Heart of an Assassin (Circle of Spies) (7 page)

The whole family moved into action. Edith scrambled for her cane. The dad pulled a pistol from a drawer in the table. Janelle grabbed the meat cleaver. Will shot from his chair and whipped his head back and forth, searching the exits, his face a mask of scary determination.

A masked man punched out the rest of the sliding glass door and crashed into the kitchen. I couldn’t miss the knife clutched in his hand. Flashbacks of the catacombs in Paris and Adamos created a jelly-like sensation in my knees. The blood, the wet, slippery feel. The metallic smell hitting the back of my throat. The clenching of my stomach. The heartbreak. It all came back and I slithered to the floor and cowered under the table. I hugged my knees and closed my eyes.
 

But I couldn’t block out the noise. The grunts. The groans. The crashing of objects being thrown. The landing of chairs. Something thumped next to me. Edith lay on her side, her eyes closed. Was she…? I shot my hand out to feel for a pulse in her neck, my fingers resting on her leathery skin. Still beating.

“Help them,” she croaked. “They need you.”

She pushed her cane toward me and I noticed the blade sticking out the end of it. I swallowed my breakfast back down, not able to reach out and grab the cane-turned-weapon. Smoke dried out the back of my throat and I coughed.

Slowly, I inched to the side and peered out. Janelle swung the broad-bladed knife back and forth, missing the guy but backing him toward her husband on the far left of the kitchen. He held a kitchen chair over his head. His gun gleamed from under the couch across the floor. Oh my spy gods. I tried to get Will’s attention so he could find it but he lay slumped against the far wall off to the right. Blood dripped from the side of his head.

No. This couldn’t be happening. As much as I hated this family, I loved Malcolm. And these people were his family. Through the ribbons of smoke, I could barely see Will, his face ashen, his body motionless. I crawled out from under the table and toward the gun. My hand itched just thinking about it. Tiny prickles of heat swarmed my skin from the top of my head to the tip of my toes.

Halfway between the kitchen table and the gun, I heard a thump and a crash. Janelle lay crumpled on the floor, deathly still. Fear wrapped around my neck, like hands squeezing, making it hard to breath. I froze, my eyes glued to Bartholomew, the last man standing. He brought the chair down on the guy who easily batted it away.

A shot echoed and Bartholomew grabbed his side and slammed against the wall. He slowly slid to the floor, his face contorted with pain.

Tears blurred my vision and I scrambled for the gun. My fingers were inches away when my stomach exploded in pain. The attacker kicked me again and I rolled. Gasping for breath, I struggled to my feet. He seemed to be toying with me, waiting to see what I would do. His foot shot out, and he kicked the gun to the other side of the room near Will.

Time stopped and I took inventory. Everyone was knocked out or dead. No one was left. Edith’s whispered words echoed inside me while Will’s ashen face reminded me of Malcolm’s. The smoke was dissipating but I still couldn’t see past my enemy’s mask.

The man picked up a chair and launched it at me. I ducked but a leg caught the side of my head and knocked me off balance. I swear I heard him laugh which royally pissed me off.

“Coward!” I cried out.

Adrenaline surged through my arms and legs and I dropped to the ground. My fingers reached for Edith’s cane. All of sudden I was rushing at him. The room blurred, but this man remained perfectly clear, a dark target. A yell sounded off the walls and I realized it was me. In two steps I was at him, jabbing the cane. It plunged into his side.

He grabbed his gut and lifted it away with blood on his hand. “Hey!”

“Yeah, that’s right, coward.”

Then he took off back through the door and disappeared into the neighborhood. I stood, trembling amongst the rubble. Smoke lingered, carrying with it the sting of the attack and my cowardice. The bodies didn’t move. A lamp lay in pieces. The truth of the situation and what happened weighed on me. Minutes ago I was eating breakfast with a friendly family of assassins and now they were all dead. My legs buckled and I fell to my knees.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. Silence filled the room. It felt like a tomb. Why did he spare me? Why did he run?

“No worries, dear.” Janelle lifted her head and pushed off the floor. Her hair lay in tangles around her face. She smiled weakly.

Edith groaned. “Someone can at least help an old woman to her feet. I’m not quite as spry as I used to be.”

Janelle moved to her side.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered again, glancing at Bartholomew. Tears rushed, no holding them back.

He grunted and waved his hand. “I’m alive!”

Relief whooshed through me.

“Will.” Janelle spoke sternly and helped Edith to her feet. They both turned on him. “This is coming directly out of your bank account. All this damage. I want it cleaned up and everything replaced by dinner tonight.”

What? How could they talk to their son like that when he was half alive?

Will wiped the blood from his face and smirked. “It was rather theatrical, wasn’t it?”

Janelle’s stern look broke up and she giggled. “Your best yet.”

Thoughts entered my head. Theatrical? His best yet? “Are you people crazy? Your home is in ruins and you were just attacked.”

“Will.” Bartholomew spoke sternly as if his son were a toddler scribbling on the wall with a crayon.

“Fine, fine.” He approached me. “This was officially your second training session. Planned by me for your benefit.” He bowed.

Understanding dawned. My fingers trembled and one by one they curled into a fist. The whole thing, the smoke bombs, the attack, it was a set up. For me. For my training.

“Now I just need some hash browns to go with this fake blood.” He licked his fingers.

The entire family cracked up. They relived the scene moment-by-moment, applauding Will for his work. Anger pulsed and it built in my fists. I stepped over the lamp and kicked Edith’s cane aside. The family took one look at me, and their laughter died.

“Hey, Will.”

He turned with a cocky grin, full of himself and congratulatory for pulling one over on me. My fist met his face. The impact sent pain rocketing back through my arm.

I stomped out through the jagged door and ran to the garden. The smell of the hyacinth mixed with the various smells of blooming flowers clashed with the rage welling within me. I stomped through flowerbeds and whirled around, wanting to shred all the tiny purple and yellow flowers. I breathed deep, trying to grasp everything that just happened.

Water trickling into the fountain pool broke through the haze of thoughts rapidly shooting through my brain. I moved toward the fountain, then dipped my throbbing knuckles into the pool, running them back and forth across the surface. First it was just my fingers drinking in the cool water but I sunk my hand lower and lower, the water a distraction from the horrific memory and my brain trying to wrap around the fact that it wasn’t real. Not the blood. Not the gunshot. Not the attack.

I dropped to my knees, the gravel digging into my skin. I cupped my hands into the water and splashed my face. Once, then again. I scrubbed, erasing the memory of Edith falling to the floor next to me, croaking out for help; Janelle falling, and then the gunshot. And Will, his face, ash gray, and the blood coloring his skin like a three year old drew a long angry red line down his cheek. And it was all an act. I scrubbed harder. Splashed more.

And then a light touch was on my back.

“Don’t touch me.” The words shot from my mouth. I scrubbed harder because if I didn’t release my aggression I wasn’t sure what I would do.

Malcolm pushed me back from the fountain’s edge. My shoulder grazed the rounded stones as I fell on my butt onto the gravel path. The small sharp stones dug into my hands. My hair wrapped in snake-like strands around my neck and shoulders. Water dripped between my shoulder blades.

“Stand up.” His face was like a mask, cold and hard, no flicker of any emotion.

“No.” I brushed off the excess water from my arms with jerky motions, refusing the angry tears trembling, ready to fall.

“Stand up and fight.”

I glared, my eyes like slits, wanting to pummel him to the ground and into dust. He kicked me with his toe.

“You knew about this?” The words hissed through my clenched teeth.

“Get up and fight. Damn it!” he yelled and nudged me again, a little harder. “What? You thought training would be lifting weights and sparring with wooden poles? Maybe a leisurely trip to the target range? Sorry, sweetie. That’s for the movies.”

“You could’ve warned me about this,” I spit out.

He laughed, the sound shallow. “Will has about a thousand ways of approaching training. I had no idea he’d pull this trick.” His voice turned bitter. “He doesn’t exactly confide in me.”

The itch started in my fingers and spread up my arms. A feeling. A desire to hit, to scream, to run. The urge raced through my nerves, spreading, exploding. As soon as I got to my feet I lunged at him. My arms wrapped around his waist and we fell to the ground with a thud, his body a hard line underneath me.

“Is that all you got?” he gasped and pushed me off.

Back on our feet, I attacked again. Fists flying, I pounded his chest, his arms, his stomach. The fear, the shock, the anger released with every hit. He finally pushed me away and gave it back. He punched. I ducked. He kicked. I swerved to the side and took out the one leg he was standing on. We went at it. Both fighting. Sweat stung my eyes. Muscles burned and my lungs complained for air.

On my last lunge I clung, my arms wrapped around his chest, my body hanging off him.

“Keep going. If you’re fighting for your life, no one’s going to give you time to recover because you’re past the point of exhaustion.”

I swung but missed. He punched my arm.

“Use what you can. Find a weapon. Fists aren’t all you have available and you won’t always have your choice of knives or guns.”

He punched again. My body cried out for relief. The tender spots throbbed where his fists had made contact. I wanted him to stop, for the garden to stop spinning. I stumbled away. Find a weapon. Find a weapon. Find a weapon. I crashed through the careful landscaping, tripping over the bushes. And then I saw it. A rake lay on the ground with nice pointed tines. I grabbed it and turned, my fingers digging into the wood.

Malcolm nodded in approval.

I rushed, jabbing the rake. He grabbed the end, right below the tines, and yanked me close. I stumbled. The rake fell and we landed in a heap in the grass. For the second time, I lay on top of him, breathing hard, wincing in anticipation of his harsh words or taunts. None came. His chest rose and fell. His breath hitched and the mask slipped and feeling flickered in his eyes. He didn’t hate me and his lips were so close. Memories of our last kiss lingered and pulled me toward him.

But I rolled off, my chest heaving. The sky spun above, taunting me with her carefree attitude and light, wispy clouds. Every one of my bones cried out and my muscles complained. I couldn’t move.

The clapping started softly at first and then grew. And then the whistles. I turned my head. Bartholomew, Janelle, Will and Edith stood at the edge of the yard, whistling and cheering. They meant to encourage and congratulate, but instead, each clap and whistle grated against my nerves, drawing up the bitterness from the deep well inside me.

“Savvy.” Malcolm touched my arm, but I still couldn’t find the strength to move.

His one word said more than any amount of words he could’ve strung together. Because words wouldn’t be enough. Forced explanation wouldn’t be enough. But in his voice I heard it. That he understood. That he’d been there. That this was his life, the death, the blood. I understood why he left his family and why he didn’t want to betray them. I didn’t want to know the kind of practical jokes they’d played on him in the name of training. All the stuff he could never explain to me. I got it.

“You’re right,” I said. “I saw training as jogging a couple miles. Learning to aim a gun. I didn’t see the emotion behind it.”

“That’s just the first stage. You have to get to the point where you live and move and breathe beyond the emotion. On instinct. We have a very short time to train you. If Will had a year, you’d have some of those glorified training moments but from the little I’ve been told, there isn’t a lot of time.”

“What do you mean?” I pushed up to a sitting position. “Why?”

“Hey, I’m just the trainer. My family doesn’t tell me everything either.”

I flopped back down and stared back at the clouds dancing across the sky and hoped I hadn’t made the biggest mistake of my life.

I’d hoped that after the first traumatic training session with the smoke bomb and fake blood that I’d get a break. I was wrong. It didn’t matter where I was or my current activity status. In the shower. Eating lunch. Following my daily routine of sit-ups and push-ups. Flossing.

The lights would flick off and someone would attack, usually Malcolm, or he’d send me off on a trail of clues to rescue Edith. After a week or so I never knew when my head hit the pillow if I’d get a full night’s sleep or not. Up was down and down was up. I ate muffins for dinner and spaghetti for breakfast. Or that was what it felt like. But if my family stayed safe and if I got a chance to peek at their deadly plans for Constance, it was worth it.

After one extremely exhausting early morning run, Malcolm pulled me aside after breakfast and said we had plans for the day. I didn’t argue. Anything to escape the house for a little bit.

Within the hour, we were back at the dock. The mid-day sun glistened off the sides of the boats and sails winked out on the waters as if in on some cosmic joke. Malcolm rested his foot on the edge of his boat, his eyes piercing mine. My breath disappeared and my chest tightened. With his jeans and fit T-shirt I couldn’t help but remember his melt-me-into-butter kisses.

“So, um, what’s the plan? I know we’re not here for a friendly outing,” I said. He’d pulled me from training after lunch with no hint as to our plans. Edith’s ideas of training niggled in the back of my head. “You’re not going to toss me overboard, are you?”

“We’re on a recon mission. Jump aboard if you’re coming.”

I stepped on board with much reserve, wishing I’d worn my bathing suit under my clothes. He untied the boat and started the engine.

“Recon on what?” I called out over the motor.

“You’ll see.” Then with a mischievous smile, he guided the boat away from the dock.

I crossed my arms and puckered my lips into a pout. But it didn’t last as the boat chugged out past the shallow waters, and he unfurled the sail. It snapped clean in the wind and we flew across the Mediterranean, the waves at our feet and the clouds our crown. I gripped the bench, completely enthralled. I was flying, the air on my face, the wind in my hair, lifting off the anxiety of living and training with assassins.

Thirty minutes later, Malcolm slowed the boat, lowered the sails, and dropped anchor. The boat swayed with the swell of the waves, and the exhilaration I’d felt for the past half hour faded. I leaned against the hull so the sun could warm my face. The salt water brought back memories of family trips to the seashore, and I relaxed for the first time in a long time. Malcolm disappeared inside the cabin and returned holding a camera with a super zoom lens.

He pointed across the water toward the closest island. “I’m taking pictures of the monastery.”

“Oh.” So maybe my mission had to do with the monks instead of Constance? I pushed down the twinge of guilt, because Adamos was no longer a part of this monastery. “What are we going to do? Invade?”

“Need to know basis.” He aimed the camera and started clicking.

“Does Will know I’m out here with you? Maybe he had some intense muscle training planned for me.”

Malcolm didn’t lower the camera. “Will went out of town. I’m in charge.”

I repressed a shudder at what “business” took Will out of town. I focused on Malcolm instead. The wind tossed his hair about his face and pressed his T-shirt against his chest. I inched across the bench, a bit closer to where he stood, close enough to reach out and trace my fingers down his arm.

“Um, Malcolm?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me about your childhood. Did you ever play Little League? Or go to Cub Scouts?”

“If I tell you, I might have to kill you.” He smirked and I stuck my tongue out at him. He zoomed the lens out even more and kept clicking.
 

“Seriously. Was it hard?”

Finally, he lowered the camera and stared at the white caps, a distant look in his eyes, like he was in a different place and time. “We traveled a lot. Of course, I didn’t know why until I was much older.” He put the camera away and zipped the bag, then pulled out a picnic basket stored under one of the seats.

“Any strawberry tarts in there?” I asked, teasing, referring to our first date in Paris. We’d experienced only moments of a normal date before his brother ruined it with open fire in an effort to warn Malcolm to stay away from me.

“Not quite,” he said, his voice on the edge of breaking into a laugh.
 

We sat on a blanket, our backs against the padded bench, and shared Malcolm’s snack of grapes, bread, cheese and crackers. He cracked open two beers and handed me one. I sipped, the cold beer coating my parched throat. I pressed for more answers.

“What’s your favorite memory, outside of training to throw knives and shoot a gun?”

“Lots of games,” he said. “My dad would create games of logic for Will and I to play against each other. He wanted us to feel that competitive edge and be able to reason out all the sides of an issue before making a move.”

“Hmm. Training in the form of games. Sounds fun.” I waited and then said, “Not.”

He laughed, his dimples flashing. “Okay, Miss Only Child. Let me guess. You spent your time playing Scrabble or going for family walks in the park.” He waited and then said, “Boring.”

I punched him. “Hey. Scrabble’s fun.” I laughed, but it trailed off, leaving me hollow on the inside. I thought about the last time we’d played a game as a family. Or taken a walk. It had been years.

He squeezed my hand. “Sorry. Maybe we should talk about something else.”

But our easy conversation dwindled. His thumb traced over my hand, and my pulse jumped. I missed this. Just being together. Talking. Laughing. Being friends. The week or so of training hadn’t left much time. “Do you ever think what your life would be like if your family weren’t in their line of work?”

“Sure.”
 

“Do you think we’d be together?” I swallowed my nerves. “Would you want to be with me?” The words choked in my throat. I not only missed our friendship, I missed him. Everything about him. His smile. His charcoal-flecked eyes. His touch. The way his face lit up when he looked at me. My heart missed him.

He didn’t answer my question. His eyes captured mine, the charcoal flecks darkening. Instinctively, I reached up and traced my fingers across his lips, wishing I could lean in all the way to press mine to his.

“What do you want, Savvy?” he asked, guarded.

I let my hand drop and swayed forward. “I was lying to myself when I thought I could do this without you, I mean, without us, being together.” I spoke softly. “I’ve missed you.”

He closed the gap, our faces, our lips, inches apart.

“Sometimes I just want to forget,” I said, my heart at a constant flutter.

“I can help you with that.”

And then we were kissing. He pulled me closer, one hand entwined in my hair while the other pulled down the strap of my sundress. The breeze tickled my back while Malcolm’s lips played with the skin on my neck. We forgot about time, lost in each other, both leaving behind our struggles. The boat rocked when a group of jet skis passed, but we didn’t look. Another sailboat must’ve passed and men whistled and cheered. We ignored them.

But somewhere between the whispered apologies and kisses, Malcolm’s back stiffened and he pulled away.

“What?” I had him back for a moment but the mask slid over his face again and I could feel him slipping away.

His hands skimmed my arms and his voice lowered. “I don’t know if I could ever be everything you need me to be.” He looked at me, his jaw firm. “And I don’t want to put you in danger by association of my family and what we are, or have you caught in the middle.”

I held my breath, not wanting to hear his next words.

He cupped my face with his hands and kissed me one last time. “My family will always find a way to drag me back into their lives. This time, it was through you.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t thought about that. Will had used my relationship with Malcolm to bring him home and back to the family business, and it had worked.

He closed up the basket and stored it under the seat. He unfurled the sails, and I wrapped the blanket around me as we headed back to shore.

Inside, my hopes and dreams deflated at his words. I couldn’t speak or my voice would crack and the tears I furiously blinked away would fall. He didn’t think our relationship could weather our family’s hatred for each other.

He was probably right.