by Elise Noble
Black paused halfway up the ladder to the upper deck, and our eyes met. Well, we were both certain of one thing now—the girl’s death was murder.
CHAPTER 5 - EMMY
“WHAT DO YOU want for breakfast?” Black asked. “Fruit? Cereal? Toast?”
“Waffles.” I hesitated, rubbing feeling back into one wrist where he’d just removed the handcuffs, which sounds a lot kinkier than it was. “And I’m sorry.”
“Waffles,” he repeated, tugging on a T-shirt to cover the bruises on his chest. “And there’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s not your fault.”
But it was. I never meant to hit him, but my nightmares were so real, so vivid, that I lashed out without being aware of what I was doing. Last night, I’d watched a girl’s murder, a brunette about my height fighting for her life against a monster in the sea. Then I became the girl, and when the shadowy form wrapped its tentacles around me, I’d fought back, clawing and punching until Black slapped me hard across the face and I woke up.
I always used to sleep alone, but now that we were together, Black refused to let me. Whenever I suggested it, he said he’d rather deal with the consequences than have us spend a night apart.
Which left me to deal with the guilt. At three a.m., I’d dabbed antiseptic cream onto the gouges in Black’s back and handcuffed myself to the headboard, then spent the rest of the night wide awake while Black tried to find a comfortable position beside me.
The front door clicked behind him, and I paced the room. Should I try sleeping pills again? I hated them because they messed with my mind, not to mention put me in danger by slowing down my reactions, but I also hated hurting the person I loved most. It was days like this that I wished I’d never accepted the job with Blackwood. Wished I’d taken my chances in London. Wished I hadn’t seen so much death.
Black was right. We really did need this vacation.
“How about we go kitesurfing?” he suggested when he came back with breakfast. After scuba diving and swimming, kitesurfing was Black’s favourite water sport, and with the latter, we had a much lower chance of coming across a body. “It’s good and windy today.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re still fretting about the girl we found yesterday?”
“How can I not?”
No matter how many corpses I saw, they still affected me. Think that’s hypocritical considering I was in the business of death? Perhaps. But every contract I took, I accepted because I believed it was for the greater good, like cutting a cancer out of the world. Anton Ludovich, the speed-loving oligarch-in-training? The American he’d had killed was a journalist writing an exposé on the Ludovich family’s business empire, which happened to include the illegal dumping of toxic waste that had seeped into rivers and poisoned thousands.
A small group of people like Black and me fought in the shadows to maintain the balance between right and wrong, although we sometimes had to ignore a few laws to do so. And if you reckon governments didn’t condone our activities, then you’d be wrong. They were our biggest customers.
But my job took its toll on my psyche. In the daytime, I could force the dark thoughts away, squash them to the back of my mind and get on with the task at hand, but after sundown, all bets were off. This morning, I’d woken with a mixture of guilt and foreboding gnawing at my mind. Maybe it was the unexplained nature of the girl’s death, or perhaps it was the police captain’s attitude, but I had a horrible feeling the worst was yet to come.
“We don’t have any kind of authority here,” Black reminded me. “We can’t right every wrong we come across. This case is somebody else’s job.” Sometimes, I envied his ability to compartmentalise so effectively. The worst of his world got sucked into a black hole, never to be seen again. “So, kitesurfing?”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“I’m fine.” He crouched beside me. “But you’re tired, aren’t you?”
Yes, which was my own fault. And dammit, why did he have to be so sweet about stuff like that? I didn’t deserve him.
“A little tired,” I admitted.
Plus my waffles had cream and chocolate sauce, which meant a double helping of guilt niggled at me. A triple helping when Black leaned over to kiss me on the forehead.
“We can kitesurf tomorrow,” he said. “Let’s lie in the sun this morning.”
“You hate lying in the sun.”
“I can pretend to like it for a day.”
“No, we’re going kitesurfing.” Whether I enjoyed it or not. Decision made. “I’ll be fine.”
And that was how I found myself standing in the spare bedroom, yawning as I stared at the mountain of water sports equipment stacked beside the French windows. Scuba tanks, a wakeboard, fins, boots, a windsurf sail…
Black sucked in a breath as he tugged on the arm of a stray wetsuit. “I think we need to tidy up.”
“Or get an Egyptian version of Bradley.”
This was the first break I’d had in ages. The last thing I felt like doing was wasting any of that precious time rearranging all the shit I’d avoided rearranging on past visits. Come to think of it, the main reason the pile was so high was because I hadn’t been able to find anything on my previous trip, so I’d bought more stuff instead of digging through the mess.
“Diamond, if we had an Egyptian version of Bradley, we wouldn’t be able to move from incense burners and shisha pipes, and I fucking hate wind chimes. Let’s just buy another closet instead.”
“Fine. A closet. A really big closet.” Great. I hated shopping almost as much as I hated pineapple on pizza. “Have you seen a furniture store in Dahab?”
“No, but logically there must be one. We’ll ask around.” He passed me a rolled-up kite. “Here, you’ll need this.”
When I wasn’t so tired, I really did love kitesurfing. A cross between parasailing and wakeboarding, it was tricky enough to keep me sharp. In Dahab, the semi-enclosed laguna attracted enthusiasts from the world over with its glorious wind conditions, and when we finished breakfast and went outside, we were two of a dozen people arranging our gear on the beach.
First, we had to blow up our kites using a foot pump. The kites attached to waist harnesses via long lines, ready to propel us over the waves. Speed and direction were controlled using a bar in front of our chests. One small move of the wrist could mean the difference between resting while the kite hovered in place above you or shooting forward at fifty knots.
Black launched his kite first and accelerated away from me as I positioned myself in the water, feet strapped to my kiteboard. A moment later, I followed, and the wind whipped through my hair as I sped after him.
Sometimes, I wondered what life would be like if I retired. Just quit the security business and spent my days having fun. Fuck knows, I’d earned enough money over the last decade to never have to work again. Maybe my nightmares would even go away?
But every time that thought crept up on me, I dismissed it almost instantly. The truth was, I was a junkie. An addict. I needed my drugs of choice—oxytocin from the friendships I’d made at work, endorphins from keeping fit, and dopamine from the occasional sneaky donut. But my real vice was adrenaline. Sure, kitesurfing was a rush, but it didn’t come close to walking that fine line between living and dying while keeping my balance all the way to the end. No, I’d stick with the odd vacation. The sun stimulated serotonin production, after all.
My kite caught the wind, and I left the water, knees bent as I somersaulted. This was what it felt like to be free, not a care in the world, at least until I realised I’d gone too far out to sea and was fast heading for Saudi Arabia. The Hijaz Mountains were just visible through the mist that hung over the Gulf of Aqaba, hulking brown lumps seemingly devoid of character from twenty-seven kilometres away, although at night, the twinkling lights at the foothills signalled the existence of towns and villages.
Er, best to turn around.
CHAPTER 6 - EMMY
MY ARMS AND legs ached when we hauled our gear up the b
each at the end of the day, but Black was, well, not smiling exactly because he rarely did that in public, but content. The effort had been worth it, even if I could hardly keep my eyes open, and a little of my guilt trickled away.
“Dinner?” he asked as we walked up the path to the villa.
“Yes.”
“Where? Do you want to stay in or go into town?”
We’d stayed in last night. By the time we’d cleared the diving gear away, downloaded the video footage onto a memory stick for the police to pick up, and tried to scrub away the feel of rotting flesh in the shower, neither of us could be bothered to leave the hotel complex, so we’d gotten room service to deliver sustenance.
Truth be told, I was still shattered, and all I wanted to do was crawl into bed alone and avoid another night like the last one. But that wasn’t fair on Black.
“Let’s go out. Pick a restaurant.”
“Italian.”
“We had pizza last night.”
“So? We’re…”
“On vacation,” I finished with him. And of course my husband picked Italian. He always picked Italian. It was his favourite kind of food. Secretly, I suspected he’d been looking forward to our now-cancelled assassination job in Milan because it meant he could’ve spent two weeks living on ravioli and osso buco. “Okay, we’ll have Italian.”
Italian meant a walk up the coastal path to Maurizio’s, a restaurant on the beach near the local sheikh’s house. At that time of year, the evenings were cooler, and with enough wind to blow any bugs away, the walk was a pleasant one, albeit dark. Years ago, the town council had tried installing solar lights, but despite the amount of sun, they’d never worked properly. Nobody worried; Dahab was safe. But as we strolled along, hand in hand, I couldn’t help wondering whether the recent murder would change things.
Not much had altered since I last visited. The vegan restaurant was still there, the Lebanese restaurant, the weird bar that always played loud music but which never seemed to have any customers. The place by the Sweet Dreams Hotel was new. Or at least, the beachside seating area had had a makeover. Gone was the tired blue-and-white decor, replaced by gaudy red and green glass-topped tables and low benches with enough cushions to give Bradley a wet dream. But the bright furniture wasn’t what caught my eye. No, that was the new logo. Two fish in a heart shape, the name Happy Fish written underneath.
I ground to a halt.
“Do you recognise that?”
Black didn’t need to ask what I was talking about because of course he’d seen it too. His charcoal eyes missed nothing. “We’re not having Italian tonight, are we?”
“I’m curious. Aren’t you curious?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer, because he was trying to decide whether to lie. See, I knew him well too. He didn’t want to get involved with any official inquiry, but the innate sense of nosiness that had led him away from the Navy SEALs, first to the CIA and then to a career in investigations, meant he wanted answers.
Finally, “Okay, I’m curious.”
A waiter sidled up to us. “Would you like to eat here tonight? We have daily specials—fresh fish, steak, Black Forest cake.”
I offered him a smile. “Table for two?”
“This way, please.”
The logo on his shirt matched our victim’s, but the colour didn’t; his was navy blue. He showed us to a table in a prime spot by the water and held my chair out while I sat down. The actual cooking was done in a building on the other side of the promenade, and the staff dodged pedestrians as they hurried across to their customers, carrying trays of drinks and dishes aloft.
There appeared to be three waiters, all male, plus a cheerful German owner—a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a Star of David on a chain around his neck—who came out to check our food was okay.
“Delicious, thank you.”
“And the service is also good?”
“Yeah, great.”
Black conjured up a charming smile. “A lady we met on the beach suggested we try this place. She said she was a waitress here, but I don’t see her?”
“Carmela?”
“We didn’t get her name. About my wife’s height, short brown hair, wearing one of your T-shirts in red.”
“Sounds like Carmela. She quit last week.”
“Really? She was singing the place’s praises not so long ago, and we’re keen to thank her for the recommendation.”
When in doubt, flatter the target.
“Ja, but she didn’t turn up for work, and when I called her, she didn’t answer.”
“So she didn’t actually hand in her notice?”
“No, but the population is so transient here. It’s not the first time a person has left without saying a word.”
A waiter wandered over. Omar, according to his name badge. Egyptian, kind of nervous-looking.
“Is everything good with the meal?”
Did he know anything? “Wonderful, thank you. We were just discussing one of your colleagues. Carmela? She quit suddenly last week.”
“Oh? I thought maybe she had some days off. She quit? That is surprising. She didn’t tell me.”
The German shrugged. “Probably because she hates difficult conversations. The number of times she made excuses for that boyfriend of hers rather than sticking up for herself…”
“They had problems?” Black asked. “She seemed happy when we spoke to her.”
“That’s Carmela—always putting on a smile. The customers loved her.”
“But the boyfriend?”
“He didn’t like her working here. Said she was too good for waitressing and she could get a better job in Italy, but she always told me her heart is by the sea.”
And in a horrible twist of irony, that was where it had ended up for eternity, stolen by a barracuda.
“So that was it? They disagreed over her career ambitions?”
Our German friend glanced around, but the only other occupied table was right across the restaurant. A party, it looked like, with a dozen or so people all talking too loud. Still, he leaned in closer.
“Worse than that. I think he gets violent on occasion. A while ago, she came to work with a big bruise on her face. She said she walked into a door, and we all know what that means.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
“Ja. I drove her to the hospital for X-rays, and the whole time, she swore it was the truth. But I also overheard her on the phone to her friend later, and she said it was Youssef’s fault.”
“Youssef was her boyfriend?”
Omar nodded. “Yes, Youssef. He works in his father’s chicken shop on the far side of Assalah Square.”
“What about the friend? Will she take care of Carmela?” Black glanced at me. “We just hate hearing tales of violence against women. Back home in Virginia, Emmy volunteers at a women’s shelter.”
That part was sort of true. Our charitable foundation funded the place, and my good friend Dan, who’d many years ago been a victim of domestic violence herself, spent hours there listening to the women pouring their hearts out. Sometimes, for the worst cases, I tagged along when she visited the offenders with a reminder that women weren’t always the meek little creatures they thought we were.
Now the German’s cheeks reddened. “I think so. I should’ve checked before that she was okay, but…but…”
I went for sympathy. “But you were annoyed because she left you in the lurch? That’s understandable.”
“Ja. Now I feel as if I should have done more.”
Omar fished around in his trouser pocket. “I will call Aurelie. That’s Carmela’s friend,” he explained to us. “She’s a nice lady.”
A group of tourists walked in, three couples, the women cooing over the view of the sea and the shells glued to the wall in the shape of the restaurant’s logo. The German backed away apologetically.
“I need to seat these people. Please, enjoy the rest of your meal.”
The waiter scuttled off too,
but he already had his phone to his ear. Black took a sip of water.
“That should set the ball rolling. Once they realise Carmela’s disappeared, either Omar or the friend will report her missing. Assuming the dead girl is Carmela, only a fool wouldn’t manage to connect the dots between her death and her hospital visit, which means they’ll hand the police a viable suspect too.”
I held up my glass and clinked it against Black’s. “To sticking our noses in where they’re not wanted.”
“To fighting for justice.”
“Awesome. Now that’s done, what are we having for dessert? I was gonna go for ice cream, but the Black Forest cake sounds good too.”
“Have both. We’re on vacation.”
“Did you really just encourage me to eat two desserts? Are you feeling okay?”
“Don’t expect me to do it again.”
“This must be my lucky day. Love you, Chuck.”
“I’ll love you more if you stop calling me Chuck,” he said, but he was smiling.
“Charles?” That was his real name, but he didn’t like that much either.
“Sure, if I can call you Amanda.”
Amanda. My given name, and a reminder of the mother who’d done such a bad job of raising me that I’d run away aged twelve. I hadn’t used it since I was fifteen.
“Fine. You win. How about I use my mouth for something else instead?”
“Let’s get dessert to go.”
“And give a whole new meaning to Black Forest cake?”
“I’m good with you eating cake off me, but forget the ice cream.”
“Fair enough. I wouldn’t want anything to shrivel up.”
Black waved a different waiter over since Omar had vanished. “Can you put a whole Black Forest cake in a box?”
Oh, this was definitely my lucky day.
CHAPTER 7 - BLACK
BLACK GROANED AS he stretched his arms to the sides. Half a Black Forest cake sat heavy in his gut, and he’d overslept by two hours. Was this what regular people did on vacation? Let their discipline slip, then regretted it afterwards? If the answer was yes, he wanted to go home already.