Scion (9 page)

“No
, that’s fine, thank you. Oh sorry just one thing. Is seat 4A available?”

“
Just let me check.” After the sound of the keyboard clacking, the agent came back. “Yes, would you like me to allocate it to you?”

“
Yes please and thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”

“Not at all Rosie, thank you for choosing British Airways. Goodbye
.”

Ashley said goodbye and hung
up. She was not happy at having to use Rosie’s identity to book the flight but thought it best. As the British authorities were expecting a Rosie, she better give them one. It was imperative nothing interfered with her meeting him.

She looked across the floor at the clothes strewn throughout the apartment
. Rosie really did have some terrible clothes. It was only now that she didn’t need to wear them that she could see just how bad they were. Ashley only ever travelled trans-Atlantic first class. It was the one luxury she insisted on no matter what. That trip alone would cost almost a quarter of her annual salary. Not that that was an issue. Ashley worked because she loved what she did, it most certainly was not for the money. Her trust fund generated in less than a month more than her annual salary. Her life had been one of luxury; the finest clothes, homes, education and holidays. Her parents were members of the American aristocracy; her father a career diplomat and mother a career socialite, a lady who lunched. Both from privileged and wealthy backgrounds, their invitation to dinner and parties with the rich and powerful meant that the world was Ashley’s oyster, whatever career she chose, she could have. But it hadn’t always been like that. Ashley could remember the times before America, before her adoption and her real parents. They were hard working salt of the earth types who loved their daughter above everything else.

Ashley tried not to think back to
those days as it always upset her. Instead she remembered the day she announced she was quitting Harvard and joining the Navy. It never failed to bring a smile to her face. Her snob of a mother almost feinted, screaming in horror at the thought of her daughter becoming a…a soldier. Ashley had explained that she was joining the naval academy to train as an officer but that did little to re-assure her mother. To be fair to her father, he was just disappointed. He was not in the least embarrassed and if it weren’t for her mother, he might even have admitted he was proud of her. Ashley brought herself back to the present, all that had been a long time ago.

She had a flight to catch and
checked her watch. Not a chance she thought. Her home was forty miles away on the banks of the Chesapeake Bay, just South of the Naval Academy where she had graduated four years earlier. She desperately needed some clothes, all she had that wouldn’t label her a prostitute were the ones she was in and they didn’t exactly smack of first class. What she would have given for her own clothes, Chanel, Prada, D&G. All her lovely clothes just hanging in her wardrobe but she wouldn’t make it. Oh well, she thought to herself, nothing else for it, a bit of shopping on the way to the airport.

***

From the moment he had left New York, Clark had not stopped talking on the phone. First he had called The Unit as he needed some assistance. Not a problem. Two men were at his disposal and would pick him up when he landed. Next was tracking down any info they had on the target, Rosie. Not a lot it seemed but they did know she had worked at The Palace which would be Clark’s first stop when he arrived. Just before he landed, he received a call that changed his plan entirely. Walker had updated him on the disastrous operation in England. As he talked through the implications of this, he formulated an idea and Walker, on hearing it, agreed. He hung up and dialled The Unit. He needed a very particular operative asap.

As planned
, the two Unit members had met him at the helipad and drove immediately to The Palace. Even though a native New Yorker, Clark had heard of The Palace but knew little of its owner Darius. However, the soldiers knew enough to paint the picture of a drug dealing pimp who’d done well. As they pulled up at the front door, Clark thought it must be the wrong building. It looked like just any other apartment block, but he was soon told that the first few floors were normal housing and the top few floors comprised The Palace. As Clark approached the lift, the two soldiers followed.

“Where are you going?” asked
Clark.

“
To watch your back,” answered one of them.

“The day I need somebody to watch my back when dealing with a pimp, is the day I retire. Get back in the car
,” he ordered.

Clark
was an average man. Everything about him was average, his height, weight, build, looks. If you had to give him a name you’d call him Mr Smith or as he frequently called himself Mr Johnson. Psychologically however he was anything but average. He was an exceptionally complex individual, with a high IQ and more than one clinical psychologist had advised his previous employers, the Central Intelligence Agency, that he needed help. However, little did the psychologists realise they were merely re-affirming the agency’s belief that he was the perfect man for the job. Intelligent, detached and with little or no empathy. The next five years would be spent as one of the agency’s most accomplished assassins. It was only after meeting William Walker III twenty five years earlier that Clark realised how lucrative his talents were.

Clark
stepped out of the elevator into The Palace’s reception area, it was like no whore house Clark had seen. He preferred his woman rough, they bitched less when he knocked them about and didn’t need compensation for lost business. This place would cost him a fortune, after a session with him they wouldn’t be able to work in there for a week. The reception area was immaculate and Clark wondered whether he was in the right place. It looked more like a high class lawyers’ reception. However, as he approached the receptionist, she dispelled that thought, sitting in nothing more than her bra, panties and suspenders.

“Good evening
Sir,” she smiled perfectly.

“Hmm,”
Clark’s mind was elsewhere, the thought of her screaming in pain tied to the bed was arousing him. He snapped himself out of it, promising himself he’d come back for a taste another time.

“Darius, please” he commanded.

“I’m sorry we don’t have a Darius, Sir. I’ve got a Juan, a Richard and a Paul,” she replied looking at the screen in front of her.

Clark
’s temper flared.

“I’m not some fucking bum boy, you fucking bitch
!” More than ever he wanted her on the bed screaming in pain, he could teach this bitch a thing or two.

“I want to see your boss
-man, Darius.”

As he raised his voice t
wo men appeared from behind the partition that separated the reception area from the rest of The Palace. Clark also sensed another two coming up behind him.

“Now,
now Sir, calm down,” suggested the man stepping between Clark and the receptionist. The other three moved in closely, surrounding Clark, leaving him little room for manoeuvre.

“I need to talk to Darius,”
Clark informed them confidently.

“A white boy with balls, eh
? Well Darius ain’t wanting to talk to you. So if you don’t mind,” the man pointed to the elevator as the man at his rear stepped aside.  

Clark
followed the pointed hand and looked towards the elevator but then slowly turned back to face the desk.

“You’re failing to grasp the enormity of the issue,” began
Clark icily, his eyes suddenly darkening. “It makes no odds to me, I can speak to Darius now or in twenty minutes in the back of the ambulance rushing him to Intensive Care. It’s your call.”

Clark
stared into the eyes of the man in front of him and could tell he had rattled him, nothing scared people more than looking into the eyes of a cold blooded killer. As he delivered his chilling message, his hands had very carefully removed the two Walther P99 silenced pistols from their holsters, with his hands crossed across his stomach the heads of the two men at his sides would be all but removed within the next second. The other two heavies and the receptionist would be shot once each through the forehead. Clark had already planned each shot, taking into account any reactionary movements. For example the receptionist would be shot last and he would shoot 18 inches diagonally down to the left of where her head now was as she would duck down to the right. Clark had killed enough people to know exactly how people reacted in any given situation.

Darius had watched on the CCTV as the man had entered and then been surrounded by his men
. He had also noticed the man’s hands move, something he knew his men hadn’t.

The buzzer on the reception desk buzzed and cut through the deadly atmosphere
. The receptionist tentatively moved her hand towards it, pressing it down.

“Send the man up please
,” boomed Darius.

The three men surrounding
Clark stepped back instantly, surprised to see the guns that had not been there previously pointing at them.

“You wouldn’t mind leaving these here would you please?” asked the man at reception nervously
. He had never met anyone like Clark before.

“Not at all,” replied
Clark, he had another gun in an ankle holster and several throwing knives in his belt.

Clark
was escorted into Darius’ office by the receptionist, still promising himself a return visit as she walked back out of the office, her thong leaving nothing to the imagination.

“Yes, very nice but I’m afraid not for sale,” said Darius, as he followed
Clark’s gaze.

“Everything’s for sale,” replied
Clark licking his lips at the thought of the girls blood mixing with her sweat and rolling down into the small of the back. Screaming for him to stop.

“There is some truth in that
,” agreed Darius. “Now how can I help you?”

“I need some information about one of your girls,” asked
Clark.

“Can I ask why?”

“No.”

“Well I’m sorry I can’t help you.” Darius rose to his full size towering over
Clark, signalling an end to their conversation.

Clark
did not want to resort to violence to obtain his information, it was not always reliable. “Wait, I believe this girl may no longer work for you, her name’s Rosie.”

“T
hat fucking bitch,” spat Darius. “All I know is she isn’t who I thought she was.”

Clark
’s ears perked up at that piece of information. “What do you mean?”

“She was supposed to be a prostitute but if that girl
’s spread her legs for a few bucks, I’m a fucking Benedictine monk.”

“So who do you think she is?”

“Don’t know. Maybe some sort of journalist looking for a story or something. The bitch zapped me with a fucking Taser and legged it this morning.”

“Shit, do you know where she went
? Like a home address or something? Phone number, anything that can help me track her down?”

“
We tried her home address, fucking bitch got three of my men locked up. Other than that all I’ve got is a cell number.”

Clark
couldn’t believe his luck. “Perfect.”

Darius opened his drawer and retrieved the number from his phone book, writing it down on a sheet
of paper before handing it over. “So who are you? Some kind of government dude or something?”

“No,” replied
Clark simply, as he stood and left Darius’ office, he had what he needed. 

“What you going to do to her
?” shouted Darius after him.

“Exactly what you’d want me to do to her. Fuck her and then kill her.”

Darius smiled for the first time that day.

As he made his way to the car
, he made a call, barking instructions before reading out Rosie’s number. As he hung up, another call came through. He answered and smiled. The operative he had requested was on the way. They would arrive by helicopter at about eight.

***

Tyson’s Galleria was only a five minute diversion on the way to Dulles International and would be perfect. Nieman Marcus would resolve her wardrobe crisis. Of course it would take longer than five minutes but Ashley had plenty of time. It was at least two to three hours before she needed to be at the airport, only another twenty minutes from the Galleria.

As the cab pulled into the mall
, Ashley’s face drained, it was Sunday and at 5.50 p.m. she had less than ten minutes to get into the store, pick her clothes, pay and leave. It was never going to happen. The second the cab stopped she bolted into the store. Being a regular may just save her. The security guard tried to stop her entering the store but she wasn’t having any of it, shouting “I’ll just be a second, it’s an emergency!” She quickly made her way to the ladies’ designer-wear section and was met with a huge smile by Doug, the very heterosexual manager of the department. Ashley almost kissed him. She had hoped he’d be on duty but managed to stop herself when the leery eyes quickly covered every inch of her body. No attempt was made to hide his mental undressing of her right there in front of him. Ashley had always found him repulsive but as repulsive as he was, he was the best judge of style in the Washington area. It seemed all the other women agreed that his drooling over them was a small price to pay for the perfect outfit. He’d been there for years despite numerous complaints.