by Jillian Dodd
"He's purchasing a ticket," Terrance says into my ear. "Hang on. I'm hacked into the airline's database. Okay. He's going to Lyon."
"Which is a major train hub," I reply. "That's smart. From there he could go anywhere."
"Wait, shit," Terrance says.
"What?"
"Olivia--I mean, Plague--just found a passport photo for a man whose facial recognition has a ninety-two percent match. That man is flying to Nice. And get this, the flights depart just five minutes apart from adjacent gates."
"Is Ari going to make it here?"
"No, he got held up with the police. You're on your own."
"Buy me tickets for both flights. Huntley goes to Nice. Businesswoman goes to Lyon. How much time do I have?"
"The first one starts boarding in fifteen minutes."
"Merda," I curse as I run to the self checkin, scan the business woman's passport, check in with no bags for the flight, and then go through security. The only problem is I need to go through security as Huntley, too.
"Wait. Did he go through security twice? As two different people?" I ask Terrance.
"No, he didn't--wait. He's headed out the security exit. Hang on. He's in the restroom. Is he doing what you just did? Changing the way he looks?"
"Probably."
"Terrance, have you been watching to see if anyone else is following him? Have you seen any sign of surveillance?"
"No, we haven't."
"Me neither," I reply as the assassin comes out of the restroom wearing a different shirt, a more casual hairstyle, and minus the glasses.
"Terrance, we're going to have to make a call. Will he go to Nice or Lyon?"
"Lyon," Terrance guesses.
"Which flight leaves first?"
"Nice."
"Then that's where he's going. He'll be the last man on the plane. I have to hurry." I run to the nearest bathroom, change into a designer dress that makes me look like a princess, topping it with an expensive leather embroidered bomber jacket and high heels. I remove the contacts, quickly apply makeup, and fill a clutch with a few essentials.
An announcement informs me that the flight to Nice is now boarding, so I make my way through security then breeze on the plane, never even looking in the assassin's direction.
Once Ari gets checked into a five-star hotel, he gets updated by Terrance on the situation with Huntley. He wishes he could go help her, but the police requested he stay in town until tomorrow in case they need him for further questioning. And his hightailing it to the airport, playing Ares Von Allister or not, would have been deemed suspicious.
He changes clothes, tossing his blood-soaked ones away, and has a driver take him back to the car--and more importantly to his backpack filled with potential clues.
I sip on champagne and take selfies to kill time as the other passengers board. Once the plane is mostly full, save for a single first class seat in the aisle next to mine, final boarding is called.
I'm starting to get nervous. If I chose the wrong plane, we're screwed.
One of the flight attendants holds out a tabloid, which has side-by-side photos of me on it--one where I'm dancing with Lorenzo at the Queen's Ball and the other holding hands with Daniel at the President's swearing in. "Will you sign this?" she asks discreetly just as the assassin slips into the empty seat.
"But of course," I say in French, then sign Huntley Von Allister across the front, adding a heart over the I.
"Merci beaucoup," she says then turns to the assassin. "Monsieur Durand, may I offer you a glass of champagne?" I note he's using a very common surname, the equivalent to a Smith.
He starts to wave the attendant away, but then glances at me. "Actually, I will have a glass. It's not often I am so lucky to be seated by such a beautiful woman."
It's not so often I'm lucky enough to be seated next to the world's most deadly assassin.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Concierge: Designer Marcus Latrobe confirms your appointment. He will greet you upon arrival and take you to lunch at his club, where he will sketch designs for you.
"What brings you to Nice?" the assassin asks me. "You missed the Cannes Film Festival."
"I'm meeting a Parisian-based designer in Cannes. He's going to design a few gowns for me."
"Are you famous? Should I know you? You speak perfect French but look American."
"I am American. Do you speak English?" He nods. I roll my eyes and switch to English. "I'm really not famous. I've just been in the press lately due to dating a few high profile men."
"Such as?"
"Daniel Spear."
"The Olympic athlete?"
"And now the President's son. I usually fly charter, but when I got the call from the designer today, I had just enough time to get to the airport and get on this flight. Thankfully it's a quick flight, and I did not have to endure coach."
"Who is the other high profile man you date?" he asks.
"Well, we're more friends now, since the whole kidnapping thing."
"That's why you look familiar." He points his finger toward me. "You're the girl who was kidnapped with the Prince of Montrovia and refused to be interviewed by the press."
"I would prefer to forget the incident," I state, tightly closing my eyes and shuddering. "People were shot in front of me. While I'm grateful to have been rescued, part of me would have rather been fed to the sharks than to have witnessed such gruesomeness. There is no way I could ever speak of it to the press. The British agent was good at his job, that's all I will say."
"Before the incident, there were rumors you would become the next Princess."
I frown. "Yeah."
"I'm sorry if I'm intruding," he says sincerely.
"No, it's okay. The Prince--I mean, the King--seems to have taken the ordeal in stride. I have not. And the Prince's cousin who was killed was a friend of mine who had just gotten engaged. Her sister, Clarice, was so distraught, she relinquished her crown and moved back to France.
I study his face for any reaction to Clarice's name.
There is none, whatsoever.
I can see why he has the reputation he does. He is very calm and collected for someone who just committed two high-profile murders.
We talk through the entire flight, pausing only to listen to the announcements. The assassin known as The Priest tells me his name is Henri and that he's a retired real estate investor who moved to Cannes and took up selling local real estate to keep himself out of trouble. He even produces a business card with his full name, Henri Durand.
"My brother and I were considering a purchase on the French Riviera, maybe I'll call you next time we are in town."
When we land, I get a text.
Marcus Latrobe: My dearest Huntley, I regret to inform you that a small fire broke out in my Paris studio, and I will be unable to meet you this afternoon as I must deal with the authorities and the laborers who were treated for smoke inhalation. My driver will pick you up as planned but I will not arrive until later this evening. Please accept my deepest apologies. We have lunch reservations at Les Bourges, and I suggest you go without me. It takes most people up to a year to even get a reservation and their food is quite divine. Because I am a founding member, you will be allowed access in my absence. Please enjoy yourself.
Me: I completely understand and will see you when you arrive. I'm looking forward to it and appreciate you taking time during your holiday to meet with me. And I will definitely keep the reservation.
The assassin politely gestures for me to deplane ahead of him, and it goes against all my training to allow a man of his talent to follow me.
When I get to the terminal, I stop right in front of him and mutter, "Merda."
"What's wrong?" he asks.
I hold up my phone and roll my eyes. "I rush here on a moment's notice. I don't even have a change of clothing with me and now the designer is delayed. And he says I should go to some private club called Les Bourges by myself for lunch."
"You are unco
mfortable dining alone?"
"No, not at all. I'm just"--I pout--"disappointed."
"It just so happens that I am also a member of the Les Bourges club."
"You are? Is it really that good? Am I going to look stupid being there alone? You know what, I'll just go shopping to kill the time. It was nice meeting you."
Then I turn my back on him and make my way out of the airport where I greet the driver holding a sign with my name on it. As the driver leads me to a car that's idling at the curb, I fight the urge to turn around to see where the assassin is. I know he's behind me, though. I can still feel his presence.
As I'm sliding into the backseat, his hand stops the door from closing. I may look like a rich girl whose biggest care in the world is lunch, but that doesn't mean inside I'm not ready to strike at any moment. And I am fully prepared.
But I want to kill him in his home.
I want him to feel violated.
His safe haven no more.
I want him down on his knees.
Begging for his life.
"Miss Von Allister, would you like a lunch companion? It seems my afternoon appointment was cancelled, as well. I can show you around the club."
He's living in plain sight just like me, I think. Deep cover but not hiding.
And I know I'm playing a very dangerous game.
I remind myself of my mission. Find out who hired him. Then kill him.
This isn't at all how I imagined things would go down when I came face-to-face with him again. My plan was to do what I was taught--alter my looks, my gait, my posture, pretend to be different people, and simply let him lead me home.
Instead, I offer him a ride.
The assassin's car is at the airport, so he declines my offer and meets me there.
The Les Bourges Club, which translated means upper crust, doesn't look like much from the outside. An old wooden door set in the middle of an orange stucco building is sandwiched by a tailor and a leather goods store a couple blocks from the harbor. There is no sign denoting the entrance, just gold numbers above the door. I step into an entry with worn wooden floors. A hostess greets me by name and says, "This way, please." She leads me down the hall past the dining room, where fashionably dressed people are crammed together at little tables, and to another wooden door. She opens it, waves her hand toward a set of stairs, and says, "Enjoy."
I glance upward, wondering what is awaiting me at the top. I am weaponless and in a horrible tactical position, totally exposed. If The Priest has any inkling that I am after him, he would be smart to meet me here. To send me up these stairs. I'd be easy to pick off.
I take a deep breath and remind myself that Huntley would love this place. And I will admit, I'd love to explore it with someone other than The Priest.
I clump up the stairs in my heels, announcing my presence, but gripping my bag tightly in my hand. With the metal spikes that adorn it, it could do some damage in a pinch.
At the top of the stairs, I am greeted by yet another hostess. "Monsieur Durand is waiting for you in the Spy Bar."
I gulp. The what!? Did I hear her right?
She leads me to a contemporary room that looks out of place in this old building. It features black and white marble floors, a stainless bar with Lucite stools, and red velvet walls covered with posters from every 007 movie ever made.
The assassin is seated on one of the stools chatting with a pretty bartender in a tight red dress. She sets a drink on the bar. "Your usual."
I sit down next to him.
"What would you like?" he says.
"A glass of champagne would be nice."
After a long lunch at the club, where I manage to get the assassin a bit intoxicated, I offer him a ride.
This time, he accepts.
When my driver drops him off, I tag the location on my phone and am driven to the designer's home. I'm escorted to a bedroom where a suitcase awaits me.
I thank the butler and mention needing a nap.
Inside the suitcase are black yoga pants, a matching top, and a pair of black running shoes.
It reminds me of the uniform I wore during my six years at Blackwood.
I remember how M's face would light up when we would sneak out to the club and how she would dance with reckless abandon. I hope she's dancing her ass off somewhere now.
I drop to the bed and allow myself to cry.
I can't believe they are all dead.
Because of me.
I owe it to her--to all of them--to figure out what Black X is up to and why.
I pull myself together and continue to unpack the bag, finding a handgun buried under the clothing.
I get myself into mission mode by checking the gun, pulling the assassin's address up on the Internet, and studying the surrounding area. I need to be able to get in and out of there without being noticed.
Because it's a residential street and not more than a mile from where I am, I decide to walk rather than drive. I find a yoga studio just a block away and check their online schedule.
I glance at the clock.
I don't have much time.
I jog around the assassin's neighborhood before I approach his house. Google Earth is great for planning, but nothing can beat your own visual reconnaissance. I study the area, noting possible escape routes and problem zones. After doing my due diligence, I check out the assassin's back yard. Most of the homes in the city are row houses, but on this street and the one facing it, there are detached villas, each with their own fenced garden.
My original thought was to slip into the garden and break into the home, but that is fraught with risk. Especially during daylight hours. And although I was trained to quickly disable most security systems, I wouldn't want to try doing it with an assassin in the house.
So, I decide to just walk up to the front door and knock.
"Hey," he says, looking pleasantly surprised when he opens the door. "You out for a run?"
"Yeah. The designer was further delayed, so I decided to take a yoga class and discovered the studio was just down the street from you. Class doesn't start for awhile, so I thought I'd stop by."
The assassin stands in the doorway, blocking the entrance and not allowing me inside. I was hoping not to have to force the issue.
"Um, sorry, it was rude of me to just stop by without calling first."
"No," he says. "I'm glad you did. Would you like to come in?"
His words are like music to my ears. "Yes, thank you. I would."
He steps aside.
I walk in.
He closes the door.
I reach for my revolver then spin toward him, gun leveled, causing his eyes go wide with astonishment.
"What are you doing?"
"Put your hands on top of your head and walk in the living room. No sudden movement, or you're dead."
He does as I ask.
"Get down on your knees."
Once again, he complies.
I now have the assassin exactly where I want him.
Exactly where I envisioned him all these years.
In the exact position he had my mother in--on his knees in front of me.
My gun pointed directly at his forehead.
"Tell me who hired you to kill the President," I demand, keeping both my focus and aim directed at him.
"Who sent you?" he asks. There's a slight tremble in his voice, something I hadn't expected. He had to know with his chosen profession that someday it would come to this.
"You killed the President of the United States. Did you really think you'd get away with it?"
"Yes, I've gotten away with every job I've ever been hired for. I am the best."
"Not this time," I say as my finger twitches against the trigger.
This is it. It's time.
I take a deep breath, wondering why I'm hesitating when a tiny voice behind me says, "Papa?"
My heart stops.
My throat goes dry.
My body stiffens.
I don
't dare turn around.
"Please," the assassin begs, "not in front of my child."
His child?
Images of myself watching my mother in this exact position flash through my brain. Only this child sounds much younger than I was. Seeing his father's head blown off would warp him forever.
"You didn't offer that courtesy to my mother," I reply, still remaining cool on the outside, even though internally I am panicking. I cannot allow a child to experience what I did.
"Your mother?" he asks, then a look of recognition crosses his face, and his hand involuntary goes to the scar on his arm.
"Don't move!" I yell. "Put your hands back on top of your head."
"Chauncey, don't do it!" the assassin yells.
I glance over my shoulder and see a boy of about six waving a gun in my direction.
Will this be my end?
Shot by the son of the man who killed my mother?
One lucky shot and boom, I'm gone from the world, and who would care?
Lorenzo, maybe, but he would soon seek comfort in another woman's arms. Daniel probably wouldn't even notice until he got horny. Ari would feel like he failed his mission, and that would be it.
The assassin gets up and takes the gun from his son. "If you were going to kill me, you would have already done it."
"I wanted you to know who I was first. I was sent by my government, but they gave me this job because I have been dreaming of this moment for the last six years."
"You have to believe me. I didn't know you were there until you shot me."
"And then you tried to kill me!"
"How did you find me?"
"I was given the location of your Paris hit and followed you. I blew you a kiss on the train, got rid of my disguise and got on the plane to Cannes as myself."
"That was you on the train? That was a good disguise."
"Thank you."
"You better get this over with then, and when you leave, please, take my son with you. We don't have much time."
"What do you mean?"
"If you know where I am, others do, too. There has been a bounty on my head for years. There is no doubt that they will be here soon."
"Papa?" the child says again.
He speaks to his son in French, telling him everything is all right and that he's proud of his bravery. When he wraps his arms around his son in a hug, there are tears in his eyes.