In a virtual stupor of exhaustion and self‑pity, Michelle's focus drifted up from the offending grate, down the block, past cafes and souvenir shops. She saw a Black woman walking toward her and her heart lifted. At first glance, Michelle recognized the woman was not from Africa. The tell‑tale signs were as subtle as obvious to anyone who bothered to look. Posture, walk, clothes, hair, everything said Western, American. Michelle was surprised to realize her heart had started to beat a little faster in her excitement at seeing a familiar face in the stranger coming toward her. A tiny bit of her isolation sloughed off at seeing the familiar, if unknown, face.
The woman's gaze looked right past where Michelle sat, but recognition did not register in the woman's face. She turned into a cafe about four stalls away.
How could she not see me in this place?
Michelle checked her watch; the bus wasn't due for another hour. She got up and went down to the restaurant, one of the few with an enclosed front and an actual door. She wound her way between the row of motorbikes parked on the sidewalk and the man in front standing by a small pedestal displaying the menu, finally reaching the door. Stepping inside, the combination of cool air on her face and the smell of strange food immediately captured, then lost her attention. She stood beside the closed door, her hand still on the knob, and smiled at the woman.
A Vietnamese woman struggled with limited English. The Black woman spoke with a heavy French accent, pointed to the menu, and ordered. Michelle waited until the waitress left and, again, smiled at the woman.
The woman, only two tables away, with nothing between them, looked right through her.
Michelle faltered. She smiled again. “Hey.”
The woman's eyes focused on Michelle. Her expression, bland, not hostile, not friendly.
Michelle nodded. “Sup?”
“You're American,” the woman accused in her heavy French accent.
“Yes. I thought you were too,” Michelle said.
“Not American. I don't speak English.”
“But you ordered in English,” Michelle said.
“I don't speak English,” the woman repeated and turned away to dig through her purse.
“What's with the attitude? I'm trying to be friendly. I thought . . .”
“You think we are sisters? We are not. We are strangers. I am not your sister.” The woman pursed her lips in a tiny fake smile, more a dismissal than a smile, and looked openly, blandly at Michelle.
“You're French?”
“Oui”
“You're also a bitch.”
Nothing changed in the woman's face.
Michelle left. More tears.
Over the course of the next three years in Southeast Asia, where she rubbed shoulders with tourists and expats, she learned that European Blacks, and especially the French, didn’t share the culture of acknowledging each other the way American Blacks do. Fortunately, she also learned her first encounter with the difference in cultures with the woman in Saigon, was the worst possible case. That woman had been a pedigree bitch.
Many times, Michelle had looked back on that horrible meeting as the punctuation mark, a period, on the worst experience of her life that started with the gun battle in the den of her home in Anglewatts. The all‑day bus ride that took her away from Saigon to Phnom Penh, the capital city of Cambodia, was the beginning of her long journey back.
Today, in Paris, Michelle walked past the attractive French Black woman admiring her wild mane of hair while understanding there was no snub intended as the woman passed, showing no recognition of Michelle's existence. Back home it would be booghie, putting on airs, but here it was just two strangers passing on the street. Michelle smiled to herself in the knowledge she was very much the richer person for her understanding of and, in this case, integrating into the different cultures.
This was her fourth time in France and it would soon be her fourth assassination in France too. This was the first time she had learned anything about the target. Before she always learned their habits, their weak points, and how to kill them, but she never asked or cared why they were chosen as a target.
Today Michelle was a different person than when she first came to France not so long ago. Those earlier assassin jobs had been before she finally killed the men who murdered her brother. Today, not only had she killed the two men who did it, but she also killed the man who ordered them to do it and then the man who told him to get it done. That was a lot of water under the bridge.
Her first trips to France had been as much for the assignment as to build her assassination skills. Today, the final deciding factor for her coming back to France was she needed the money. It was an ugly truth and one she couldn’t back away from.
However, the money alone wasn't enough. This time she needed to know the man at the other end of her high-powered scope deserved to die. She needed to know that, at some level, the man was a monster.
Her target was a Turkish general that had increasingly influenced his government toward the bombing of their own countrymen, the Kurds. His publicly stated purpose was partly because he hated the Kurds and partly to make room for the Syrian refugees.
Michelle didn't understand, and didn't want to understand the ins and outs of politics, religions, or long-simmering hatreds. She didn't have an opinion on the right or wrong of why these people were being bombed by their own government. What she did understand was, this general was responsible for the ongoing killing and displacement of thousands, if not tens of thousands of families with innocent children and grandparents far too old to be a threat.
She didn't care if one Muslim sect felt another sect was an abomination to the true‑faith any more than if the Hindus became angry at the Jews or Christians. However, she did care when innocents were slaughtered. Upon getting the research on the general, Michelle decided he fit within her description of a monster. She was good with his death on her hands.
The kill shot would tax her sniper skills to the maximum of her ability. In the world of professional assassins, she was at the bottom of the top ten percent of the best snipers. Some shooters were better; not many, but enough. Most other assassins would choose a different method, or a closer sniper nest. She had the confidence in her skills that she felt taking the long difficult shot was the best fit for the circumstances.
After passing the pretty woman in the bright jacket, Michelle strolled to the end of the block, rounded the corner, and climbed the stairs to the fourth-story apartment she rented posing as a student from South Africa. Blending in was easy, but still she felt a little lonely. Of course, she had to maintain as small of a personality as possible without being obvious. It was important that as few people as possible remembered the quiet, attractive, but unadorned young woman who temporarily lived in their city. She would take the shot from the attic above her room at a distance of almost fifteen standard American city blocks, or a bit over three quarters of a mile.
The distance was far enough to make it a difficult shot. The terrain, with heat coming off the streets, wind gusts wrapping around buildings, and down streets, made the shot very difficult. The fact that the man’s security team would immediately take him to the ground, or run him out of sight, meant there would only be one chance. Extremely difficult or not, the situation required a perfect first shot.
Michelle had walked the route several times, noting where the wind funneled between the buildings. She created small tell‑tales such as a bit of light ribbon tied to a post or a piece of plastic wrapper apparently caught in the corner of an awning. They would show her the conditions of the wind when it was time to take the shot. On the other side of the equation, the distance created a solid cushion of getaway safety.
It was an unusual job. Not unheard of, but rare. Normally she would be given photos for identification and often, but not always, an itinerary on when and where to acquire the target. Everything would then be up to Michelle to create the plan and then execute the target.
This time she was brought in solely
for the shot. There would be a support team, ghosts who she never saw. Once she selected the spot for the nest, they supplied her with the necessary equipment: sniper rifle, scope, binoculars.
Theoretically, she didn't need to clean the site. Her employer, probably an opposing government, would supply the weapon and the cleanup crew. Michelle's view of reality said differently.
In theory, reality and theory are the same. The reality is, they never are.
It was her ass if anything went wrong. She was the expendable person, an outsider, not attached to any government or official organization. She gave everyone total plausible deniability. The risk was all hers, and she demanded the pay equal to the risk. She also didn't trust the team to leave a totally clean site. After the shot, she would clean everything—the nest, her room, everything. If the police ever figured out where the shot came from, they wouldn't find any proof of it having been the nest or proof of her existence. At the distance she chose, the chances they would triangulate it all the way back were slim to the point of complete insignificance. But still . . .
In a few hours, there would be one less monster in the world and the student from South Africa would disappear faster and more thoroughly than a teenager’s allowance.
THREE: Thanks, But No
GRADUALLY WINNING THE WAR on her depression, Michelle put down her A & W Root Beer on the coffee table, and scratched her adolescent kitten, Pink, under his chin. He rolled over on the couch beside her and pulled her hand into him with his front paws while his back legs thumped her wrist like a rabbit.
She always had to fight her way through depression after an assassination. It didn’t matter that the person had earned it a thousand times. It didn’t matter that she had been doing it professionally on a regular basis for almost two years. It didn’t matter that in getting her revenge for the murders of her brother and cousin, she’d killed more men on the streets than as a professional assassin. What mattered was she had killed a man, and that always put her in a deep funk.
Unable to resist Pink’s furry white belly, she rubbed it and said, “You're such a good boy.”
No sooner had she said it than he extended his front claws and pulled on her hand.
“Stop that! No claws!” She grabbed his little paw with her other hand before his sharp claws dug into her skin.
Over time she was slowly winning the ongoing training battle with the rambunctious kitten.
She took a sip of her root beer and opened her laptop.
“Let's see who loves us this morning.” She was talking to Pink but he had moved on to attack a small plastic ball with a bell inside. After a few swats, he and the ball disappeared through the door into the kitchen.
Michelle scanned her several email accounts; a number of non‑urgent messages waited in each one. She also had a message on a private message board that only three people knew about. One of them was dead. She killed him a couple months ago. The other two were herself and Mr. Jones. To hear from Mr. Jones so soon after France was a little surprising. But, as a freelance assassin, there wasn’t a schedule per se.
She closed her laptop and picked up her keys and Pink. She had a phone call to make that needed to be made on a public land line.
She wasn't sure training Pink to ride in the car was a good idea, or even the point of it. She’d started the training the first week he adopted her down on the beach and felt she should follow through. He seemed to be taking to it fairly well. So far, she always kept the top up for fear he might jump out. Mostly he curled up in the passenger seat and slept. Sometimes he would rest on her shoulder and watch the traffic.
Thirty minutes later she pulled into a parking structure next to a mall. Inside, the mall had one of the few remaining pay phones in the area. “I'll be back soon; you guard the car while I'm gone.”
Michelle fed the phone a small handful of quarters. “Hello, Mr. Jones.”
“Good of you to call, Miss Angelique.” Mr. Jones responded in his trademark calm that gave the vibe of an accountant on coffee break with nothing more than a column of balanced figures on his mind.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Jones?” Michelle knew, unless there were significant problems, there would be no conversation about the Paris hit. That was history. Success never needed an explanation.
“A client has a need for your services in Brazil. They think success is more likely with a person of color. Reviewing the task at hand, I agree. Also, a woman would be at an advantage.”
“Are you personally involved?” Michelle asked.
“No.”
“Will this affect your operations one way or the other?”
“No.”
“Is human trafficking, specifically women, involved?”
“No,” Jones said. “It appears to be a business based operation. An American corporation taking advantage of a competitor's travel plans to an international location with an unfortunate reputation for violence.”
“Are there any special circumstances?”
“No.”
“Is there a premium on the contract?”
“No. It’s the normal pay.”
Jones only said there were no special circumstances. That meant the assassination would typically take two to four weeks to research and execute. He wouldn't contact her for a fast and dirty assignment, not without good cause, and it would bring a large premium. If such a thing existed, this was a regular, run-of-the-mill, assassination.
“Thank you for the offer. I will not take this contract,” Michelle said.
“Very well; I'll make other arrangements. May I ask you a question?”
“Certainly. I may even answer it.” Michelle heard Mr. Jones chuckle at her comment.
“Will you take any more contracts of this nature in the future?” he asked.
“If by this nature you mean just business, I rather doubt it. However, if the target is, as we previously discussed, a monster, we can always discuss it. I may have sold my soul to the Devil, but I won't go cheap. If it pays enough, I may be interested. If I've priced myself out of the market, that's fine. It's a good market to be priced out of.”
“Are you still interested in your special concerns?”
“Yes. If a contract comes in that is connected to the freedom of slave prostitutes, I’ll be interested. Of course, all other considerations remain.”
“Of course,” Mr. Jones replied.
.
FOUR: Down Time
ALMOST TWO WEEKS had passed since Paris. Michelle spent the last week at work and felt close to normal. Normal enough to look forward to a two-day mini-vacation.
She stepped through the gate into the domestic terminal at the San Diego International Airport. Two steps into the room, Matt grabbed her around the waist, pulled her in tight and kissed her — a long, luxurious kiss. The kind normally reserved for the honeymoon suite. Michelle, her heart thumping, leaned into the kiss; the world around her disappeared.
She whispered into his ear, “Promises, promises.”
“A promise you can count on.” Matt grinned and squeezed her hand. “Shall we? Our chariot awaits.”
“What? Only one kiss? I hope that isn't how you plan on keeping your promise.”
“Oh no, you'll get compounded interest on that promise — soon. But I'm afraid if I kiss you a second time here, we'll have a problem. This is Southern California, but still, I think they may object to us having sex in their lobby. Come on, my car is this way.”
“Did you bring that little toy car or something real?” Michelle deadpanned with a slightly serious expression.
Matt stopped, hand to his heart, then staggered back two steps. “You wound me.”
Hiding a grin, she said. “Silly man! You know I like your little car. What is it again?”
“It's a 1955 MG . . . T . . .” He trailed off. “Oh, so now you’re messing with me. You know exactly what it is.”
“Yes, it's a TF, whatever that means, and I love how you get so serious and excited telling me all about
it. You're worse than new parents with baby pictures.”
“I have pictures.” With his sandy blond permanently mussed hair and silly grin spreading wide, the little boy in Matt burst through. “Wanna see some?”
“Only if I’m in them because you know all I care about is how good I look in it.”
“And girl, you do look good in it.”
Matt took Michelle's briefcase-sized bag and put it behind the passenger seat of his bright red, small antique English sports car. “Thanks for packing light; I do appreciate it.”
“I remembered; much more than an extra bikini and a couple pair of clean panties is overdoing it. What's the agenda?”
“We'll start with the world-famous San Diego Zoo, followed by dinner and a room at none other than the Hotel del Coronado.”
Michelle reached over the short distance in the small car and slid her hand up the inside of his thigh. “And you do plan on keeping your promise, right?”
“Several times, my lady. Several times.”
.
FIVE: Houston
MICHELLE FELT THE AIRPLANE tilt slightly forward and the cabin pressure change, signaling they were starting their decent. All the parts of flying were relaxing to her and she continued to enjoy a new author until the bump in the seat told her the wheels had touched down. A small smile crossed her face as she thought of how different she felt from the first time she flew.
Only a few days after her sixteenth birthday, her family went on a vacation to Mexico. More than just a little scared, she had held on to her dad who sat between her and her mother. His reassurance that everything would be fine made all the difference.
It was an amazing time; the first time the whole family took a vacation together. It was also the last time. A few short months later her parents were killed in a bad car wreck.
The next time she flew was four years later. Everything had changed. Her whole family was dead and, fearing for her life, she’d fled.
A few days before that second flight, she left her brother dead on the floor of their home. He had been shot in a drug deal gone bad. Michael, her brother, and several others, all dead, sprawled on the floor. Two briefcases sat strangely undisturbed on the coffee table. One full of oxy the other full of money. Scared out of her mind, she took the cash, left the oxy, and with the help of her Uncle Gabriel’s connections, flew to the other side of the world. A life on the other side of any reality she had ever known or could have imagined waited for her.
Hard Run: Action Adventure Pulp Thriller Book #4 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Series) Page 27