I watched him pull the drapes open, and then he removed a small digital camera from the desk drawer.
“Do you have a name preference? An age?”
“A Belgian name and I’m twenty-five,” I replied.
He snapped a picture. “Okay, wait in the room next door. Shut the door on the way out.”
“Why?”
“If you want your document, you will do as I say. Now go.”
In the other room, Edon sat in one of the armchairs and motioned for me to take a seat in the other. One of his men stood near the front door, his arms folded over his chest. The other, the one who had pocketed my knife, stood in the corner behind me. Neither of Edon’s associates had said a word since joining us in the bar. I doubted that would change.
“Coffee?” Edon asked.
“No, thank you.” I replied. I didn’t trust the Albanians and figured there was an equal chance that I would get what I wanted or they would attempt to cheat me in some way.
Ten minutes passed. I heard no movement or noise coming from the other room, not even the whir of the printer. The silence bothered me, even though I know replicating a passport in ten minutes wasn’t possible, at least not one that was credible.
“How much longer?” I asked Edon.
He said nothing and only continued to smile at me and roll his toothpick. I didn’t like the idea of not being able to keep an eye on the man behind me, so I stood up.
“You should stay seated,” Edon said sternly.
“And I asked you a question.” I spun around and opened the door to the other room. It was empty, and the window leading out to the fire escape was open.
9
The Albanians had made their choice.
I turned to the man nearest me. A quick throat punch stopped him mid-step and left him gasping with both hands around his neck. I moved behind him, using him as a shield from the others, while I retrieved my knife from his front pocket. I punched it in and out of the back of his neck, and he dropped to the floor.
I glanced at Edon and then at the guard standing near him. He was reaching inside his jacket with his right hand. I threw the knife and struck him in the right side of his chest. He yelped and his right arm dropped. I closed the distance in seconds, removed the knife, and shoved it in and out of his neck twice before he fell to the ground. I could hear him gurgling behind me as I faced Edon, who still sat in his chair. He seemed to be in shock, as he surely could have attacked me by then.
“Things didn’t go as you had planned, now did it?” I said moving toward him. I pressed the blade up against his neck. “Where did the old man go?”
“You stupid bitch.”
No sooner had he uttered those words, I slit his neck. While I had neutralized the situation quickly and efficiently, I still had a problem. I needed that passport. I figured the old man couldn’t be far.
I returned to the room and looked outside the window. Standing pressed up against the building on the fire escape was the man.
“Get back in here,” I ordered.
He looked around and then down the stairs of the fire escape.
“I won’t ask you again,” I said.
“Okay, okay.” He climbed inside, and I shut the window behind him. He peeked into the living room and saw two bodies lying on the floor with pools of blood around their heads.
“Unlike them, you have a choice,” I said. “Complete the transaction or die.”
“Calm down. I’ll finish it,” he said moving behind the desk. He removed a small lockbox from the lower drawer and fished out a key from his pants pocket to open it. Inside were stacks of brand new Belgian passports.
“Work fast.” I checked the lock on the front door. “Are there others on their way?” I shouted from the living room.
“What do you mean?”
“You should know that each time you ask me to repeat myself, I have an overwhelming urge to end your life.”
“No one is coming,” he said with widened eyes.
While he worked, I used the kitchen sink to wash the blood from my hands and my blade. I then stood near the window to keep a watch on the alley below. I kept expecting that at any moment more Albanians would appear, equipped with more firepower than I could handle.
It took almost forty minutes for him to create my passport. It felt like days. A quick look showed me that everything appeared in order. My new name was Sophie Bouchon.
“Don’t kill me. I did what you said.”
Clearly, the stack of stolen passports and his flawless work told me he was indeed the gang’s forger. I couldn’t be sure if Edon or the old man made the decision that I could be easily taken advantage of. Either way, it made no sense. Surely killing customers wasn’t a sustainable business model.
His trembling hand held up the envelope of money. “Here, take it back.”
“That won’t be necessary.” I pocketed the passport.
I never knowingly leave a witness to my actions, but at that moment, I actually contemplated the thought. His generous offer also helped his case, but in the end, I’m a professional.
10
The next train to Paris was scheduled to depart in thirty minutes, giving me just enough time to purchase a ticket and retrieve my belongings from the station locker. Once on board, I settled into a window seat and tucked my knapsack on the floor between my feet. I had also purchased the seat next to me for privacy. I hated unnecessary conversation.
Shortly after the train moved out of the station, my stomach growled, prompting me to seek out the restaurant car. It was empty except for the attendant playing a game on her phone. Only when I cleared my throat did she acknowledge my presence, and even then, she took her time. I purchased a ham and cheese sandwich along with a bowl of fruit and retreated back to my seat. While munching on my food, I found myself once again contemplating my situation. I had taken unnecessary risks traveling to Brussels, and while I was able to get what I needed, it was not without complications.
Experience told me the Albanians would come looking for me. They were a close-knit society, and much like the Sicilian Mafia, their organization was a family venture. The men I dispatched in that building were most likely the brother, husband, or father of some other member of their organization. They would hunt me until they captured me. I could even expect them to put an open contract on my head. The upside was they didn’t know me, but that advantage came with an expiration date. Eventually they’d figure it out.
If you were to ask me if I thought what I did was worth it, my answer would be, “I’m not sure.” If I knew for a fact that my daughter was alive and completing the contract would return her to me, then my answer would be a resounding “Yes.” Sure, the tangle with the Albanians wasn’t ideal. My initial plan while pregnant was to leave this business and give my child a chance at a normal life. If she were alive, what I had just done certainly didn’t help.
I figured a few of the other Albanians in the bar might remember what I looked like, so it helped that I was on the move.
“Tickets!” the train conductor called out before making his way through the car. I held mine out and avoided eye contact. He didn’t seem to notice. Probably didn’t care.
The train had just crossed the halfway point when my thoughts turned to Dr. Remy Delacroix, the doctor I had hired to deliver my child. He was employed at the Bicetre Hospital, and while it wasn’t the ideal location to extract information, I had no other options; I didn’t know where he lived.
The train arrived at Paris’s Gare du Norde station on time and in the midst of rush hour. From there, I could connect with the Paris Metro and make my way to the hospital.
According to Google Maps, it was located in a southern suburb about three miles from the city center. It was known for being the first hospital to treat mentally ill patients in a humane way. Delacroix was a resident physician, but he’d suggested we move the delivery of my child elsewhere because of my insistence on anonymity. He knew of a small clinic where he felt he could maintain that r
equirement.
My guess was that it would take forty-five minutes to travel the distance. Since I wasn’t sure if the doctor was on duty, how and when I reached the hospital really made no difference. Before heading to the subway, I removed the fiber wire from my knapsack before leaving it in a locker at the train station.
My plan was to move about the hospital and hopefully locate the doctor and follow him home. I was still dressed in my black pantsuit and figured I could pass as a hospital administrator hurrying to another budgetary meeting.
Upon my arrival at the Bicetre, I quickly located obstetrics on the third floor. I headed straight for the station desk, where a plump lady dressed in white scrubs sat hunched over a small computer monitor.
“Is Dr. Remy Delacroix here today?” I inquired in passable French.
The attendant manning the desk looked up briefly before punching a few keys on her computer keyboard. Her eyes scanned the screen for a few seconds. “Yes,” she said, looking up with inquisitive eyes. “Until nine tonight.”
“Merci,” I said before walking away. The digital clock on the wall read six thirty-six and counting. With time to kill, I found myself a chair, far from the desk. People liked to think the life of an assassin was similar to what was portrayed in a James Bond movie. It was not. I had never parachuted out of a plane and landed on the rooftop of a skyscraper. However, I did once dress up in a black evening gown and spend the night gambling in a Monte Carlo casino.
Mostly I spent time conducting reconnaissance. When given the opportunity, choosing the right moment and venue to immobilize a target went a long way to increasing the probability of a successful mission. In this case, I was following my usual course of action, except killing the doctor had yet to be determined. I grabbed a magazine off the table next to me and waited.
Luck seemed to favor me that night. After only an hour and half of waiting, a familiar voice caught my ear. I peeked over the top of my magazine and saw a man dressed in khakis and a white button-down talking with the nurse at the station desk. When he turned around, I recognized Delacroix’s face. The good doctor appeared to be leaving early.
I held the magazine close as he passed by, waiting until he caught the elevator before getting up and heading for the stairwell. I hurried to the ground floor and stood with my back to the elevator, while pretending to fiddle with my phone. Delacroix walked by, softly whistling. He wore his hair in same manner I last remembered, parted on the side. A trimmed beard was the only noticeable difference.
I remained ten feet behind the doctor, trailing him out of the hospital. He hailed a cab, and I followed him right inside.
11
Jak Berisha slammed his fist on the wooden desk, sending a lone paperclip soaring into the air. It wasn’t often that the leader of the Albanian criminal organization allowed his emotions to shine so brightly. But opposite him, sitting in a chair with his neck slit, was the organization’s most experienced forger—and Berisha’s older brother—Giorgi.
Berisha stood bent at the waist over the desk, his weight supported by thick forearms anchored by balled fists. He stared across the desk at his brother’s lifeless eyes, which had started to flatten. The front of Giorgi’s shirt was stained a dark red, as if he wore a bib. The early stages of rigor mortis had already begun to set in. Berisha used the back of his hand to wipe a tear from his left eye.
Hours had passed before anyone realized Edon had not returned to the bar. By the time someone checked, there was nothing that could be done for any of the men.
The muscles along Berisha’s jawline tightened and thick wrinkles formed on his forehead. After a minute or so of taking in the scene of his brother’s death, Berisha straightened up and turned around. He walked slowly out of the room, adjusting the collar of his leather jacket.
In the sitting room, he glanced at the lifeless body of Edon, who still sat slightly slouched in the chair with his head tilted down and resting on his chest. Berisha stepped over one of the men who lay lifeless on the floor and took a seat in the armchair opposite Edon. Before leaving that morning for a business meeting in Antwerp, Berisha had made plans to celebrate Giorgi’s birthday that night.
“Somebody tell me how this happened,” Berisha demanded, looking at the three men who accompanied him to the apartment. They shuffled their feet and looked at one another, avoiding eye contact with their boss. Neither wanted to be the one to explain.
“How? Why?” Berisha’s agitation grew.
By then, another man arrived. His name was Rezar Amiti, the gang’s top enforcer and Berisha’s closest advisor, next to his brother. Amiti had arrived at the bar shortly before Berisha and had already begun to assess the situation.
“There was a girl,” he said.
“Who?” Berisha asked.
Amiti flipped his palms up. “Zami was behind the bar when the woman came inside looking for a Belgian passport. He said she was short, Asian looking, and dressed well. He had Edon deal with her.”
“So some woman walks in off the street, and suddenly we’re taking fucking orders and I’m burying my brother?”
“Zami said she was aware of our business and quickly offered payment. I think Edon saw her as an easy target. He’s done this in the past.”
“And look at what happened!” Berisha cursed under his breath before removing a handgun from the waistband of his pants and aiming it at Edon’s chest. “You incompetent idiot!” He pulled the trigger, emptying the entire clip into the man’s body. The gun continued to click long after the last bullet left the barrel until Amiti wrestled the weapon out of Berisha’s grasp.
“We will find her.” Amiti said, desperately trying to console his boss. “I promise you that.”
Berisha looked into his friend’s eyes. “And how do you propose you do that?”
“One of the men saw her get into a taxi. We will find the driver, and then we will find her.”
12
“What are you doing?” Delacroix pulled his head back slightly toward the taxi’s window for a better look at me.
I pressed the tip of my blade into his side. “Darling, I thought we could share the cab home.” I said, smiling at him. He glanced downward and saw the knife digging into the outside of his sport coat.
It took a few seconds for it to register, but the tightness in his face relaxed. He had recognized me. He turned back to the cab driver and gave him an address in French. Once Delacroix was convinced the cab driver had lost interest in us, he turned his attention toward me. “What do you want?” he asked in a hushed tone. “I’ve held up my end of the deal and said nothing of that day.”
“I have questions. It’s better we talk at your place.” I kept the blade pressed against his side, and we rode quietly, both staring ahead until we arrived at his building in the affluent neighborhood of the 6th arrondissement near the River Seine. After Delacroix paid the cab driver, I hooked my arm around his to ensure we got out of the vehicle together. “Come on, dear.”
I leaned into Delacroix, hugging his arm to conceal the blade as we continued the ruse for the short walk, past a shop selling artisan cheese, until we were inside the building. Delacroix slid the metal manual doors to the elevator shut and pressed the button marked four. The elevator jerked and then rose slowly. It wasn’t until we were safely inside his apartment that I released my grip from him.
“Look, I don’t know who you think you are—”
“Sit down. Now!”
He reached for a light switch.
“No lights. Just sit.”
Delacroix held his gaze on me for a moment before walking over to an armchair and taking a seat.
“Do you live alone?” I asked, looking around.
“Yes.”
“Don’t lie to me. It won’t serve you well.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Are you expecting anyone tonight? You left your shift early.”
“I was covering for another physician, and he returned.”
“Yo
u seem to be doing very well,” I said, looking up and admiring the high ceilings. The inside of his apartment was tastefully furnished. Large paintings hung on the walls, and there were a few sculptures placed throughout the sitting area. He didn’t respond to my musings. I moved closer, until I stood directly in front of him. Only a coffee table separated us.
“What do you want?” he asked as he shifted his weight in the chair.
“Is my daughter alive?”
Delacroix’s head twitched slightly. “What are you talking about?”
“The question is simple. Is my daughter alive?”
“You…you know what happened that day. She—”
“I know what you told me, that there was a body. But what I’m asking is whether or not my real daughter is alive. I’m talking about the baby you cut out of me, not the body you showed me. Is that one still alive?” Delacroix’s feigned naïveté began to test what little patience I had. “Answer me,” I said, drawing out my words.
Delacroix’s mouth hung slack. His head moved slowly from side to side.
“Is my daughter still alive?”
“I had no choice,” he said, barely above a whisper.
His answer doubled the beat of my heart. Could it be?
“They threatened me,” he continued. “They said they knew where my parents lived.”
I asked the question once more, louder.
A tear fell from Delacroix’s eye. His lower lip trembled. He reached out gently with one hand before pulling it back and looking away. “Please, don’t kill me. I had no choice,” he whimpered.
The truth had begun to emerge, but I needed to hear him say it, for my own sanity. I needed him to admit it. “This is the last time I will ask. Is my daughter alive?”
Delacroix sobbed softly, eventually nodding his head. “She’s alive.”
13
Can anger and happiness coexist at the exact moment? That night in Paris, I discovered the answer to that very question. A torrent of emotions had exploded inside of me, tearing at my insides and twisting my thoughts. Hearing Delacroix admit that my daughter was alive was almost too much for me to handle. I felt empty yet alive at once. He’d led me to believe my daughter had died during childbirth. For two years, I mourned her. For two years, I…
[Anthology] Abby & Sei Thriller Starter Page 26