. They’re still reverent about life and death, not as jaded as me. I find them refreshingly human.

  The client looks up as I take a seat beside him and ask the bartender for my usual drink—double whiskey, neat. I turn to the man with a smile and a barely-noticeable nod.

  “It’s finished?” he asks breathlessly.

  “It’s finished,” I tell him. “You won’t see anything about it in the news, of course. I don’t think anyone will be upset to see a man like him put down. No one’s going to be eager to start a nationwide manhunt for his killer.”

  “I hope you’re right,” the client says, rolling his white Russian between his palms. “I wouldn’t want this getting back to me.”

  “It won’t,” I tell him fiercely, “I’m a professional, after all. I don’t leave traces. You have to trust me when I tell you that.”

  “I know. I believe you. You, uh...come highly recommended.”

  I can’t help but smile at that. Even in this rather specialized profession, it’s all about word of mouth. The client slips his hand into his jackets pocket and hands me a newly opened pack of cigarettes. I take the pack, frowning slightly.

  “This isn’t my brand,” I tell him.

  “Look inside,” he replies.

  I flip open the top of the pack and smile. Nestled among the fresh cigarettes is a check. I slip it out and flick it open under the bar. Two million dollars, made out to Lukas Roth. I chuckle softly, shaking my head. Taking the check into my hands, I slowly rip the slip of paper in two. The client’s eyes nearly bug out of his head.

  “What are you doing?” he gasps.

  “You’re such a rookie,” I tell him. “Why on earth would you try to give me a check for this? A kindergartener could trace a check this big. It needs to be cash.”

  “Jesus,” the client sighs, “I’m sorry. I really have no idea how this goes. This isn’t something I plan to get in the habit of doing.”

  “I hope not,” I tell him, “Because you’re terrible at it.”

  “I still can’t believe it actually happened,” the client says softly, staring into his drink. “All these months, I’ve dreamed about the moment I’d know for sure that that bastard was dead. I thought I’d feel some kind of...”

  “Closure?” I suggest.

  “Yeah,” he says. I’m alarmed to see tears welling up in his eyes. I don’t do tears.

  “Listen,” I say, turning toward him, “I’m going to tell you a secret. The secret they don’t let you in on in therapy or the self help books. There’s no such thing as closure. Closure is just a carrot they dangle in front of you to keep you trudging through life, rather than killing yourself. You’re never going to feel better. You’re never going to get back to the way you were.”

  “Why are you saying this?” he asks, astonished.

  “Because it’s the truth,” I tell him. “What happened to your daughter...It’s never going to unhappen. You can’t go back in time and save her from getting abducted on the playground and sold to some pervert who wanted nothing more than to destroy her. It wasn’t your fault that she was taken away. At least you can take some comfort in the fact that she’s resting peacefully, now. They can’t hurt her anymore. But closure...don't count on it.”

  “She must have been so scared,” the man says, his chin beginning to quiver, “When that fat thug’s cronies took her away. God...that playground was three blocks from our house. Three blocks. Since when can’t you let your kids outside without worrying about whether or not they’re going to be sold into sex slavery? What the hell kind of world do we live in, anyway?”

  “A world that’s fucked,” I tell him, “Fucked and flawed and hopeless. There’s nothing we can do to fix that.”

  “So...What can we do, then?” the man asks in a whisper.

  I grin, clapping him on the back. “Kill as many sick motherfuckers as we can get our hands on, that’s what.”

  “I think I’m through with killing,” he sighs, “I’m not cut out for it. I’ll get you your cash as soon as I can. Thank you. So much...”

  “You know what?” I say suddenly, downing my whiskey in one gulp, “You go ahead and keep the money. This one’s on the house.”

  “W-what?” he stammers, looking up with wide eyes. “But, it’s two million dollars.”

  “No,” I say, standing up from my stool, “Consider the hit a gift. From one father to another.”

  “I didn’t realize you have children,” the client says.

  “I don’t,” I tell him, turning away, “Not anymore. Enjoy the rest of your drink. I won’t be seeing you around.”

  I turn and stride across the room before he
can get another word in. The last thing I want to do is dredge up the details of my personal woe with some mourning sap who drinks girly cocktails and cries. I don’t have time for that kind of bullshit.

  The two million I let slide is no skin off my nose. It’s not as though I became a hit man for the money, after all. I get back into my SUV and take a deep breath. It’s been a long, long week. Finally, at long last, I set off for home. I could use a little rest. And that’s not something I admit easily.

  Chapter Nine

  -Hannah-

  “Miss Levy,” the butler says warmly, opening the door for me. “Do come in. I’m so happy that the Roths decided to bring you on. I can already tell that you’re going to be a wonderful addition to our household.”

  “I’m so glad you think so, Mr. Thomas,” I smile.

  “Please, just Thomas is fine,” he says. “Mrs. Roth is waiting for you. I’ll show you to her rooms.”

  Thomas leads me up the grand marble staircase, past priceless oil paintings and elaborate wall sconces. I can’t even begin to imagine how much money is stored up in every little trinket here in the Roth home. I’m sure that any given artifact could pay my rent for months, if auctioned off. I follow Thomas down a long hallway and through a characteristically heavy wooden door.

  “Mrs. Roth,” Thomas intones, “Miss Levy is here for you.”

  “How many times do I have to ask you to call me Gertrude, Thomas?” Mrs. Roth moans. “It’s been thirty damn years, and you still won’t drop the pleasantries.”

  “No, Mrs. Roth,” Thomas replies, “I’m afraid I just don’t have it in me.”

  “Let’s see if I have better luck with the new girl,” she says. “Come on in, Hannah.”

  I step around Thomas into Gertrude’s room. The chamber is lit by candles and lamplight, and there’s a fire crackling in the corner. It’s toasty, even though the day has not been particularly crisp.

  “Sorry for all this,” Gertrude says, indicating the cozy fire, and the drawn blinds. “It’s just that I can’t seem to get warm, these days.”

  “It’s no problem Mrs...Gertrude.”

  “Atta girl,” she smiles, “Come and sit with me, would you? I need something pretty to look at.”

  I cross the room, taking note of the dialysis devices set up around the space. It’s certainly not the most glamorous way to spend one’s final days, having your fluids dredged and drained, but Gertrude still seems to be in remarkably high spirits. I perch on the edge of her bed and smile as she reaches for my hand.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” she says warmly, “Thank God my son didn’t suffer a momentary lapse in judgment and stick me with one of those old battleaxes. I’d much rather see your smiling face around here every day than have to put up with any of those complaining hags.”

  “I’m glad to see you too,” I tell her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. I can feel every bone beneath her papery skin. “How have you been feeling this week?”

  “Bored,” she replies, “But other than that, same as ever. It’s odd...I know that I’m dying, but I can’t actually feel my death getting any closer. I keep waiting for someone to tell me that’s it’s all been a trick, some party game at my expense. But I don’t suppose that’s going to happen, is it?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, “Though that would be quite a turn of events.”

  “It’s alright,” she says, leaning back against her tall stack of pillows, “It’s been a long ride, and I’m ready to finally call it day, when the time comes.”

  “That’s a wonderful outlook to have,” I tell her, “Lots of people can’t come to peace with mortality the way you have.”

  “I’ve got nothing to worry about,” she sniffs, “I don’t believe in any sort of god, after all. Not after the life I’ve led. If there’s a god up there who let my father get snatched away with six million others, if there’s a god that took my sisters before they were even thirty years old, if there’s a god that’s put my son through hell on earth, than he’s no god that I want to spend an eternity with. And if it turns out that there’s some other god who had nothing to do with any of that, who’s actually loving a good and pure...Well, then. He’ll understand my frustration, I’m sure.”

  I nod my head, painfully curious. I know a little bit about what happened to Gertrude’s father, but what about her sisters? And more importantly, what happened to Lukas? What did she mean by “hell on earth”?

  “I don’t mean to burden you with my sappy life story,” she says with a shallow laugh.

  “Not at all,” I tell her, “I’m sorry you’ve had to carry all this sadness through life.”

  “It wasn’t all sad,” she says, “Even amidst all the shit, there was happiness to be found. Little pockets of it, here and there. I can still remember life in Germany, before the war broke out. I was fourteen when we fled, but before that we were as happy a family as could be. My parents were married when they were hardly sixteen, and my mother had us one after another. My older sisters were gorgeous creatures. Like rare birds, preparing for flight. Ilsa, the oldest, could have been a movie star with her dark brown doe eyes. And Sylvia, the middle sibling, was sharp as a tack. Could have followed my father into medicine. But that’s just not the way things were meant to be, I suppose.”

  “You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to,” I say softly.

  “Oh, but I do,” she smiles, “I’ve never talked to anyone like this, Hannah. Not once in my long life. The thing is...I feel as though you’ll be able to understand me. There’s a sadness below your sweetness, my dear. Things have happened to you. Terrible things. When you get to be my age, you can tell just by looking at a person. I’ve always been a perceptive person. Lukas gets it from me. I just knew, the moment you walked into that office, that you’d be the perfect addition to our family. Perfect for me...Perfect for all of us here.”

  I stare at her in wonder. How could she possibly be able to know so much about my life? I’m in awe, and just a little bit unsettled. I thought I’d be here to help her through this hard time. But it looks like she’s just as set on helping me.

  “Can I get you anything Gertrude?” I ask, changing the subject, “I brought some lemon ginger tea. It’s supposed to work wonders.”

  “That sounds lovely,” she says, closing her eyes, “I’ll just...wait here. I do so much waiting these days...”

  I stand up from the bed and hurry out of the room. My chest feels tight, and a knot throbs in my throat. I feel exposed, somehow, as though Gertrude can see all my secrets as plain as day. I worry that she’ll think less of me, if she knows everything I’ve been through. And I couldn’t stand that.

  Making my way along the hallway, I notice that another door has fallen open since I’ve arrived. I reach for the knob, looking to keep out any passing drafts and stop the cold. In the room beyond stands Lukas, his back to the door. He’s wearing perfectly fitted black trousers and no shirt to speak of. I watch transfixed as the rippling muscles of his back and shoulder glide beneath his perfectly tanned skin. His left shoulder is covered in a peculiar tattoo, I can't quite make out the design but it makes him look all the more sexy and even a little dangerous. Out of nowhere, the image of me raking my fingernails down the skin of his back bursts forth in my mind’s eye. I bring my hand to my mouth to stifle a gasp, the sudden thrill of sensation in my core startling me.

  Lukas brings a powerful hand to his neck, rubbing at his muscles. My eyes rake all along his back and land on a strange, raised mark on his side. I squint into the semi-darkness of the room and feel my eyes widen. A long, jagged scar runs along the entire right side of Lukas’s body. I’ve seen enough stab wounds in the ER to know exactly how he earned it, too. Where the hell could a man like Lukas have sustained an injury like that?

  I lurch back from the doorway as Lukas swings his gaze around. Praying that he didn’t spot me spying on him, I hurry down the stairs, toward the kitchen. As I’m crossing the foyer, I hear a rich bass voic
e from up above.

  “Hello Hannah,” Lukas says.

  “Hello Lu—Mr. Roth,” I reply, smiling up at him. He’s shrugged into a woolen sweater, looking casually stylish and sexy as hell.

  “I’m glad to see you,” he tells me, “Mother...and I...are very happy you’ve decided to come on.”

  “I’m...very happy too,” I tell him, “I think I’m going to enjoy my time here very much. Not that...this is a time to enjoy, per se. I mean, it’s terribly sad, but—”

  “I think I understand,” he says. Is that the smallest shadow of a smile I see on his lips? “Carry on. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

  I nod as he turns his back to me, and feast my eyes on his firm, shapely ass as he walks away. Good God, what is the matter with me? I’m supposed to be befriending Lukas Roth, not ogling him. Oh well, I say to myself, I’ll try to be more professional.

  Try being the operative word.

  Chapter Ten

  -Lukas-

  I have an entire week to kill before my next assignment—seven days without feeling the rush of a well-executed hit. Since I started taking on contract gigs seven years ago, I’ve been a very busy man. A high-quality hit man who doesn’t buckle to sentimentality or greed is hard to come by, a fact that my clients know very well.

  You’d think that building up a reputation as a freelance killer would take some time, but I managed to build up a pretty thick rolodex of contacts during my time at the CIA. When the government needs something done, and operating within their laws becomes too oppressive, I’m the first guy who gets a call to do the job right. Sometimes, you don’t want to deal with the justice system or foreign policy—you just need some guy to disappear.

  That's my specialty.

  Frankly, I’m surprised that more CIA operatives don’t go the independent contractor route. There are a handful of guys like me, guys who long ago stopped believing in "fairness" for shitheads. Guys who saw too much evil in the world to ever buy into the ideals of our criminal justice system. But it takes a lot to push a man beyond the limits of the law. It takes an act of God—or the devil—to really force someone to see things for what they are.