I stared at Jordan and then at the rest of the team as the men picked up Snake’s remains and loaded him into the van.
“Damn it, Jordan, nooo! You have no right!” Seven continued to cry as she hit him repeatedly in the chest. “I . . . I need to see him, pleeeaaase!” Seven’s shoulders shook violently as misery consumed her. I wanted to console her, but couldn’t get my legs to take another step toward the carnage.
“Jordan,” Stephan hollered out. “According to the scanners, the real police are in very close range to the museum.” A piercing alarm went off signaling a breach at the museum.
“Seven, meet us back at the location. You can see him then.”
“He needs to go to a hospital, Jordan!” she snapped as her knees buckled.
The light coming from Jordan’s visored helmet showed his demeanor that said all that he didn’t. “Unless you want to spend the rest of your days rotting away in a Parisian prison cell, and trust me, there’s nothing chic about it, I suggest you snap the hell out of it and come on.” Upon hearing Jordan speak those words, a look passed between them; her undoing was short-lived. It was like someone else had taken over her body as she composed herself instantly and without saying a word, turned and sprinted back toward the van.
Jordan gave me a quick peck before my legs decided to finally move. I hurriedly trotted off to catch up with Seven. I felt as if I were living in the Twilight Zone after witnessing everything that had taken place. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it would be the last time that I would have any connection to Jordan in the flesh. I watched him fade into the night as Seven sped away into the darkness as a flowing spring of tears blanketed her face.
• • •
“Where are we going?” I asked Seven as we drove aimlessly through the streets of Paris until she came upon a cemetery.
“To see Easter go to hell,” she spoke between gritted teeth. We came to a stop just after passing the entrance of the cemetery and pulled into some more bushes. She put the van in park and reached for a bag.
“But Jordan told us to meet him back at the place.” I knew she was hurting, but I had to remind her of the plans.
• • •
Seven turned menacing eyes on me. “My man was just gutted like a fucking pig out there.” Her neck swiveled at a pace so fast that she almost resembled Linda Blair. All that was missing was the split-green pea soup spewing from her mouth. “Now, you may jump to Jordan’s pipe, but I don’t.” She took out some binoculars, earpieces, a .45 and attached a suppressor to it. After making sure she was locked and loaded, she tossed me a pair of the same items, less the .45.
I looked at the Bluetooth-looking contraption waiting on her to hand me and the phone, which never came. “What is this for and how am I supposed to use it with no phone?”
Without giving me any face time, she got out of the van once again, leaving me to my own vices. “You can either sit there and ask questions or follow me,” she called out over her shoulder.
We crept through the dark cemetery, taking special care to be as quiet as possible. Although the Père Lachaise Cemetery was a major tourist attraction, at this time of night, it was deserted and spooky. Thank God, there were actual paved roads and sidewalks, but leave it to Seven to want to traipse through the lawns and mazes of trees. There were mausoleums everywhere from small to some that looked like cathedrals. The statues, although perfectly sculpted, gave me the creeps.
Every shadow made me think that we were being followed. I couldn’t help but think of the video Thriller with all the zombies awakening from their eternal slumber and Michael Jackson turning into a werewolf. Let’s just say that being in a cemetery definitely had my mind playing tricks on me. I was so worked up that when something ran across my shoe, I totally freaked out.
“Arrggh shit! Something just grabbed my foot!” I was sure I screamed as loud and acted as badly as one of those women on the scary movies running and falling while trying to save their lives. My bad rendition didn’t stop until I slipped and fell again into a pile of wet leaves. “Oh my God!” I continued to act a fool, swinging at the air and fighting the leaves like something was on me.
Seven rushed over, snatched me up, and slapped the scream out of my mouth. “Will you shut the hell up?” she hissed. “You’re going to get us killed out here.”
My mouth hung open. I was speechless because she’d hit me. Couldn’t believe that she fucking hit me was all that was on my mind as I swiped at wet leaves and hair stuck to my face. After I recovered from making an ass out of myself, we continued on until we came upon a statue of a woman in a flowing dress.
Seven scoped out the surroundings. She would do that every so many feet until we came upon the location she had circled on her map.
“This is where—” Before the words were given time to leave her mouth, we saw a bewildered-looking Easter stumbling toward the mausoleum, not too far from where we were standing. We ducked to avoid being detected.
Once it was clear that our cover hadn’t been blown, Seven got him in her line of sight and was about to pull the trigger.
I placed a calming hand on Seven’s arm that was holding the gun aimed at Easter. “You can’t shoot him. Not now and damn sure not here!” I whispered agitatedly.
As if she were weighing her options, she dropped her arm down to her side with the gun still locked in her grasp. She dabbed at her eyes at what I assumed to be tears. I felt bad for her. Lord only knew what state of mind I would have been in had it been Jordan, instead of Snake. Seven slumped down, placed her head between her legs, and took deep breaths.
I caressed the nape of her neck trying to be nurturing since I didn’t know what else to do. “Are you going to be okay?” I asked, until the moment was interrupted just as soon as it began.
“What story did he force-feed you about his dealings with The Collector?”
“I wasn’t . . . force-fed anything.”
Seven raised her head and looked at me before laughing more to herself than directly at me. “He’s always force-feeding that horse shit of a story only with different variations of the truth down you simple bitches’ throats. If only—”
“Seven, you are way out of line. Jordan, would never—” I cut her off, but she regained control of the conversation just as quickly.
“It’s Seventhia! I never did like that Seven shit,” she scolded me. Her everchanging attitude felt like a slap across the face. However, I decided to keep my cool since she was the one with the gun.
“I understand that you’re hurting. I would be too had it been—”
“Would you listen to how stupid you sound? Do you really think that Jordan loves you? That he would never lie to you?” She laughed again. “I got a newsflash for you sweetie. He’s not capable of that emotion. Hell, he’s not capable of anything, unless it’s to serve his own overinflated ego. He’s a user! A got-damned user!”
From my peripheral view, I saw movement and focused back on the mausoleum. Seventhia, Seven, or whatever the hell she wanted to call herself, was not going to rattle my cage.
“They’re here,” I said.
Seven immediately stood from her crouching position and became engrossed in what was happening as if she weren’t just trying to let me know that she cared for Jordan in a way that went into more-than-friends category. Now that I looked back on it, I thought Seven was not only bipolar, but jealous. She’d always had it in for me and I should’ve stayed with my first impression regarding her. I stared at her and it was like looking at a different woman. She took extreme pleasure in watching Easter get what was coming to him. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that she wouldn’t mind seeing me meet the same fate.
Chapter 43
The Collector didn’t waste any time walking out into view followed by two of his men when he saw that Easter had finally arrived. He was beginning to wonder if he had pulled the wool over his eyes as he’d been known to do, but that would’ve been a fool’s move on his part.
Wet and with ashen skin, Easter had the appearance of belonging in one of the freshly dug plots. “I have the paintings” were the first words out of his weary mouth. He tried to betray the way he looked with a strong and confident voice. After handing over the case containing the priceless pieces of art, he started feeling like his old self, knowing that all of the planning and manipulating was about to finally pay off. This time tomorrow, he would be rich beyond his wildest dreams. Then Giovanna filtered into his mind and the feeling of melancholy returned. He shook it off as he watched The Collector with a keen eye as he took the merchandise from him.
“Pat him down,” The Collector ordered one of his henchmen. After Easter was fully searched and relieved of his weapons, only then did business begin to be conducted. “Now that you’ve been properly looked over, you can follow me inside,” The Collector said.
Easter eagerly, but hesitantly, followed The Collector and his guard inside of the mausoleum. He didn’t think of it until then, but this was after all, a cemetery, and now he was without a weapon—in case things got ugly. What if this is a setup? He couldn’t let fear and second-guessing come into play and get him off-kilter. Hell, if he were in The Collector’s shoes, he’d have people frisked too.
“What do we do now?” I asked Seven, who appeared to be in another world.
She shook her head as if she were coming back into the present. “We . . . we listen and . . . and we wait for the perfect opportunity. Turn on your bionic ear, if you haven’t already, and use your binoculars.” She dismissed me and went back wherever in her mind she was before I’d interrupted her.
Not more than a minute after fumbling with the device, I saw Jordan followed by five others—two of them sticking out like sore thumbs due to their large frames and height. They surrounded the mausoleum giving a series of hand signals before they disturbed the meeting going on inside. The two towering figures stood guard to avoid any surprises from the outside.
Once I got my binoculars adjusted, the inside of the mausoleum was a work of art in itself. It had to belong to a very rich and influential family for it was a golden masterpiece. There were three over-the-top lounging areas, large bronzed letters depicting the family’s name, Laffitte, above their crest. A plaque was set in a deep-mahogany, black-cherrywood finish with a custom Mayfair border that included full names, dates and cameo photos of the deceased. Breathtaking arrangements were strategically placed throughout. There was a crypt that was the focal point of everything that must’ve belonged to the patriarch of the family.
While spying, I saw The Collector examine the paintings using a loupe. He frowned and spoke in Chinese to the men who were with him. Easter stood, unsuspecting of the brewing problem since The Collector’s demeanor didn’t give anything away.
“Exactly what did occur during the heist?” he calculatingly but calmly asked Easter.
Still oblivious, Easter told a colorful story of how he’d scaled the slick glass of the Louvre in his specially designed shoes that he’d proudly showed off to everyone. He then went on to say that he only had a two-man crew when a job of this magnitude would normally call for at least five. He continued to overindulge his story some more by telling The Collector how they took down eight guards before finally being able to get the paintings out of the museum.
“We were in and out of the Louvre within seven minutes when it should’ve been more like twenty, but as you see, we were very efficient,” he lied.
“Hmm . . . I see.” The Collector then turned and gave a short but slender man, who had a nerdy disposition about him, an additional loupe to examine the paintings. The man frowned as he inspected the first painting. With each painting he observed, his frown deepened. Looking at The Collector, they spoke frantic Chinese to each other. The exchange seemed to go on forever.
Easter watched them closely as they looked over each painting. He wore a smug expression on his face while thinking of the glamorous life he and Giovanna would lead. The idea of never having to do another job had him beginning to feel like a kid on Christmas morning. He could see it all, a grand wedding that would make the royals of England seem like low-budget affairs. The chalet filled with children who would take after their mother and have her height and model good looks. The snipers he would hire to track down and cause The Tarantula serious harm and then bring him to view his battered body and allow him the pleasure of delivering the final blow . . . a bullet to the center of his conceited head. He couldn’t dare forget those two big ogres whom he knew had to have abducted Giovanna against her will, for she would never leave on her own accord, not without informing him. Yes, they too would meet untimely and gruesome deaths. Now, that would be the life. Easter breathed in a gulp of stale air and had to fight the urge to give himself a pat on the back for masterminding a plan well done.
“Print,” the nerdy man said.
“A print?” The Collector questioned.
Upon hearing the word “print,” his gloating was suddenly cut short as his face hit the floor with disbelief shattering his dreams. The Collector grabbed his head as if he were in pain and then hit the crypt that was being used as a makeshift table to cause a violent echo.
Easter’s mouth filled with saliva. His stomach tightened, causing him to clench his butt cheeks. Not knowing which end the lava stirring in his intestines would spill out of if things got out of control, he quickly placed his hand over his mouth. Now was not the time to be a sitting duck, so he did the only logical thing he could do: slowly remove his hand and talk. His life depended on his gift of gab.
“Is . . . is . . . there a . . . a problem?” he asked while still trying to hold on to what little nerves he had left.
The Collector finally gave Easter his attention. “Did you think you could fool me with worthless prints?” He slapped one of the paintings onto the floor.
Sensing danger, Easter took several steps back before feeling his back rest against a wall. “But . . . but . . . but, I don’t . . . I don’t understand. I . . . I never let those paintings leave my sight once they . . . I mean, we, had them in our . . . our . . . umm possession.” Easter’s so-called gift of gab failed him miserably. He stammered for the first time allowing what he was feeling on the inside, show on the outside.
The Collector grabbed Easter by his neck and literally stooped to his level. “You waste my time with your lies and grandstanding with talks of besting Tarantula! I should’ve ended your dismal existence after our first meeting with that nonsense.” Hot spittle flew in Easter’s face as The Collector continued his tirade. “Now, you insult my intelligence by bringing me invaluable replicas!” He swung on Easter, causing him to stumble and knock over a flower arrangement before collapsing onto the floor.
Apologizing as he struggled to get up proved to be a difficult task when fear had his heart in a choke hold. “No! Th . . . those are real! I swear on it with my life!” He wanted to kick himself for saying the last part. Of course they were real! He saw them go into the Louvre with his own eyes. Hadn’t he?
The Collector was not swayed nor was he amused by this weakling trying to swindle him. “And that is one promise that you’re going to deliver on, Easter.” He gave his men the signal.
Easter racked his brain trying to figure out what could’ve gone wrong, and more importantly, when. I saw my crew go into the Louvre and come back out with those paintings with my own eyes. Or was it all an illusion? he thought for the millionth time. Then he recalled how easily one of the members from the crew scaled up the structure as if it were dried concrete instead of slippery glass. He’d never seen anything like it except . . . The Tarantula! Easter screamed inside of his aching skull. He should’ve known Snake was called “snake” for a reason. If he were a strategizing man, he would’ve taken heed about not being trusting of a snake. It didn’t matter if it slithered on its belly or walked upright. A snake was a snake! Was a fucking snake! Point. Blank. Period. Looks like I’ll be seeing that conniving son of a bitch in hell a lot sooner than I thought.
“Wait!” Easter made an attempt to spare his life. “I . . . I know who has your paintings! The Tarantula, he . . . he . . . he somehow tricked me. You gotta believe me!”
The Collector walked back toward the crypt and stopped midway. “The Tarantula?” he answered with his back to Easter. “I thought no one knew of your plans except for your crew?” He shook his head, thinking that Easter had to be the dumbest criminal alive. “You’re telling me that you were unintelligible enough to hire a crew that you didn’t trust or check out?”
Easter squirmed and cowered like a child when the burly men approached him. “He must’ve gotten to one of them. Otherwise, I don’t know how he knew, but it was him! I swear it was! No one can move up surfaces better than he can. Please, I will get your paintings . . . just give me the chance to prove myself!” Easter couldn’t remember a time he was ever more desperate than he was at the moment.
The Collector picked up a briefcase that was sitting on the floor next to the crypt, opened it and pulled out a manila folder. The two men parted like the Red Sea when The Collector walked back over to where Easter trembled. He looked through it, examining the pictures and other information that had been sent to him anonymously, or so it seemed. “According to what I hold in my hands, this is how you operate. Give me one good reason as to why I should go against your stellar track record of being underhanded?” The Collector paused, but not long enough to give Easter time to come up with a lie. “Let’s see . . . we have Mexico, Washington, The Caymans, Capital Bank, Liberty Bank, Kingdom Bank, Bank of USA, The Bierman and Bierman, The Hackensack, New York, and that’s only a short list of your transgressions. Will the deceit you operated under during those missions give me reason to believe that you will be any different than what’s clearly been your M.O. all along?” As The Collector flicked through the pages of misdeeds, one by one, he threw them in Easter’s face. “Ah, better yet, how about Bangkok? Yes, the now infamous Bangkok job where you didn’t give a damn about the repercussions as long as you made out. The gold you stole. Blackmailing your own team? Does any of that jog your pathetic memory?”
Sexpionage Page 24