Murder My Love (Kindle Books Mystery and Suspense Crime Thrillers Series Book 3) (2 page)

She was about to roll down the window, so she could peek ahead to see what the commotion was all about, but now she seems to have changed her mind at the last minute after having seen me. But she's not really seeing me; all she sees is a bike ridden by an anonymous rider with a black helmet covering his head. That’s all.

I pass her by.

I feel it in my guts; it's the voice of my training; it's the experience, the mire and the muck, the boot on the ground, the blood and the glory, but I feel I am really close to my mark.

I look ahead. Albert's white van is rolling ahead at pace, with the blue Mercedes following on the same lane, two cars behind.

So I was right. My elbows pressed on the handles for stability; I unstrap the gun tucked under my belt, keeping it hidden under my windbreaker. I'm slowly approaching the blue car.

As I veer into the left lane, I cap two .9 mm bullets into the left rear tire of the Blue Mercedes following Albert. The gun is safely tucked back inside my belt. The barrel is warm. I complete the lane change. I roll ahead and never look back.

I hear the screech of tires behind. I suppose the driver of the blue Mercedes is trying to stabilize the car. I don't look back.

I pass Albert and cross ahead of him into his lane.

I see a Vista Point coming ahead in a few minutes. I move into the right lane and reduce my speed. Albert follows behind in the white van. I don't see any car behind Albert.

I slow down and park in the driveway. I look around for any signs of life. I scan the area. We are alone, Albert, me, and the dynasty of squirrels. This is a small piece of good luck. I trot to the end of the walkway and throw the gun over the guardrail into the mountain creek bubbling down at 500 feet below. I make sure nobody sees me.

I go back to the van. Albert and I both push the motorcycle into the back of the van.

I stretch out into the front passenger seat. Albert remains at the wheel. We continue toward the airport. I check the dial of my watch.

I have plenty of time to get to the airport. I'm curious. I want to see what happened to the car I touched.

I signal to Albert and he takes the first exit. He turns left up the ramp and re-enters the freeway on the other side.

I immediately see the blue Mercedes stranded on the right shoulder. A few indistinct individuals, six or seven in number, are bubbling about, yelling and gesticulating, while two men in dark blue coveralls squat at the left rear of the vehicle, working as fast as they can to change the tire. The Lincoln Continental has stopped a couple of feet behind. I cannot see the woman. She's probably still inside.

I don't know her; at least, I don't think I do. As far as I know, I've never seen her before in my life. I'm pretty sure today was the first time.

The air of familiarity, though, is puzzling.

We reach the airport in another fifteen minutes, give or take a minute or two, without further incident.

I say goodbye to Albert and we shake hands. Who knows when I'll see him again on this side of life?

The incoming area of the airport is quiet at this time of day. I check in my luggage and validate my two tickets. Now I'm totally unencumbered. I carry no hand-luggage.

I always buy two tickets when I fly. In first class. I like to keep my sides clear.

Also, as a matter of principle, I think people are boring. Why should I spend my time chit-chatting with a sweet grandma doing her annual trip to visit Alphy, Carol, and the kids, or some stultified business executive, pattering inanities about the stock-market, earmarks and pig-bellies? Politicians are even more bothersome. On the other hand, a beautiful woman, a model, a student or a geisha, never seem to fall into my lap during these painfully boring transatlantic flights.

I'm boring enough myself on my own, so I don't feel I have to deal with other people's problems. Not when I'm flying and may croak any minute.

I pass without incident through the security filter and stop on my way to the gate at a Starbucks for cappuccino and newspaper.

I settle down at the first table out in a nice square with skylights. The air is luminous. It gives the impression of outdoors. I'll wait here before it comes time for embarking. I have no reason in the world to hurry, only to get stuck in the boarding area. I take small sips from the coffee, which is a little too hot and a little too sweet for my taste while flipping absentmindedly through the newspaper.

I amble lazily toward Gate 101, stopping from time to time to admire the scenery and this is when I see her.

She's a beautiful woman who stands out in a crowd. A young woman in her mid-twenties, give or take a few sleepless nights.

She treats herself well. Never forgets to take her beauty sleep and eats a balanced diet. No room for wrinkles on that pretty face.

She's not smiling.

I know I want her as soon as I lay my eyes on her. Or maybe these feelings I have for her, these precursors of feelings I have for her, run deeper. Strange feelings. I feel need, certainly need, but there is also a streak of generosity, that side in a man that has to do with helping and protecting. To be entirely honest I was not aware they were part and parcel of my mental portfolio. The presence of this woman seems to rekindle in me all the good stuff that never made it to the surface. A customized mid-size Pandora Box of my own as my psychologist would kiddingly say.

But I am the kind of man who starts with the small stuff and builds from there. Want is good enough for now. There is nothing wrong with want.

Time for desserts will come later.

Take things one at a time, that's what I say.

Yes, me too, I did love once, but let's not get into these embarrassing details. Did she not love me back? Well, actually, she did for a while, or at least, she said she did. What do I have to show for it?

Guided by the little psychology I managed to acquire in school – to paraphrase the saying about the man who represents himself, only to have a fool for a lawyer - I am well aware of the fact that I'm passing through a dangerous and painful phase in my life. It's a transition. My loss is deep and profound, but my mind cannot wait to be whole again.

I've entered into a compensatory phase, as my psychologist would put it. My psyche is escalating a narrow defile.

I lost somebody very near and dear to me and the need to replace is hard to resist at times.

But this is dry stuff.

Let me go back to admire my nymph a little more, from a distance.

She's a pleasure to look at; her blonde hair is combed back in tresses and reveals an adorable visage, topped by an unwrinkled forehead, a little shiny, and I wonder why. Her eyes are large, sparkling, of a vivacious green color.

She's neither tall nor short and shows very sexy curves. Either an athlete or somebody who's been hitting the gym lately.

She wears a low-cut green silk blouse with jeans and leather boots with high heels.

My nymph is currently engaged in an acrimonious conversation with the gate supervisor.

In a beautiful woman like her, the male of the species does not see what she is willing to offer, but only what she’s ready to show.

I make a bet with myself that I will take her to my bed this very evening. The bet in itself is of little importance; I've been regularly making and losing these kinds of bets with myself for a longer time that I care to remember.

She's the forbidden fruit all right, but tastier than any apple I got a bite of lately.

She waits in front of Gate 101, where boarding for UFL Flight 2434 bound for Paris, France, is about to start.

At first, my attention is directed toward her and her alone. I don’t give a fig about the contents of their conversation.

But eventually, the lessons of grammar school psychology seep slowly into my porous brain. They tell me to listen.

I hear the official's last words.

"… unfortunately we're fully booked."

The woman who pronounced the ominous words sits behind the desk, contemplating infinity. She does not look too bad herself. She's a forty, forty-five buxom platinum blonde, former stewardess most likely, with a good figure. The type who takes good care of herself.

"Miss, miss…" she's in a bit of a hurry.

Boarding will start soon and she finds it gets a little more difficult to concentrate.

"Miss Lana Gantry," the younger woman replies. "I seem to be in possession of a worthless ticket. I blame you and your company for selling it to me. Although I've been assured that I will be assigned a seat here, at the gate. Why did you sell me the ticket if you knew you had no more seats available?"

"We are in the twenty-first century, Miss Gantry. We work with computers now. It gets extremely complicated. Our company regrets these types of situations, like yours, when they occur, but I can assure you, Miss Gantry, they are exceedingly rare, and we are working hard to eliminate these problems."

"What you are telling me might be entirely true," retorts my future love interest. "Although I must confess that I'm not entirely convinced of the veracity of your statement, by taking into account the lousy track record of your company. But even if it were true, which I find difficult to believe, please don't forget that this
type of situation
is happening right now, and furthermore, it's happening right now to me. So I hope you understand my position when I’m telling you that the so-called rarity of this occurrence, computer glitch, or I don't care what you choose to call it, does not relieve me in the least. Is it clear?"

This is a splendid tirade unfortunately spoiled by the fact that the gate supervisor doesn't seem to pay any attention to her.

She is now preoccupied and examining with a wary eye the crowd in front of the gate that is gradually getting larger while becoming more impatient. Important work awaits her. Boarding is announced to start in five minutes.

"We'll do our best to get you into a seat, Miss Gantry. If we cannot find it, I personally promise to put you on the next flight to Paris in three hours, at 1:00 pm. May I see your ticket, please?"

"It's absolutely crucial that I go with the ten o'clock flight. There are people waiting for me."

Lana hands her the ticket and the stewardess examines it, a noticeable smirk on her face.

"I see you are holding a second class ticket for the ten o'clock flight," her tone has visibly changed. "Are you aware, Miss Gantry, that the ticket you purchased in second class is seat-less?"

"It was the last I could find. In three hours, I need to be in Paris. It's an urgent matter."

"Miss Gantry, let me ask you one question: did you have a chance to spend a few minutes reading the contract? If people took a little more time to study our legal contract, these kinds of situations would never occur. You should be already aware of the fact that the owner of a seat-less ticket is seated on a first come, first serve basis, and that our company does not admit any liability and reserves the right to remove unruly passengers from the premises."

The clock ticks 9:30 and for once boarding starts on time.

It's an ancient ritual that gives priority to class, being ruled by arcane, medieval regulations.

I am in no particular hurry and do not mix well with crowds. I remain aloof and on the side.

I’ve got plenty of time.

I go for another cup of coffee. I buy bottled water and today's papers from a kiosk.

Then I return to the boarding area and plant myself squarely in front of the desk, a couple of feet from Lana.

The time has come to play my Prince Charming routine.

"May I talk to you?"

My voice is soft and respectful.

Lana seems taken aback; she casts a sullen look in the general area from which the sound my voice has come while at the same time she’s ready to unleash a swarm of killer mini-drones in my direction.

I don't blame her. I take it for granted; it’s the privilege of any beautiful woman.

It takes a lot of venom to fight back the advances of the male of the species, who proves at times to be more annoying than a fly and less easily swatted.

I persist, "I couldn't help it, but… without meaning to… hear your discussion."

She puckers her forehead, suddenly lined with deep, angry creases. It's amazing how this can change her pretty face.

"Yes?"

The tone of her voice is brusque. It’s clear she does not want to revisit her unpleasant tiff with the boarding supervisor, while she’s still unaware I don’t represent another problem for her, but on the contrary, I am the solution.”

So I persist, convinced that sooner or later she’ll relent once she understands my proposition.

"Am I let to understand…?"

"What do you want?"

"That you could not secure a seat?"

Now we go full circle.

"On the flight to Paris."

My last words seem to have a magical effect on her.

The problem of the seat comes back to the fore of her mind and she changes tack.