“You tell me,” I responded. “What do you have on her cover story?”
I got a disapproving look in reply. Jean-Luc wouldn’t talk in the kitchen. Only in the soundproofed security of the study would our business be discussed. My lips twitched. “She was asleep when I left,” I defended myself.
“People wake up,” he replied. “Are you making coffee?”
“Remind me again who works for whom?” I asked wryly as I moved over to the coffee machine. It was Elodie’s day off and we were all alone.
“The last time I made breakfast, you declined to eat it.”
“The last time you made breakfast, it was a charred, burned, inedible mess. I would prefer to live.” I cracked a half-dozen eggs as I spoke, beating them with a whisk before sliding them into the heated skillet. I’d learned to cook in boarding school, sneaking down to the kitchens in order to escape the crushing loneliness and inadequacy I’d felt as a child. The cooks had been warmly kind to a little boy who had only known rejection. I was still grateful for their generosity.
Jean-Luc chuckled. He sipped coffee as I scrambled the eggs in the pan. When they were done, I divided the contents between us and we took the food into my study. We didn’t have much time before Jenny woke up and I had much to discuss with him.
“Okay, we need to debrief on three major things,” Jean-Luc held up his hand. “Let’s start with your girlfriend. Sylvia. When does she return to Paris?”
I grimaced. It was disgusting to play the role of Sylvia’s besotted boyfriend, but it was also necessary. I needed access to her files to take her down and the only way to do that was to get her to trust me.
Every time I was around her, I walked away feeling dirty. But I bore some sense of responsibility for her ascendance and I had to act. Three years ago, Sylvia had been a relatively small time operator. Her henchmen kidnapped vulnerable children from parts of the world torn apart by war and unrest and sent them to brothels around the world where they lived as indentured sex slaves, held prisoner against their will. As vile as that had been, her reach had been limited. There were plenty of players in the global slave trade and Sylvia had been jockeying to establish her place.
I’d inadvertently caused a power vacuum when I’d arranged the hit on Stanislav Durov without considering who would step into his place when he was killed. Without meaning to, I’d helped Sylvia by getting rid of Durov.
Utterly without conscience or empathy, Sylvia had increased her power dangerously since then. Unfortunately, this was the nature of fighting the slave trade. The vultures circled around the carcass of human misery and if you shot one of them out of the sky, another would appear to take its place.
As soon as I realized what had happened, I’d initiated my own counter-plan. Durov had been relatively easy. A bullet to the head and his empire had crumbled. Sylvia would be harder, because her organization had a successor waiting in the wings. If I killed her, another would rise in her place. No, with Sylvia, I needed to strip her of all of her resources.
Interpol. Tax agencies in many different countries. Every hidden Swiss bank account carefully tracked down. Each Cayman Island tax shelter uncovered. This operation, almost two years in the making, required the highest degree of coordination and secrecy.
“Next week,” I replied to Jean-Luc’s question. “She’s been doing her quarterly brothel tour, spreading fear and misery wherever she goes.”
Jean-Luc’s lips thinned with distaste. “I’ve heard she’s kidnapped a fresh set of unfortunate souls. From Tunisia, from Iran and Syria and from Georgia.”
I nodded. I did know this. Salim and Rachid had been especially livid about her activity in Tunisia. I’d had to soothe them in Bangkok, reassure them that I had a plan. They had still given me a warning. If I didn’t clean up this mess, they would act and the streets would be knee-deep in blood by the time they were done.
I had no mercy to spare for Sylvia. She didn’t deserve any. But I wanted to prevent all-out warfare. There would be too much collateral damage. Sylvia was completely capable of shooting each and every one of the slaves in her brothels to make a point about who was in charge.
“Did you notice that your girl is afraid of her?” Jean-Luc continued. “In the auction, when you were kissing Sylvia, I saw her watching, but she wasn’t looking at you. Her gaze was fixed on Sylvia and she was petrified. ”
“Really?” My voice was thoughtful. “Do you think they’ve come into contact before?”
“Well, Sylvia’s quite memorable, isn’t she?” Jean-Luc’s voice was cold. A very long time ago, Sylvia had been responsible for tearing his world apart. Jean-Luc wouldn’t rest until the Anliker sisters were exterminated.
In our operation, I was the planner. The waiting had chafed at Jean-Luc. I could understand that. It rankled at me too, especially given how much misery Sylvia caused every day she was alive. “Sylvia isn’t going to be a problem for very much longer,” I said. I heard the same coldness in my voice.
I didn’t want to think about Jenny being afraid. Everything in me ached to strip the fear from her eyes. I wanted her to be the way she’d been last night. Laughing and happy, sassing me in the playroom, until her breathing had quickened in arousal and only lust remained.
Jean-Luc nodded. He knew the plan. “Okay, let’s chat about Dylan.”
I exhaled. I detested talking about Dylan McAllister. He should have been dead a long time ago and it was to my everlasting shame that I hadn’t acted. I couldn’t think about him without feeling a hot flush of guilt.
However, I did have some news for Jean-Luc. Yesterday, I’d received a carefully encrypted email from one of his guards. Someone within Dylan’s organization was willing to switch allegiances. After the untimely murder of Ivan Klimov, it had taken two years of the most careful baiting for me to attract another defector, but I had finally succeeded. I showed Jean-Luc the message I’d received from Daniel Schneider.
“Why now?” Jean-Luc worried out aloud. “Schneider’s worked for Dylan for over a decade. Why defect now?”
“Because the net’s tightening around Dylan,” I replied. “He’s running out of money. Bethany’s family is supposedly hiring detectives. Interpol is closing in, asking uncomfortable questions about missing women. He doesn’t know it yet, but an arrest is only weeks away. However, he’s always had good instincts about trouble and he’s ordered a clean-up. Anyone who has ever worked for him has a bounty on their heads.” I smiled with grim satisfaction. “One of the targets is a former lover of Schneider’s.”
I was Dylan’s financier. I paid the bills. The killings had been arranged through me, or so Dylan had thought. The reality was that each kill was reported back to Dylan while I moved the targets to safety. Jean-Luc knew that – he had played a role in that operation.
I did what I could to atone for the fact that I’d been unable to put a bullet in Dylan’s brain, but I hated my weakness. As a result of my shameful inability to pull the trigger, three women had endured hell at Dylan’s hands.
Jean-Luc looked sympathetic, as he did every time we talked about Dylan. As much as we’d disagreed on many things, this had been the one topic he’d never questioned me on. He understood. “Is he planning a run for it? Flee Hanoi the way he fled Abeokuta?”
“He doesn’t have enough cash,” I replied. I couldn’t bring myself to kill Dylan McAllister, but there were many other ways to ruin a man. Money was a very effective weapon. I’d made sure Dylan didn’t have any available funds. I’d also systematically removed anyone who had ever helped Dylan. Stanislav Durov had provided Dylan shelter in Tbilisi, and so Durov was dead. Sylvia had arranged the last two women to be kidnapped for Dylan. She wouldn’t live past the end of the week.
“I’m going to reply to Schneider,” I said, making up my mind. “He wants a million. I’ll make him a counter-offer. See where it goes.”
“Suddenly protective of your money?” Jean-Luc asked dryly.
“It’s the expected thing to bargain,” I re
plied. “I can’t appear too eager. Daniel doesn’t know who I am or why I want the information.”
“Why do you want the information, Alexander?” Jean-Luc probed. “After all, you’ve found most of Dylan’s former slaves. Where you can, you’ve made amends.”
“Where I can,” I echoed. “I’ve never been able to find Ellie Samuelson. Two of the girls whose bodies we located, we just know a name. Claire Bectell. Wendy Zhang. Those girls had families, loved ones. They deserve closure. If a million dollars will reveal more information, I have to spend it.”
“You aren’t responsible for Dylan’s actions.” Jean-Luc’s voice was gentle.
I shook my head. This was not a subject about which I’d permit conversation.
“Okay.” Jean-Luc didn’t continue to make his point. This wasn’t a new topic for us. We’d argued it to death and on this, I wasn’t going to bend. “Now, Jenny, or whoever she really is.”
“Her cover story’s definitely fake then?” Of course, I’d known that. It hadn’t stopped me from hoping otherwise.
“It is. But Jenny Fullerton is a real person.”
“Identity theft?”
“No police reports have been filed, so most likely, she sold her identity to your girl.”
“Who is she then? Are you making any inroads into finding out?”
Jean-Luc shook his head, clearly frustrated. “Her cover story is well designed, but a story like that can’t withstand detailed scrutiny. Yet I still have no clue who your girl really is. I’m not giving up yet, of course. We are monitoring her calls and I have a twenty-four hour tail on her. I will figure this out.”
I raised an eyebrow, impressed. Jean-Luc had been at work for a week and he had nothing to show for it. This never happened.
“What about the sister that she calls? Who is she?”
“There’s a real woman on the other end of the phone line,” he replied. “But she’s not a sister, there’s no resemblance, and she isn’t suffering from leukemia.” He shot me a look. “Alexander, you must be careful around this woman. She isn’t working alone.”
No, she wasn’t. It would take a team of people to put her cover story into place and maintain it.
I decided not to tell Jean-Luc I’d spent the night with her nestled in my arms. He’d kill me for such lamentable lack of security, but sometimes, it was necessary to operate on instinct. Every instinct of mine told me I didn’t need to be overly concerned. When the time was right, the truth would reveal itself.
Chapter 6
Ellie / Jenny:
The next few days were idyllic.
For the first time in my life, I was truly enjoying sex. I was embracing my own sexuality. I was dressing with an eye to both please Alexander and torment him. We’d gone out one night to a small restaurant in the neighborhood and I’d excused myself at one point, gone to the washroom, removed my panties and come back to my seat. I’d laid them on the table in front of him with complete abandon. “If you want to skip dessert, Sir?” I’d whispered, not bothering to hide the need in my eyes.
He’d spanked me for that in the playroom, his eyes laughing at me. I’d giggled and begged for more.
During the day, I wandered all over Paris, shadowed by the ever-present guards. Alexander hadn’t made any attempt to conceal their presence from me. He’d told me openly that the bodyguards were for my protection and I was welcome to meet them if I’d wanted. I’d declined, reasoning that Jenny Fullerton would be uneasy with guards. She would prefer to forget they existed.
While I played tourist, Alexander was busy at work, but whatever he had been working on, he seemed to be done with it by the weekend. He emerged from his study Friday afternoon, shut the door behind him and announced that he was at my disposal for the upcoming week. “Want to get away?” he asked me with a quirk of his mouth. “Shall we head to Arles and then explore the south of France?”
“Isn’t Arles the city where Van Gogh was committed?” I asked him. An old nugget of information from a very long time ago. I’d loved museums before I’d been taken. I had poured over biographies of artists, trying to figure out what drove them to their art.
“It does have more to recommend it than that,” he retorted dryly. “But the place I’m thinking of showing you is a small village outside Arles. I own a farmhouse there.”
“Must be nice,” I quipped. He said he liked me brave and unafraid? That came with a side-helping of smart-assery. “You know, owning a house in every city.”
He grinned. “It’s very good to be me indeed.” His eyes ran over me appreciatively. “I’ve a beautiful woman in my house and I get to have my evil way with her whenever I want.”
“Four times a week according to the contract,” I intoned solemnly. Which was such bullshit. I’d wanted to sleep with him last night. I’d been the one to ask him if I could spend the night in his bed.
He’d smiled a strange little smile and muttered, “Of course, cherie.”
I’d have liked to pretend that it was the thought of making myself indispensable to him that drew me to his side, but if I’d ever had a moment of pure selfishness, it was this. Similar to Paris two years ago, in his arms, I slept well. I wasn’t haunted by nightmares. I felt cared for and cherished.
The day Sylvia was supposed to come to Paris drew closer. I didn’t let myself think about it. I thought it was strange that Alexander was treating me like a lover when he purportedly had a girlfriend, one that he’d kissed with obvious heat at Madame Lorraine’s. But I couldn’t pretend to understand the motivations of someone who was so rich that bidding a million dollars for three months of a woman’s company was a commonplace act.
I was ignoring the truth in favour of the fantasy. I was relishing the freeing sensation of letting go of my fear in the playroom. What resulted was playful and fiery and passionate. It was sex like I’d never experienced it.
I’d never been in love; I didn’t know what it felt like, but I suspected that it was this. I smiled when I thought of him. I looked at him with stars in my eyes and I started to forget who he was. And I was falling, falling so hard and so deep.
***
Alexander:
We could have flown to Arles. I went away to the farmhouse many times during the year and I usually flew, since it was a seven hour drive from Paris. But with Jenny, I wanted to savour the journey. “Shall we take the train?”
“That seems very normal, Alexander. Is the jet in the shop?”
“I do fly most of the time,” I admitted. She had me think about my wealth in a way that I hadn’t done for many years. “But the train’s fun too.”
“First class, I’m assuming?” Again, her voice was dry.
“Would you prefer otherwise, cherie?”
She giggled, her voice a merry peal of sound. “No, I’m just messing with you,” she admitted cheerfully. “You actually blush when I make fun of your money.”
I felt the heat rise in my cheeks and I had to laugh in response. No one teased me. I had several good friends from boarding school, but we didn’t see each other frequently enough. My employees and I treated each other with professional courtesy. Jean-Luc, with his dry humour and slight mockery was as close as it had gotten in many years.
“Brat,” I chided. “Go get packed. There’s a train every hour, but it’s almost a five hour ride.”
I hoisted the bag she’d packed, ignoring her protests about how she could carry it by herself. My bright star had an independent streak that I loved, but I still wanted to spoil her.
At the Gare de Lyon, she giggled again and grabbed my forearm, resting her cheek against me. “Alexander,” she asked. “Is it true that you can drink on trains?”
“Of course,” I replied.
“I want to.” She winked at me. “I still cannot believe you can get wine at McDonalds here. It’s crazy.”
I gestured to the backpack I was carrying. “I have a surprise,” I told her. “There’s a picnic in there. Elodie packed it for us. Wine, sandwiches, s
alad and fruit.”
She made an impressed face. “On the one hand, I could make some fun about the billionaire waving his arm and getting a picnic arranged,” she started, “but…”
“But?”
“There’s wine, right?”
“There’s always wine, Jenny.”
We took our seats, facing each other and I unzipped the backpack, pulling out a wine bottle and two plastic cups. “Sorry about the makeshift glassware,” I said. “I was afraid that real wine glasses would break.”
She took a sip. “Are you kidding me? This is the most human I’ve seen you.”
I looked at her thoughtfully. “I haven’t always been rich, you know.”
“You didn’t grow up rich?”
I nodded. “I did, but any money I now have I made on my own. I had a falling out with my family when I was seventeen and I left home the next year, determined not to return until I could do so on my own terms.”
“What happened?” Her voice was soft.
***
My aunt drops the glass she carries and it shatters at her feet. Her wild gaze moves from Angela, tied up against the central wooden post to me. There’s judgement and condemnation in her eyes. “Monster,” she accuses me.
“No, Madame, it is not the way it looks,” Angela stammers. “I asked Alexander…”
The look that my aunt gives Angela silences the German girl. “Untie her,” my aunt orders. “Now.”
I shrug. “I don’t see what the big deal is,” I tell her. “Fine.”
I free Angela from her bindings and the blonde girl hastily snatches her dress and slides it over her head. Covered, she tries to reason with my aunt again. “Madame, please understand, Alex didn’t…”
“This does not concern you.” My aunt’s voice is icy. “Leave us. I need to talk to Alexander.”
I try to shoot Angela a reassuring look. “I’ll call you later, okay?” I lace my fingers in hers. “It’s fine.”
When Angela is making her way home, I turn to my aunt with genuine anger in my eyes. “What right do you have to do that?”
Freed (Assassin's Revenge Book 3) Page 5