Fugue State (27 page)

“Only the last two hours. Dammit, Poppy! You gotta keep that phone with you at all times. That’s the deal. Where the hell have you been?”

“Out,” she half-whispered.

“Don’t give me that bullshit. I know you went for a run. You’re not hiding anything from me. Look, I don’t care if you run, just try to lay low. Okay?”

“Fine.” She seared, hating that he had caught her and was disciplining her like a child. She changed the subject. “Mike, why did you call? Has there been a new development?” Her tone quickly changed from aggravated to eager.

“Yeah. We need you to be ready. Ivan’s checked into the same hostel you visited last night. Expect a call from me later this evening. Lay off the booze today, and for Christ’s sake, keep that phone on you at all times. Got it?”

“Got it,” Alexa murmured.

Oh, fuck! Attempt to kill Ivan — round two
. She frowned; she knew a stiff drink would be needed to walk into that situation again. She hated to go against Mike, especially after he went out of his way to stand up for her against Captain Kirk the other day. But she wanted to steady her nerves.

Alexa poured herself a strong vodka soda, plopped on the bed, and rummaged through photos of Ivan. She concentrated hard on the details of his face, the tone of his arms, his tattoos, and that scar on his neck. She laid out the new ensemble she had bought, a pair of black heels and red lipstick. She chose a pair of cheap heels with an ankle strap that would help hold them in place if she needed to run. She ran her fingers over the thin strap of leather.
Who am I kidding? Running in heels is a losing battle. It’s as hopeless as hand-to-hand combat with a man.

Nervous, she found herself pacing the floor waiting for Mike’s call. Through narrowed eyes, she willed the Crackerjack to ring. After an eternity of silence, Alexa turned the television on. Her fingers flipped through various news stations until she found one covering U.S. news. She wanted a follow up on the Boston marathon bombings.

The faces of two young, accused men flashed across the screen. Next came glimpses of a shootout scene that ended in the death of one of the men, and a reporter spoke of a manhunt for the second man. Alexa remembered her conversation with Mike the other day. “It’s okay,” she said out loud. “You’re doing the unfathomable to protect the innocent
—
like those poor people in Boston.” The garbled quality of her voice made her even more choked up.
Don’t be sad now, Lex. Be angry. Let the story fuel your fury and boil your blood. Let anger replace the fear and give you the strength and adrenaline you need to overcome Ivan. Kill the son-of-a-bitch.
Rage swept over her like a fever.

The news channel switched to cover another story, so she turned the TV off. Grabbing her iPod, she played a Limp Bizkit song. Soon, she found herself jumping about while lip-syncing to “f— this” and “f— that” lyrics, to help her maintain the blood boiling state. She felt invincible.
Bring it on, Ivan. You’ve met your match.
Alexa swallowed another shot of liquor and began shuffling through photos of Ivan’s victims.

She carried on such for another hour or so — until the Crackerjack phone rang.
Oh no! Mike!
Alexa jumped to her feet, and a pang of nausea spread from her stomach to her head.
Damn vodka.
Don’t vomit
. She adjusted her footing, and the nausea subsided. The phone rang again, and a sobering adrenaline surge replaced the nauseous wave.

“Hel-lo?” Her voice cracked.

“You ready for this?” His tone was a mixture of excitement and anticipation.

“Yes. I’m ready. Tell me what you know.” She tried to enunciate her words clearly; she didn’t want him to know she had defied him by drinking alcohol. He paused.
God, he’s analyzing my speech
. She felt his urge to interrogate her, but the moment passed. Instead, he went over the details of the night’s plan.

“Same hostel, room 318. He’s expecting you in half an hour. I’ll be watching you through surveillance cameras. I’m no more than five minutes away.”

Five minutes!
Dueling voices clamored in her head
.
A timid voice shouted,
A lot can happen in five minutes! I’ll be a gutted carcass in five minutes.
A more confident voice yelled,
That’s plenty of time to kill that SOB!

As if aware of her mental debate, Mike added a reassuring, “Relax; you don’t need me.”

“You’re sure it’s Ivan?”‘

“Yeah. Looking at the surveillance footage now. Got a visual this time. It’s Ivan.”

Still hesitant to hang up the phone, she deliberated over discussing the syringe, but her argument seemed senseless. Again, she decided against telling him, and they said their goodbyes. “Poppy, you got this.”

Alexa nodded. “I know, Mike. I know.”

It’s show time, better get dressed.
She took a big gulp of her drink and gargled the alcohol till her throat burned before swallowing. Piece by piece, she donned the dominatrix garb. She lined her lips with a crimson stain, her mouth forming a perfect “O” in the dresser mirror. Alexa pressed her red lips together tight and forced them open, making a delectable smacking sound. She grabbed the syringe leftover from the Castro operation and screwed an eighteen-gauge needle on the tip.
Oh, and the handgun!
She disassembled and reassembled the gun while humming to herself before placing it in its holster.
Safety off, Lex.

She took a few moments to visualize the event, same as before, only the images were clearer this time after having been inside the building. She reminded herself to wait until she was inside the room and the door was closed. After a couple quick run-throughs, she opened her eyes and grabbed the syringe. She wrapped the trench coat around her scantily clad physique and stepped out the door.

CHAPTER 33

A
s she marched toward Ivan’s building, Alexa repeated a mantra to herself.
I will kill you, Ivan Verden
. She repeated the words until she reached the hall to Ivan’s room. Perhaps less aware of her surroundings tonight, she didn’t hear the background noises of the patrons in the other rooms as she walked down the hall.

Room 318. Ivan’s room.
Alexa’s knuckles rapped on the door. Then with her right hand, she smoothed the fabric of the coat where it covered the gun. Her left hand held the syringe buried in her palm.

The door swung open wide. His face was unmistakable; the brown eyes, the scar over the brow; it was Ivan Verden. Alexa felt her breath escape her. He wore a tight-fitting white tank, nothing like the outfits in his photos. His tattooed arms were exposed, as well as the scar over his carotid.
I will kill you, Ivan Verden.
She managed a wild-eyed smirk and entered the room without invitation. Ivan leaned his frame against the open door while his gaze followed Alexa’s steps. He held a stone face, but his eyes twinkled with anticipation. Alexa slowly untied her belt and revealed her dominatrix ensemble. A furrow developed on his brow for a moment.
He dislikes my outfit
. But his countenance changed, and a devilish look entered his eyes. Alexa watched the open door with hesitation.
Shut the goddamn door
! Instead he placed one hand on the doorframe and motioned with the other for her to spin around. She winced at the thought of waiting another moment to shoot him, but he wouldn’t close the goddamn door. She opened the front of the trench further and pulled the top of the coat down to her shoulders. She couldn’t lower the coat anymore, or it would show the handgun concealed over her left flank. She turned halfway, making a seductive pose with her head still facing Ivan. She turned her head to the other side to look over the opposite shoulder.

When her head turned, the door slammed shut, and Ivan made a swift move toward her.
Fuck!
In that disoriented second, he grabbed her from behind. His left arm wrapped around her neck, and his right hand cinched her upper arm. His tongue moved along the side of her cheek. Alexa squirmed to get away. She didn’t scream. He didn’t say a word. They struggled in silence. He swiftly lifted her off the ground and carried her toward the bed. He held her right arm too tight for her to grab the concealed gun. Somehow, Ivan hadn’t noticed it pressed between their bodies. His mouth moved down to her left shoulder, and he sank his teeth into her flesh. She saw his actions in a mirror that faced the bed.

His right hand reached across her torso toward her left arm. He hadn’t yet trapped the hand that clasped the syringe. She maneuvered the device in her palm and shoved the needle into Ivan’s thigh. She withdrew and tried to stab again. Her hand cut through the air, but he avoided her aim. He smashed her head into the footboard of the bed frame. The flimsy particleboard cracked under the force. He released her body, and she fell limp to the floor.

In the moment of freedom, still on her knees, she fumbled for the gun, pulling it from its holster. But she was too slow; Ivan smacked the gun from her hand and it flew across the room, rattled against the floor, and slid into the wall without firing. No weapon — it was what she had feared from the beginning. Ivan’s face broke into a monstrous scowl.
He is enjoying this, and he’s ready to beat the crap out of me.

He lurched toward her and picked her up off the ground by her throat. Her feet kicked the air; her body dangled wildly like a puppet on a string. His stare burned into her skull as though he were trying to read her thoughts. Alexa dug the nails of her right hand into the arm that held her. He reached up and secured her hand.

As the veins in his neck popped out, she eyed the scar over his carotid. Alexa pulled the plunger of the syringe back with her left thumb, and air filled the empty chamber. In a single swift movement, she aimed the needle and plunged the syringe into Ivan’s neck. His face flinched slightly. Just as she presumed, the scar tissue had little sensation, and he probably thought it was her fingernails at his throat. Ivan tightened his vice grip on her. She grew weak, and her feet stopped kicking. She strained to breathe as black spots danced across her vision. She fumbled with the plunger in her hand, struggling to push the air from the syringe. The room started to fade from view. The pain at her throat was numbing, the lack of oxygen debilitating. Ivan’s face turned black.

A sound emanated through the darkness. The struggle with Ivan seemed like a distant memory. Alexa’s mother called to her.
Alexa!
Alexa!

Mom? Mom. There’s something I need to say. Something I forgot to say. . . .
The thought escaped her.

And then there were waves of pain. She couldn’t pinpoint where they came from. Sound returned. She heard yelling and heavy breathing. The pain was followed by dizziness and nausea. A warm, wet sensation rolled down her cheek.

I’m crying.
I’m not dead. No — Ivan is having his way with me. He’s torturing me!

Her mother’s voice continued to echo in her head. As it became louder, it took an eerie twist. It was her name she heard, but the voice was not her mother’s. It was the gruff voice of a male.
Ivan!
Alexa forced her eyes to open, although the rest of her body refused to respond to her commands. The light stung her retinas, amplifying the nausea, and she closed her eyes again tightly.
I’m going to vomit. But I can’t move.

She heard her name again, and this time she recognized the voice. It wasn’t Ivan —
Mike!
She made another meager attempt to open her eyes. She tolerated the light better this time, and she started to make out some of what she was seeing. She was moving. Mike was carrying her. The combination of motion and light was too much to bear; she convulsed, and then vomited. Mike managed to turn her just in time for the vomit to land on the street.

“There you go, Poppy girl. You’re gonna be all right. Everything’s gonna be just fine. You did good. I’m proud of you.”

He continued murmuring such things, but the words slurred together in her mind. She couldn’t process anything clearly. The sensation was like being severely hungover and drunk at the same time, and it left her feeling as though she’d had a stroke. Yes. She felt like she’d suffered brain damage.
Oh, fuck! What did that son-of-a-bitch do to me?
She feared the worst and contemplated scenarios in which Ivan had managed to beat her senseless. All the while, her senses slowly regained function. She could move her extremities. She became more alert. Mike’s words became clearer, and she could see well enough to know where she was.

He had put her into the van from the previous night. Mike, the dark-haired driver, and a new man who sat in Captain Kirk’s seat were with her. At the back of the van next to Mike lay a large black bag.
A body bag — an empty body bag
.

“Mi — ” Alexa’s voice broke off.
Damn, it hurts to talk.
She couldn’t ask the questions plaguing her mind.

Mike interrupted. “He’s dead, Poppy. You did it. Hell if I know how. You didn’t leave a mark on the man, but you did it.”

She frowned. She didn’t remember killing Ivan, and the body bag was empty. She tried again to ask, but she couldn’t form the words. Her throat burned something fierce. It wasn’t the only place that hurt.

Mike continued. “He strangled you. I thought you were a goner. But you came through after all. As far as I can tell, he took a bite from your shoulder, broke your collarbone, and bruised your forehead. That’s all.”

That’s all?
Alexa looked down to her collarbone. Her frown deepened. Clearly, her left clavicle was broken and deformed. She closed her eyes and imagined what her x-ray would look like and what her dictation of the exam would read
. Fracture of the junction of the middle and distal thirds of the left clavicle with angulation and inferior displacement of the distal fracture fragment.

Alexa tried to move her left arm. Excruciating pain ran over her, but she was glad to pinpoint the source of the agony. Her head ached, too. Worse than a migraine, her head hurt inside and out, and she could feel the bruise developing on her forehead.
I’m exhausted. There’s something about losing consciousness that really wears a body down.
And it’s still hard to breathe.
Her throat was swollen, and it felt as though her airway was half of its normal size. She used the majority of her energy to breathe.