by E. J. Mellow
Her blue eyes collide with mine, and I know she can hear my quickly beating heart, but for once I don’t care.
“I was found an hour later,” she continues. “It turned out I was only a few blocks from a police station and had no idea. Killing that dog…it ended up saving my life, twice.”
Silence floods the space where we sit, my chest aching for the young girl Nashville was then. Born with abilities she did not understand and forced to test them too soon, too violently.
“Want to know the really messed-up part?” she says after a moment more. “I remember the dirty gray coat of that mutt, its hazel eyes and the way its wiry hair felt between my fingers, but I can’t remember anything about my first human kill. I can’t even recall if it was a man or a woman.”
I look down at the hands in my lap, the rough callouses marking my history, my sins. How much death we’ve both tangled with.
A memory for a memory, I think.
“Mine was a man.” My voice comes out scratchy, heavy. “An Iraqi soldier ended with one snipe through my scope to his head.” Curling my fingers into a fist, I look up, staring at a watercolor hung on the wall directly in front of me, flowers growing on a hillside. “It was so goddamn hot that day. And I mean balls sticking to skin, suffocating. But in that moment, after pulling the trigger, all I remember is feeling cold. Like a layer of ice enveloped me, freezing whatever aftershock normally follows. I was told it was normal. That it was the mind and body trying to protect itself from such an unnatural act.” I hold my gaze to the painting so long it starts to blur, its meaning lost. “At the time I hated it. I thought my penance should at least be to feel remorse for what I did. But I never did. Never felt the guilt. And later…when my brother was killed and then my parents, my father driving drunk with grief, I was glad for it. That coating of numbness. It was easy to call back then. To let it permanently fix to my heart. My special ice barrier to the world,” I say with a scoff, shaking my head. “I thought, if life liked to play such violent games, why shouldn’t we build a shield from it?”
Only the sound of two people breathing fills the hotel room, the soft breeze from the open balcony fluttering in the cool mountain air as my words fade away.
Words that I held in for so long, let twist in my gut, my atonement.
Now free.
Because of her.
“That’s why you don’t drink.” It’s not a question.
I glance to Nashville, finding her steady cerulean gaze pinned to me. “That’s why I don’t drink.”
Slowly her arm tracks across the bed, stopping palm up, by my side. I look down at it, the way the delicate pale skin matches the white sheets, and a painful knot works up my throat before I rest my hand in hers, our fingers curling together. Strong to thin, cool to warm.
“Aren’t we the pair?” she says.
Pair. Not separated like usual, but together, just this once.
“Aren’t we,” I echo and, after holding each other’s stares for a moment longer, slide to lie beside her. She follows every one of my movements as our connected limbs come to rest between us.
“Will you tell me?” It’s the gentlest I’ve ever spoken to her, and though it’s a vague question, I know she understands what I’m asking. Her eyes peer into mine, so sky blue, bright, and at odds with the soul I know she thinks is black inside. If only she knew I now believed it to be gold.
“You know,” she says, her forehead creasing. “I think…I think I would. If I were able.”
“And why aren’t you?”
“Because”—her other hand comes up to brush back some of my hair, and my heart stutters, such a soft touch from a woman forged from stone. “You’d probably have to kill me.”
I snort a laugh, about to tell her she’s reached a new level in dramatics, when I find her eyes have closed, her breathing growing shallow as her hand falls to my neck. Asleep.
Just like that.
I glance to the almost empty bottle that’s tucked into her chest and, moving it away, return my attention to her, our hands still clasped. Thick lashes fan against her flush cheeks, the red of her hair a sunset of colors under the low lighting of our room, spilling above and around her like she’s floating in water. I take a piece, playing with the soft end, knowing I most likely will never get a moment like this again, before sitting up and tucking her into bed.
Standing, I look down at her, a protective shadow, and then because I must, I lay a kiss to the top of her forehead.
Seeing her walk in tonight, drunk, volatile, and…so open, I would never have guessed this is how our night would have ended. But with her, I should know better than to try to predict such things.
With a sigh, I run a hand through my hair and take a step back, allowing myself another moment to study Nashville’s sleeping form, her rare moment of peace, before preparing myself to do something I hope I won’t regret later.
I search for her shoes.
47
Nashville
She walks back and forth in front of me, her blue dress fluttering by her ankles, and I giggle as I try to snag it from my spot on the floor. She clicks her tongue in fake disapproval, the edge of a smile present as she goes from the kitchen to our small dining table, setting down plates. The warm smell of biscuits and eggs heats our home, the tang of orange juice, and I decide this is my favorite time of day—morning. For she looks her best in this light, my mother.
No longer is she blurred, blown out, but crystal clear in focus, and I hungrily study her every inch. Green eyes, red wild hair, and a speckling of freckles cover her face, as if an angel stood in front of her and blew stardust from his palm.
She’s everything I want to be.
We are alone in this moment, she and I, but I feel the energy of his return, and I bounce in excitement, crawling to the door just as it opens. A dark, strong man stands in the frame. He smells of earth, sunshine—my papa. His blue eyes crinkle with his wide smile. “Mi pequeña rosa,” he coos as he scoops me into his arms. “Te he extrañado.” I’ve missed you.
I hold my tiny hands to his cheeks, feeling the fibers of his beard, and he turns his head to nibble on my fingers. Laughing, I pull them away, but his affections don’t stop. He kisses and buries his face into mine until my belly hurts from my giggles. My papa is silly. My papa is home.
My papa is Manuel Mendoza, but that name means nothing but happiness to me here, in my dreams.
My head aches something fierce as I squint from behind my sunglasses, the crisp early mountain air a small remedy for my stupidity last night. I’m not one to do things with half measure, and my hangovers don’t either. I knew I’d suffer today, but that’s exactly what I was looking for. I needed my body to match my mind for once, needed it to hate itself. So while I’m in pain, I’m not pissed about it.
The memories of being with Carter last night, however, the things I did, said, and enjoyed feeling…
My left hand flutters at my side, trying to shake away the phantom sensation of his strong fingers entwined with mine, the comfort in it.
“What have you bought me so far?” Ceci answers on the second ring as I hold my phone to my ear.
“How’d you know it was me?” I ask with a frown, watching Carter walk into a small café across the square to get us some breakfast. We’re about to set out for the jungle, to take Jules and Akoni back to the lake where we found the drugs, and I took this rare moment of solitude to phone her.
“You’re the only person that calls me from an unlisted number,” Ceci says. “At this point, it’s hardly a mystery. The phone people might as well rename it Nashville.”
For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I sense a genuine smile forming. “How’s life?”
“Aw, you actually remembered to ask about me for once.”
“It appears people can change.”
“Well, look at that. The world does have hope.”
Hope.
“I’m good,” Ceci goes on. “I got promoted to head wa
iter. Got a raise and everything.”
“Ceci, that’s great.”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “Now I just need to decide which Rolls I want.”
“The black one,” I say. “With tan leather interior. Always go classic before you go eclectic.”
“Mmm, sound advice.”
“Thanks.”
“So what’s going on with you? Is the job almost over? Will I get to see your pretty little face soon?”
“Hopefully.” An older gentleman passes by, pulling a cart full of coffee bags with Viento del Este Plantación stamped across them. “Listen, Ceci. I need you to do something for me.”
“Will you pay me in a beautiful Mexican tapestry?”
“Sure.”
“Then of course, what can I do you for?”
“I need you to search the name Isabelle in the Vanderbilt University database. Make a list of all of the ones that attended between 1985 and 1995.”
Normally I’d ask Akoni for something like this, but…
“Okay…” I hear her tearing off a piece of paper and scribbling something down. “Can I ask why you want me to do this?”
The answer hits against the front of my mouth, wanting to escape, and I stand there, staring out at the slowly rising sun creeping along the terra-cotta roofs. A new day.
“I think…I think I might have found my mother.”
It’s like a pound of flesh has fallen around my feet from the admission, a snake shedding. Truth, something I rarely indulge in and yet have recently done with more than just my oldest friend. My eyes travel back to the store where Carter slipped into, and there’s a beat of silence before—
“Oh my God!” Ceci shrieks, and I wince away from my cell. “Nashville, are you serious? You should’ve started with that! How?”
Just then my K-Op partner emerges from the café, a small bag and holder of coffee in hand. He flashes a handsome grin as he finds me still waiting, and begins to make his way over, his tall form sporting a light-gray zippy over jeans, and sneakers. He has yet to wear something that doesn’t flatter him.
“I can’t get into the details right now,” I say. “But I promise I will soon. When…I’m home.”
“But—”
“I have to go.” I watch Carter getting closer. “When you find it, email it to yourself.”
“Well, thanks for letting me know I need a harder password.”
“Ceci,” I say quickly as Carter’s brows crinkle, seeing me on the phone.
“Yes, yes, of course I’ll do it.”
“Thank you.”
“Man, this is…just…”
“I know, but I really have to go. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay. Love you, Nash.”
“You too.” And with a swipe, I hang up just as Carter reaches my side.
“Who were you talking to?” He hands me my coffee
“Ceci,” I say.
No use lying any more than I’m about to.
48
3
THIRTY MINUTES OUTSIDE CUETZALAN, MEXICO: 0720 HOURS
I’m an adaptable creature. If I were to be thrown into below-zero temperatures, it would take my body less than five minutes to equalize itself, self-heat so the threat of freezing was never a possibility. If I were dropped into the Sahara Desert at high noon, my body, as pale as it is, would secrete a coating of carbon-based sweat that would absorb UV rays so my skin wouldn’t burn. I know this because SI6 tested it. I’m an anomaly, all A+ are.
So while the shock and devastation of my father existing and then turning out to be the leader of the Oculto most assuredly did a number on my mind and body, taking me out of my abilities for a good twenty-four hours, I’ve been able to recollect myself with unsurprising speed. A characteristic that has thankfully allowed me to smoothly return to playing my part as the K-Op who first came to Mexico, who has always existed.
In the days that follow my meeting with Mendoza, I have traveled with my team to the lake, searching the area again with just as much interest as Carter. I have scouted other locales in the mountains with Akoni and Jules, even suggested driving around the land between Viento del Este and Cuetzalan in the chance we overlooked a detail, all the while keeping eyes peeled for something else, something specific, something that I eventually find on the third day.
With the excuse that I was going for a run, I left Carter in our hotel early this morning to make my way here, to a sprawling field covered in three-feet-tall flowers, their orange, red, and yellow petals dancing softly in the breeze. They are called cosmos, a native flower to Mexico that favor meadowlands. They also have a singular distinct scent—vanilla. Since Cuetzalan and the surrounding territory is mainly a mountainous range, there were only so many meadowlands with this particular flora. Ramie and Mendoza might have knocked me out to bring me to and from their little hovel, but they underestimated my abilities. The aroma that clung to my clothes while I sat in that underground room surrounds me now, and it happens to only be thirty miles out, smack in the middle between Cuetzalan and Viento del Este.
Those sneaky bastards.
With the sun a yellow yawn in the sky, parting the drapes of clouds that float past, I peer across the multicolored field, the buzzing of insects in the grass flooding my ears. This meadowland is southeast from town, hidden behind a tangle of dense trees, and if there really is a bunker here, it must be deeper in, for despite the small road I took here, I see no evidence of tire marks pointing to anyone driving farther out.
Stepping forward away from my car that I “borrowed” from a local villager, I move through the tall stalks, brushing my hand over the soft buds. A foreign sensation of guilt twists in my gut for being here without Carter, without my team, but as adaptable as my body may be, my will is a different beast. And years of doing things alone, separate, is a marble habit hard to break. Plus, despite recent behavior, sharing has never been my strong suit. Especially when telling the truth would lead to my ultimate demise. Double agent indeed. Even though a quiet, newer part of me whispers that out of anyone, Carter would understand, would dismiss in a minute this notion Ramie fed me. Akoni too couldn’t possibly question where my loyalties lie, not after everything, not after Santiago…but still, I know the brutal business I’m in. How at the end of the day, we’re all just numbers to SI6, to COA. Despite how spotless an operative’s record, we are merely tools to wield, and when made dull, proficiencies questioned, we’re simply replaced—quietly. My greater instincts to survive won’t allow this, won’t risk it, which is why I find myself here, now, alone.
I have questions I need answered. Things to double-check, lies to craft before I can share the safer parts of this with anyone.
Cresting a small hill, I plunge farther into the thick mess of petals and bugs, happy to be wearing my durable work-out clothes. Studying the surrounding area, I search for a spec of something amiss, but there’s nothing but quiet trees in the distance and an empty field. You’d almost believe that humans have yet to touch this land, a sin-free spot in the world.
Yet I can smell it, something…industrial, metal sitting among all this nature. A hum of electricity, of activity directly below me.
But where’s the entrance?
Snapping a flower free, I twirl the stalk between my fingers, telling myself that once I find a door, a small shred of proof that this is indeed where the underground facility lies, I’ll head straight back to town, make up some excuse for my team to visit, later, together. It’s the only way of turning this arou—
A churning of gears and a deep rumble has my head whipping to the left as a slope of land shifts nearby. I crouch below the flowers’ tops, the knives strapped to me digging into my spine and thighs as I watch a section lift up. Like a plane’s wing, it tears from the ground, rising on an angle, a greater-than symbol, a hiss of air releasing as it comes to a stop. Peering around, I glance back to the now risen plot of dirt, fingers curling into the soil by my feet as I take it all in. The wildflowers on top of the opening s
way in the breeze, Mother Nature’s camouflage, as a short passageway is revealed in the mouth’s opening, a wide titanium door at the back. It’s large enough to fit a tractor-trailer, and a second later the ground in front shudders and splits down the middle, the flowers shaking as they retract to either side, gathering together like an accordion to uncover a tar road underneath. It goes into the forest trees in the distance for a good one hundred yards. My heart pounds. That’s why I couldn’t see any car marks. They are covered up.
Such technology, such precaution. The Oculto couldn’t live up to their name anymore.
I peer behind me, back to my little brown car in the distance, wondering if I could run to it fast enough without being seen, but then the scent of copper, of another like me, hits me from the side.
Ramie.
Turning back to the newly revealed bunker, I watch as the metal doors at the base huff and then open a fraction, letting a tall, well-dressed man in a finely tailored black suit step through.
He walks up and out, his confident footsteps treading softly on the smooth road, and stops where the canopy of the parted ground ends. With one hand, he shields his eyes from the sun that swaths across his tan skin and gazes around. He sniffs the air once, twice. There’s a quick patter of his annoyingly calm heart, before a pleased energy floats to me, and his head slowly turns in my direction. I remain crouched, hidden behind the flowers, a lioness in the grass, but I know I might as well be standing right in front of him.