by Lee Winter
Her heels kept sinking into the mud as she hurried forward and several times she almost slipped out of them. Requiem hissed in frustration. A man leaning against his float, smoking, laughed at her ungainly efforts.
“What’s yer hurry, love?” he called out.
She threw him a poisonous look, which made him laugh harder, and struggled by. It was slow going and she finally gave up, kicking her heels off with an annoyed grunt. The area in front of her was empty of people so she began to run. Fast.
In the distance she could hear the thunder of hooves and the cries over the loudspeaker of a race caller, along with the whoops of the crowd. Smells of rubbish, turf, and manure made her nose itch.
One thought raced through her mind: Was she too late?
Followed by a harder one: Why did she even care if she was?
The footprints led her to a large, gleaming motorhome. She glanced around suspiciously. This should not be parked here and the fact it had neither been towed nor ticketed was a warning someone of great importance owned it.
Requiem shook out her arms, feeling adrenalin shoot through her body as she carefully tested the door.
It opened.
Inside was the most lavishly fitted out motorhome she had ever seen. The ceiling, with recessed lighting, glowed warmly against the luxurious creams and golds of the interior. Classical music played softly in the background but for once Requiem was too distracted to figure out which piece. Because there, arranged artfully in the padded booth in the centre of the room, sat Lola.
Her yellow, silk dress, pearl necklace, and earrings were impeccable and showed off her slim frame to stunning effect. She had draped herself over the booth seat as though she was a fifties film goddess, and waved her champagne glass at Requiem.
Requiem had seen her practise this effect more than once in front of a mirror. She was going for her otherworldly Cate Blanchett meets Greta Garbo look—and succeeding.
“Finally,” Lola purred. “I was starting to think you weren’t as good a tracker as we trained you to be.”
Requiem glanced around. As opulent as this vehicle was, it was not exactly to Lola’s refined tastes.
“Planning a road trip?” she asked. Her ears sought out the sounds of other people, but she heard nothing.
“No, dear.” Lola tapped the table lightly in front of her. “This is actually yours. A little keepsake from Carlo Trioli.”
“What?”
“A special thanks for immolating his daughter’s kidnapper. His little girl still talks about wish lanterns.”
“Why would he think I’d want this pretentious thing?”
“You know Trioli owns all the races and games. He had this one just lying around Flemington.”
Requiem lifted a sceptical eyebrow.
“Well sort of,” Lola amended. “He’s only just relieved it off some recently deceased Saudi billionaire who won’t be needing it anymore. He asked if you’d have a use for it, what with Cup day coming up. I imagine he pictured you partying merrily with all your assassin friends or some such thing. Well, I thought since I’d planned to attend this year and watch you perform, why not make use of it myself?”
“Except you didn’t watch me perform.” Requiem’s mind flicked through the faces of attendees. As if she’d have missed seeing Lola sweep into the marquee and cause all the men’s tongues to unfurl.
“No, as it turns out. Something came up.” She thrummed her manicured fingernails on the smooth table. “Or someone.”
Lola patted the seat beside her. “Join me for champagne?”
“I have to get back. I have a concert.” Requiem remained standing.
“Yes. You do, don’t you?” Lola raked her gaze across her outfit and settled on Requiem’s face. “So it’s curious as to why you’re here, not there. It’s unlike you. This must surely be the first concert you’ve ever missed.”
Requiem could hear the clever, subtle way she’d worded the probing statement. Little escaped Lola.
“Perhaps I could spare a few minutes. A water?”
Lola clapped her hands and the thug she’d seen at the Birdcage materialised from a rear compartment. He shut the door firmly behind him and strode up to them.
“Water,” Lola ordered. “A sealed bottle. Just the way our Req likes it.”
He nodded and shuffled ten feet away to a kitchenette area. He turned and opened the compact fridge, studying the contents. It looked ridiculous, this giant of a man hunched over the small white unit.
“Who’s your Igor?” Requiem asked.
“That’s Gunther, my newest acquisition. I won him in a poker game, if you can believe it. He’s skilled in many things you wouldn’t want to test him on.”
“Not too bright, though.” Requiem observed.
“Oh?” Lola’s pale eyebrows lifted.
Requiem was in the kitchenette in three strides and clapped her arms around a startled Gunther, as though giving him the Heimlich manoeuvre. She crossed both her arms over the front of his chest, grasping each side of his shirt tightly, then with vicious force, scissored the fabric in opposing directions across his throat. He gasped for air and clawed at her hands before passing out in seconds with a shuddering thud.
“He turned his back on me,” Requiem said as she returned to where an unflappable Lola sat, watching her with hooded eyes. “Like I said: Not too smart.”
“Req,” Lola tsked, with a frown. “Was that really necessary?”
“I prefer to delete the third wheel where possible. One less variable.”
“Delete?” Lola peered over at the torso on the kitchen floor, paying him closer attention. “Tell me you didn’t kill him?”
“Would you care if I had?”
“Not especially, but Santos was fond of him. He might enquire after his man next time. And Gunther is a somewhat adequate lay whenever I get bored.”
Requiem sighed. “Why did you summon me?”
“Is that what this is?” Lola asked innocently.
“Your man inhaling carpet over there made an overt threat against my target. My presence was requested here as loudly as if you’d made the announcement over the racetrack speakers.”
“Can’t you work out why?” Lola asked. “Put that much-vaunted intellect of yours to use?”
“Let me guess,” Requiem said, finally dropping into the seat opposite. “Sonja Kim has been telling tall tales.”
“Are they so tall, though? Stories like that do real damage. Falling for your target? Getting domesticated? It’s hard enough in a man’s world without those sorts of stories confirming what every misogynist underworld middleman thinks of us already. That women are not cut out for this business. That we’re too emotional and prone to outbreaks of hysteria. Or worse. Love.”
“It would only be damaging if it were true. You taught me better. Trained me rigidly. Drilled every errant emotion out of me. Or did you forget about making me your little monster?”
“So melodramatic, dear.” Lola swirled her glass of champagne. She smiled but it did not reach her eyes. “I seized an opportunity when you came along. Nothing more. You might have said no.”
“And miss a scholarship of a lifetime?”
“Now, now. We both know that was not the only reason you agreed to be my lethal pet, don’t we?”
Requiem glared at her. “Don’t you dare go there.”
Lola smiled, her perfect crocodile smile. She waved her hand and an array of elegant silver bangles jangled. “So touchy today.”
“Where are they?” Requiem asked, twisting in her seat. “Your abductees? What are your plans?”
“That depends on you. And whether Sonja Kim’s ‘tall tales’ have any grain of truth to them.”
“So,” Requiem said, with an aggrieved look, “you’re just checking that I haven’t gone to the light side? I can save you the effort: It’s business. And Sonja’s lashing out. Do you remember Nabi? Following me around? Guess who?”
“Oh, I’m well aware who Nabi became. Bu
t her bitter little piece of gossip wasn’t what swayed me. It did, however, bring to mind all your teeth gnashing the other week about how you couldn’t do the Ryan job. ‘Give me more, Lola.’ I’ve never heard you wail and carry on like that before.”
Requiem grimaced. “I don’t wail.”
“Could have fooled me, dear. So—she means nothing to you? That’s what you’re sticking with?”
“No she does not.” Requiem glared at her, letting her frustration leak out. “Nothing.”
Lola leaned back on the seat and studied her coolly. “Then why haven’t you done the hit? Your three weeks were up a day ago. I kept waiting for a call that never came.”
“The brief said ‘no sooner’ than three weeks.”
“Technically, I suppose. But you’re late, Req. The job should have happened yesterday. You are never late.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Packing for Europe. Cleaning. Concerts. Rehearsals.”
“Requiem, I’ve seen your target. I saw her by accident today, actually, when I was heading over to watch you play. Never has an easier kill existed on God’s green earth. I am fairly sure you could do her while blindfolded and strung upside-down in a strait jacket. So—I have to wonder: Why is Alison Ryan, this mother-tending saint of yours, still drawing breath?”
Requiem stared at those sharp blue eyes and wished she had an answer.
“Well?”
“I don’t answer to you,” Requiem said in a warning voice. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the talent, and you’re nothing but the booking agent in this arrangement. I will do Ryan when I’m ready. Not before.”
“I see,” Lola said pleasantly, and clasped her hands. “Then, as your so-called booking agent, it behoves me to tell you that the fastest way to wash Sonja’s rumour away is to kill Ryan. Immediately.”
“You want me to kill her now? In this shoe box? There are too many people around. It’s Melbourne Cup Day, for god’s sake. This is insane. I need preparation time and an exit strategy.”
“This lovely little vehicle is sound-proofed thanks to its former Sheikh owner, who insisted upon it. The crime scene is mobile—you just drive away with the evidence. And I have a silenced weapon for you. Really, now you’re just making excuses. Tell me,” she said leaning forward, “why is that?”
“I’m not,” Requiem said. “I like to know all my options.”
“Well then, I have already considered them. Option one: You kill the two now.
“Option two: I find someone else to kill them if you are unable. This will have some consequences, and the rumours that you’ve gone soft will persist. I can repair your reputation, after a fashion. But people will remember.
“Option three: Nobody kills anyone. But that one comes with a very harsh price. So—choose.”
“What is this price?”
The silence was long and pained, disappointment washing across Lola’s face. Finally she downed her champagne, reached for the bottle, and poured more. Only the sound of fizz hitting the cut-crystal glass could be heard. When Lola finally spoke, it was quiet.
“So it’s true. You care for her.”
“I only asked the price.”
“Yes. You did, didn’t you?”
Oh. Requiem cursed herself. Such a simple trap.
“I just like to know all the details,” she bluffed. “It makes me organised, nothing more.”
Lola snorted. “Is that so? Well then, tell me: Where are your shoes?”
For the second time in mere moments, Requiem cursed her mistake and Lola’s observant eyes. “They were sticking in the mud. I removed them.”
Lola gave her a pitying look. “What you mean is that you kicked them off and ran like a frightened poodle to reach your lover and her niece.”
“No! It’s business! For God’s sake, are you deaf?”
“I think we’re done,” Lola said, and her face lost any veneer of politeness. There was dismissiveness and anger beneath the surface that Requiem had never seen before. At least, never directed at her.
“We need a relationship based on trust and you just keep lying to my face,” Lola said. “This will no longer continue.”
Requiem stared at her in disbelief. “Just like that? I’ve been your star killing machine for twenty-four years, and you toss me aside like this? Over this? Some paper pusher and her niece?”
“I do. After all, dear, as you say: it’s only business. A diseased limb gets amputated when it no longer is capable of functioning. I will find and train another. In fact, in light of Lee’s unfortunate demise, I was thinking of reaching out to his enforcer. I believe Sonja Kim is the only one of your kind who you keep fighting but aren’t able to kill. She must have talent. Hmm?
“Or you’re subconsciously avoiding killing someone who reminds you so much of your younger self. Either way, I’d rather enjoy moulding the new you.”
Requiem stared at her, robbed of speech. Just like that. Lola would find it so easy. Her jaw worked, and still no words came out.
After everything, after how it had all begun, she meant nothing to this woman who had governed her entire world.
Requiem was merely disposable.
* * *
Her shocked mind shifted to the day she’d met the woman who’d upended her life. How could she ever forget it? Lola Sweetman, all perfume, perfection, charm, and coquettishness, had stood on her doorstep, curious blue eyes scanning her as her father introduced his new, young bride. It was a moment that defined her new world. Or shattered it. It depended on how one looked at it.
The most vivid day of her life, however, was not that one. It came three weeks later. Natalya was fourteen, and her new stepmother had been summoned to her school over a playground infraction.
“Fighting,” they’d called it.
How little they’d understood. Natalya had actually been showing the school bully, repeatedly, by applying his face to the mud, that she was no one’s chew toy. And if he persisted on picking on anyone else smaller than him, she’d explained earnestly while inserting her elbow into his groin, she would repeat the lesson. Daily, if need be.
Lola had swept into the school principal’s office in a swirl of lilac chiffon and expensive perfume, looking like some exotic European screen idol. All that had been missing was the long-handled cigarette holder and aloof accent, although Lola had perfected the latter in the years that followed.
She gave the principal a disdainful sneer and Natalya stared in wonder as the normally stern man quailed before her.
Lola expressed outrage over Natalya’s “disgraceful behaviour” and promised “severe punishments.” She didn’t wait for his approval or even his input, but she snatched Natalya by the wrist, then turned on her immaculate heel, and hauled the mulish fourteen-year-old out of the office.
It had been the most blatant demonstration of the power of sheer charisma and confidence an awestruck Natalya had ever seen.
In the car Lola had turned to her. “I’m disappointed in you. I thought you were smarter than this.” She slammed her seatbelt into its clasp.
A teenage Natalya had glowered and impudently folded her arms, toned from the hours of military-style workouts her father had drilled into her since her mother had died. He had thought it was bonding.
Maybe it was.
She ignored Lola and stared out the window.
“I mean if you want to teach some little prick a lesson, the secret is never, ever to get caught,” Lola added waspishly. “Better yet, find a way to pin it on someone else.”
Natalya’s head snapped back in shock as her new stepmother smiled. She continued.
“You can’t always rely on those broad shoulders and fine muscles of yours—you need your brain, too. Boys are all hormones and ego. They will get you back unless you can hide. You can do that in plain sight if you’re clever about it. So, we need to teach you subtlety.”
Natalya had stared at her, slack jawed, senses overloading.
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Lola smirked, leaned over, placed an elegant finger under her chin, and snapped Natalya’s mouth shut. “And a poker face.”
She started the car. “Now come on, dear. Kicking some little turd into the dirt at your age deserves an ice cream.”
As the years went by, Natalya earned many, many ice creams.
* * *
By the time she was sixteen, Natalya had learned a great many things from Lola Sweetman. And felt a few things she knew she shouldn’t have.
Lola eventually had grown bored of tormenting Natalya’s authoritarian father, Vadim, for his rigid ways, despite them being what had drawn her to him in the first place.
Lola, who was addicted to the taste of power in all its forms, had suddenly scored a place at the table with some Asian crime family Natalya had never heard of. She’d acquired a multi-million-dollar apartment thanks to her new criminal mastermind boyfriend.
She spared no expense in furnishing it. The only reminder of her old life was the slobbering old Doberman with a nervous tic that she’d somehow won off Natalya’s father.
The day the divorce came through, Natalya turned up with a bottle of champagne. She stepped over the familiar pet, slumbering on the timber floorboards in the modern apartment. Natalya dropped her school bag beside her dad’s former animal and considered the twitching dog. The battle to win him had been so hard fought. More for the mutt than for the money.
“I didn’t think you even liked Alexi.”
Lola gave a small snort. “Please. You should know the rules by now. Crush your enemy’s heart and they’ll be too enraged to think straight. And he’s called Brutus these days.”
She took the champagne. “I won’t ask how you got this. I suppose you want some?” she sniffed. “What are you now? Sixteen? Seventeen? Think you’re old enough for the boys and the booze?”
“No,” Natalya said. She worked her jaw and rammed her hands in the pockets of her navy blue school blazer. “I don’t want some stupid boy.”
Something telling must have flickered in Natalya’s eyes. She knew it by the way Lola had sat up straighter, studying her with a suddenly wary expression. Natalya gave her an impassive look and shook out her long hair. She was growing it. She liked how people underestimated her because of it. They never underestimated her for long, though.