Fugue State (25 page)

Britt’s name brought a wave of warmth over her that stopped at her throat. She felt choked, trying to hold back the tears. Her airway tightened, and she fought the emotion. She continued that way until the moment passed, and she didn’t cry. She slept.

CHAPTER 30

O
n her day of rest, she lounged by the pool skimming magazines until mid-afternoon, when she retired to her room to catch up on U.S. news. She listened intently to the anchorman while devouring the salad she had ordered from room service.

“Investigators continue the manhunt for the people responsible for the two bombs which exploded yesterday afternoon during the annual Boston marathon.”

Her eyes glazed over as she absorbed the anchorman’s words.
No. Boston? That’s Britt’s race.
The story seemed surreal. The newscaster spoke of two dead souls and hundreds of wounded individuals with lost limbs and embedded shrapnel.

Britt ran several marathons each year. The Boston marathon was his favorite; he had completed it the last two years.
Did he run Boston this year? Did he mention it at all?
She reran their conversations in her head.
Dammit. All of his words were encouragement for me.
She knew nothing of his plans.

Video of panicked faces flooded the TV screen. She saw the determination of those carrying the wounded and the agony of those injured
. I should feel sorry for them. Dr. DeBrow would feel sympathy and try to heal their pain.
But, instead of feeling sad or sorrowful, she felt a twinge of anger.

She picked up the Crackerjack phone and dialed Mike’s number. The phone didn’t save numbers; that was the point — anonymity. She had memorized his number. He picked up on the second ring.

“Alexa?” He must have expected her.

“Mike. Have you seen the news . . . the American news?”

“That shit in Boston? Yeah, I saw it.”

She paused, waiting for the reason she called to percolate through all of the other thoughts swimming in her mind.

“Is this why we’re here?” she blurted out. “Why we do these things that are . . .
so difficult
to comprehend? Is it to
prevent
things like Boston from happening? To keep those who are responsible from doing it again?” She started rambling, but she didn’t have time to analyze the thoughts before they fled her lips.

She imagined Mike nodding on the other end. “Yep. Poppy girl. That’s
exactly
why we are here, and why we do the incomprehensible things that we do. It sure ain’t pretty.
Jesus
. The things I’ve seen. . . .”

Alexa nodded, too, accepting her fate.
Fuck me
, she thought.
Fuck me for choosing this
. Never would she have guessed such things would be in her future.
Who is Alexa DeBrow? Valedictorian? Yes. Accomplished physician? Yes. Former swimsuit model? Yes. Trained assassin?
She frowned to herself. It didn’t make sense. She turned her eyes back to the television.

Who am I kidding? Alexa DeBrow is no trained assassin — but Elizabeth Fuguay may be.
She still held the receiver. She could hear Mike’s heavy breathing. “Goodbye, Mike.” She hung up and forced herself to absorb the gruesomeness depicted before her. When the news switched to another topic, she flipped to another station searching for more details. She continued such late into the evening, until she realized there was no new information to report. Frustrated, she turned off the television. “Whoever did that . . . I hope they pay.” She tried to harness the anger that Boston elicited and focus it on Ivan.

The departure from Nice the next morning was uneventful. She packed in silence and caught a train to Paris, eventually arriving in Versailles. Mike drove separately in the black SUV and wouldn’t arrive until the next day.

Alexa reached her destination late that evening and settled into a small, slightly run-down hotel in a rather shady part of the small city. Both the hotel in Nice and this one were charged to her government-issued credit card. She checked into Versailles as Elizabeth Fuguay. Although she had chosen the pseudonym, she was uncomfortable using it.

Charlie had instructed her to remain in the hotel until he called her on the Crackerjack. She busied herself with yoga, Pilates, and stretching on the floor of her small hotel room, ordering her meals from room service, and people-watching from the only window that faced the street. A quiet city of less than one hundred thousand people, it seemed like an ideal place for Ivan to disappear.

Charlie didn’t call until late afternoon the next day. She jumped for the phone, eager with anticipation.

“Elizabeth?” She rolled her eyes to the sound of him saying
that name
. Elizabeth Fuguay was supposed to be her secret name. It represented her retreat to safety, her escape to freedom. He had stolen that from her. “Ivan checked into a hotel nearby. It should be soon — tonight, perhaps. Be ready. I’ll call you when we have a time and location. That’s all, Elizabeth.” Charlie’s somber attitude irritated her. After so much build-up, she needed excitement, not this melancholy that crushed her vigor.

Alexa arched an eyebrow. Her initial impression of Charlie had been generous. These days, his personality came off rather lackluster and dry. Moreover, she doubted whether she could trust him after the Elizabeth Fuguay incident. Charlie had told her she was free to decide whether or not she wanted to be on his team, but the gesture seemed to say, “Remember, Miss DeBrow, I have the upper hand.”

She continued various exercises while confined to her room. Growing weary of the lock-down state, she was almost happy to receive Charlie’s call on her second night in Versailles.

“It’s time, Elizabeth.” Charlie hissed into the speaker. “Ivan’s in Hostel Rouge two blocks away. Get dressed. He’s expecting you at eleven o’clock.”

Alexa glared at the Crackerjack in her hand.
Malicious bastard. Why do I trust you?
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Charlie. I’ll be ready.” The obedient tone she conveyed contradicted the scowl on her face.

“Good luck, Miss.” His tone softened, as did her expression. She dropped the phone on the bed.

Alexa prepped herself in a little corseted lingerie outfit Mike had provided. She topped the ensemble with a plain tan trench coat, also part of her “uniform.” She slipped into her stiletto heels and grabbed the fancy little handgun whose name she had forgotten. The gun fit securely into a little holster fixed to the corset that wrapped around her torso and held the gun just under her left shoulder. This way Alexa could reach across her body with her right hand and grab the gun while feigning she was merely removing her coat.

Ivan had chosen a cheap hostel two blocks up the street; his room number was 201. They were scheduled to meet at eleven p.m. It was only ten-fifteen, and Alexa paced the small room anxiously.
How do I spend the next 45 minutes?
The waiting was almost as unbearable as the act itself.

She twisted her fingers into a relentless knot before untangling them and reaching for the minibar.
I need a drink.
Despite her self-proclamation to cut back on the booze, she turned to vodka to calm her nerves.

She savored slow sips of vodka over ice while making adjustments in her outfit, hair, and makeup in the bathroom mirror. She layered thick coats of eyeliner and mascara
. Too much eyeliner always has a way of making a girl look cheap.
In the end, the girl looking back at her was unrecognizable.
I look like a hooker!
Alexa scolded herself when she remembered that was the point.

She adjusted her gun placement and made a few attempts to quickly grab it and take aim. On the third try, she remembered to take the safety off.
Wow. That would have been a stupendous failure. Alexa DeBrow, trained assassin forgets to take the safety off before she shoots.

The mishap reminded her that she wasn’t prepared for what she was about to face — not in the least. She took a larger sip of the vodka. She waited for the sting to hit her mouth and burn her tongue before she allowed herself to swallow. She needed to feel something — something to replace her jitters and confused stupor. She needed to stir up some confidence, and fast. Alcohol always had a way of helping muster up the confidence she needed. The night she decided to lose her virginity to Britt, she needed Champagne and tequila to give her the courage to proceed.

God, why must I think about Britt now?
After his name entered her mind, it was hard to push away. She wanted to peruse his soft brown hair with her fingertips and feel his warm lips dance across her skin.
If I could have one more night of love in his arms, I would die happy.

If I don’t succeed tonight, I
will
die.
She shook her head, and her teased blonde mess of hair tossed about recklessly.
Don’t think of dying. Think of Ivan.
Fueled by a bit of liquid courage, she remembered the horrible things he had done. She harnessed her hatred for Ivan, Jamar, Castro, and those sons-of-bitches from Boston — every evil scoundrel she could imagine. Rage would become her power against him. She whispered to her reflection, “Tonight, Elizabeth Fuguay will kill Ivan Verden.”
She has to.

The alarm she set on the Crackerjack beeped quietly, and Alexa trembled in her stilettos.
Oh God, it’s time
.

She glanced into the mirror one last time. The girl staring back at her looked more confident than she remembered. Somewhere deep within, she heard her subconscious whisper
you’ve got this.
In response, Alexa muttered aloud, “Yeah, now that the safety’s off.” She slammed the door behind her and headed down the street.

CHAPTER 31

T
he alarm had been set five minutes to show time. She took slow, forceful steps, with no intent of arriving on time. She couldn’t imagine a hooker being prompt and figured it was better to be a few minutes late.

She entered the hostel lobby. The place was empty — no wonder Ivan liked it. He didn’t seem to be the social butterfly type. She didn’t see an elevator, only stairs. She climbed them leisurely. The click-clack of her stilettos thankfully drowned out the sound of her heart reverberating in her chest.
So much for liquor taking the edge off.

Alexa used the second flight to go over her simple plan in her head.
Knock. Walk in. Shut the door. Pull the gun and pull the trigger.
The last step was supposed to be fast — one fluid step.
Aim for his heart
, she told herself. But her nerves threatened her abilities even with a large target at a short distance.
Damn! I forgot the syringe. So much for plan B.
Her teeth sank into her lower lip as she finished the stairs. She eyed a hallway of numbered doors lining dirty white walls.

Lingering smells of alcohol and vomit hung in the air. Alexa observed the numbers as she walked and quickly became aware of the paper-thin walls of the building. One couple argued loudly in room 213. She heard a French sitcom on the TV in room 207. A raunchy fuck session shook the door of room 204. A chill crept down her spine as she tiptoed past
. I bet that’s what Ivan has in store for me.

His room was at the far end of the hall, somewhat reserved from the other rooms. Alexa hoped the seclusion would aid in her ability to be discreet. After witnessing the paper-thin walls, she feared the shot would be heard in spite of the silencer.

It’s too late to contemplate such things now.
She stood outside his door with her incisor still embedded in her lip, afraid to breathe. She closed her eyes and remembered the bitterness that would fuel her to victory against Ivan. It tasted like the sour blood that seeped from the tiny wound in her mouth. She let feelings of anger and vindication fill her, and when she reopened her eyes, her plan was clear.

Her knuckles rapped haphazardly on the door. She pasted a coy but indifferent expression on her face and watched the door swing open. Alexa stared at a beast of a man who stood a good eight inches taller than her in stilettos. Her eyes went to the scruffy red hair that covered his neck. She searched for the comfort of the scar that lay over Ivan’s carotid — but it wasn’t there. A quick look at the man’s features revealed the obvious — this red headed man wasn’t Ivan.

It’s not Ivan!
Alexa couldn’t hide the blankness that swept over her as her plan abandoned her.

The man in the doorway eyed her voraciously. As her heart thumped in her ears, she forced a demure smirk across her lips. She had to maintain her façade while she forced her brain to process the situation. She begged her neurons to construct a means of escape, as she cast provocative glances at the red headed brute before her.

He doesn’t look surprised. He was expecting me. He was expecting a prostitute.
She slowly opened her trench coat to reveal the delicate and decadent lacy goods that clung tightly to her curves. A wave of nerves sent chills rippling from her toes to her tits. Her nipples rose to attention and gathered the awareness of the man before her.

In her peripheral vision, she spied the doorway to the bathroom. She could see a portion of the toilet and a tiny open window with a curtain moving slowly in the breeze.
An escape route!

The brute reached out for her ferociously. She grabbed his wrists and inched her face toward his. She nuzzled her nose against his left ear, and then flicked her tongue against his earlobe. She tugged at his ear with her teeth, the way Serge used to do, and let her tongue slide down the side of his cheek.

“Are you ready for your little she-devil?” Alexa whinnied like a little pony. His hands moved toward her body, and she inched her hips away from him, hoping he wouldn’t brush against the gun she carried. He lurched his mouth toward her breasts.

“Not yet,” she stammered. She shoved his hands away and let go of his wrists.

He let out a snort that turned into a growl. He narrowed his beady green eyes at her and furrowed his brow. Alexa tried to tame his developing anger.