That Was Then (The Re-Do Series Book 1) (2 page)

K
endall

The stainless steel appliances gleam in the light. The industrial bulbs above us highlight the spotless floor and counters.

Serachi, our locally famous head chef, has a thing about cleanliness. He demands a floor so sanitary that the staff should be able to grab forks and eat on the tiles.

I still have no idea what miracle is keeping Serachi and me from tearing each other’s throats out. The man is high strung to the max, while I believe in going with the flow.

It’s a match that has spurred a thousand quarrels. There’s even a kitchen pool to see which one of us goes crazy first.

“You are late!”

Serachi’s voice is a few decimals short of a shriek.

He’s a small man with a thin waist and amazingly thick black eyelashes. Serachi always dresses up for work in close-to-designer starched shirts and pressed slacks.

Nobody can guess the head chef’s age. Even though there are a few strands of grey in his hair, Serachi’s skin is as tight as a baby’s bottom.

The word ‘botox’ has been thrown around in regards to his eternal youth.

“I’m not late, Serachi.” I stuff my purse in the cubicle next to the broken ice cream machine and grab my white apron. “You’re early.”

“Of course I’m early. We have a party from the Taiwanese embassy at twelve. Or have you forgotten?”

Serachi sticks his large European nose into the air. He’s half European, half Belizean. It’s common knowledge that he ‘identifies’ with the former more than the latter. His nose clearly agrees.

“I haven’t forgotten, Serachi. That’s why I prepared the mixtures from last night.”

Thank God I did too, or I’d be bawling my eyes out trying to get everything ready at this hour
.

“As the pastry chef, it is your job to set a better example to our team, Kendall.” Serachi’s beady eyes narrow into slits.

I glance around the newly renovated kitchen, empty except for Serachi and me. I’m late by my own standards, but the official work hour doesn’t begin for a few minutes.

“I think I’m good.”

This spins him into a frenzy.

Normally, we’d banter some more. Serachi would call me a ‘hooligan’ which is his loving nickname for me. I’d then focus on my work with the kind of energy that comes from knowing you just creamed someone in a word war.

Today, I’m already on a race to beat the clock so someone else will have to poke a hole in Serachi’s ego.

“Do you mind?” I cut him off mid-speech.

Even Serachi seems surprised. I’m going against our usual back-and-forth.

“Excuse me?” He glowers.

This is the perfect opportunity to make fun of him, but I really do have more pressing issues. The Napoleons won’t make themselves.

“I’m late. I was wrong. Can we get to work now?”

Serachi stutters for a moment, but I’m already heading to my corner of the kitchen.

I love my job and – with the exception of Serachi – I love all the sou chefs and even the cleaners and dishwashers. We’re a team working toward a common goal: making good food.

And getting a paycheck every two weeks.

As I press the button for the radio and dig my hands into the custard I’d set last night, I allow my brain to take me where it will.

That’s mistake number one. My brain has one thing and only one thing on its mind.

Mister Elevator Guy.

For lack of a better name, I’ll call him John Doe.

So, apart from my incredibly embarrassing meat-pie-on-the-face thing this morning, I think I handled myself with dignity and class…

Oh, who am I kidding?

I made a complete
fool
of myself.

Why couldn’t I speak? Even a quiet and demure ‘good morning’ would have made a better impression than my slack-jawed, one syllable response and dumb expression.

It’s been a while since I’ve dated, but I don’t think it’s been that long since I’ve spoken to a good-looking man. Just the other day, my hand bumped against the bag boy’s at my neighborhood grocery store.

Sure, the kid was at least five years my junior, but I managed to start a nice little conversation in the six seconds that it took him to bag my package of Oreos and my gallon of milk.
He
hadn’t left me with palm-sweat and heart palpitations.

I try to focus on the pastry. As my sou chef wanders into the room, we work even faster to create perfect puff pastries, layered with whipped cream, and topped with a vanilla-chocolate glaze.

Curwen’s assistance, unfortunately, gives my mind more time to wonder which leads me to mistake
numero dos
.

The kitchen staff has a different lunch break, simply because we’re the ones serving lunch. Around three in the afternoon, I finally get a chance to untie my apron. I head for the back room, careful to check my face for any unwanted food items this time.

I’m home free.

The handle for the manual lift is stubborn and I have to throw my weight against it to open the door. I hate using the service elevator, but I have no choice. If Serachi sees me breaking the rules, even a little bit, he’ll have my head. The guy is wound a few sizes too tight, I’ll tell you that.

After several excruciatingly slow minutes, I’m finally deposited to the main floor near the back entrance of the hotel. I slip between the boxes lined to the ceiling and try not to catch the material of my blouse on any of the sharp tools that are lying around.

Finally, I move past the disturbing storage room and slip through a small corridor that connects the servant entrance to the front.

The air conditioning is incredibly refreshing. After the heat of my journey through the storage room, I stand still and simply enjoy the moment.

Sadly, there’s no time for lollygagging. I stealthily creep toward the concierge desk where a pretty girl in a black skirt and a navy blue blazer taps away on her computer.

“Hey,” I hiss, crawling to the chair that rests behind the counter.

Courtney, my best friend and resident health junkie, smiles at me. She glances around and then stoops down until we’re face to face.

“What’s up? Serachi’s on your case again?”

“No,” I shake my head. “I need information.”

She quirks a delicately plucked eyebrow and leans closer.

“What kind of information?”

“There’s this guy staying on the fourth floor. He’s British and insanely hot. I need a name.”

“Kendal, you know I can’t just give out information like that.” Courtney frowns. “Besides, how am I supposed to find some random hot guy for you? There are a bunch of men staying on the fourth floor.”

Stuffing my hands in the pockets of my jeans, I offer a deal.

“I’ll bring you Vegan dishes every day for a week.”

Courtney is swaying. I can feel it. It’s hard enough to be a vegan in Belize when there are so many enticing local dishes that include slaughtered animals.

“What’s the deal with this guy anyway?”

I shrug my shoulders. I want to internet stalk him, but Courtney doesn’t need to know that.

“I just … ran into him today. I’m curious.”

Courtney rubs her chin. “Hm, the hot, British guy on the fourth floor.” Finally she offers her hand. “Make it two weeks, throw in dessert, and you’ve got a deal.”

We shake on it and then, like a retired ninja with a hip replacement, I awkwardly roll away.

A
listair

Assassins are often mistaken for ninjas and snipers. Though we are silent on our feet and quite capable with guns, we stand apart. Our missions demand total immersion. We become entrenched in the target’s life with the sole intention of killing them.

It’s a heavy order and one that cannot be accomplished by simply staking out a building or flipping against walls. Basic terminations can be successfully executed by hit men and even mobsters.

Assassins are called upon in situations that require close proximity. We merge with high stakes businessmen and government officials worlds over. Our clients themselves are rich moguls, corporations, and political leaders alike.

Discretion and silence is our code of honor. We take out our target cleanly and either slip away or die trying. There is no middle ground.

Becoming intrigued with anyone involved in our mission is a death sentence. Letting our guard down, both physically and emotionally, can result in spilled secrets or incomplete assignments.

I prided myself on my ability to turn off my emotions. I’ve become so adept that my walls are firmly prepared in-between jobs as well. I’m a professional and, given Damien’s news, I’m also marked.

So, tracing the girl’s image on a rough sketch when I should be running for my life makes no sense.

And it is complete and utter foolishness to upload the draft into Interpol software so that I can learn her name.

Kendall Villanueva
.

I stare at the letters, trace their curves and lines, for a long time.

Don’t get involved
.

It’s a personal rule as well as a hazard of the trade. I have no home, no future, and no intentions of settling down.

Even though I have broken ties with the league and no longer accept missions, I’m far from safe. I am always looking over my shoulder, waiting for an old client to connect the dots, for a family member of a fallen to come for revenge.

I live by the sword and I will die by it. Assassins don’t get the white picket fence and the two and a half-kids.

In fact, even when we engage with women, it is always done carefully to ensure that no bonds are left behind. Children are anchors. Love interests are liabilities.

I should be more concerned with Damien’s revelation than the one gleaned from my search.

I should, but instead I gather my key card and head toward the elevator.

I berate myself even as I stalk down the hall. My desire is torn in two. The woman from the elevator is still caught up in my mind. I know her name as well as her age, birthday, cell phone number and address.

Kendal Villanueva, daughter of Miranda and Sipriano Villanueva.

Parents, divorced.

No siblings
.

Age twenty eight.

Unmarried.

Pastry chef at La Ruba International

I’m not sure what I should do with the information, but I’m heading to the kitchen anyway.

The elevator opens in a mechanical whir. I step inside, holding my stance carefully. Despite my strange and unprecedented fascination with Kendall Villanueva, I’m very aware that each day I remain stationary is a day lost.

Shadow is one of the best assassins this side of the Americas. His reputation precedes him. Few have had the privilege of seeing his face and living to talk about it.

Unlike most assassins who create bonds with others, whether in or out of a brotherhood, Shadow moves on the fringes. No one knows his real name or his history. He works by no code of honor and often slaughters families of the targets for his own twisted pleasure.

Killing is not supposed to be a form of entertainment for us. It is a livelihood. A way of life that exists in the morally grey area of society. Death and life is in the power of the sword which we learn to wield with patience and honor.

In times of war, assassins – with one swipe of their blade or a pull of the trigger – can end battles before they begin. We can exterminate corrupt politicians and business moguls that thrive on the backs of the innocent.

It is far from a glamorous job. We murder. We lie. We betray.

Assassins are susceptible to the intentions of the clients. And yet, none can discount the need for our silent and indiscernible presence. It is an honor and a privilege. A cause worth dying for. A life that is unmoved by death.

Which is why Shadow and his deeds are so incomprehensible. Our ties lie solely between our client and our target. Unless we have no other options, civilians should not be involved. Women and children, especially those that have nothing to do with the cause, should always remain unharmed.

Shadow goes against the very basis of our principles. He is both a thorn in the side of the Brotherhoods all around the world and a shame to the name that he bears.

I have no idea why he has marked me or why he would give warning of his imminent approach. Though my name is still linked to the Brotherhood, I have been inactive for many years.

I chose instead to travel the world freely with the funds garnered from my past jobs. I have no ties with anyone. Few know my real name. Even the assassins that took me in gave me a new name and only referred to me as such.

How did Shadow find me? And why did he send a warning? It is unlike the code of an assassin to announce their arrival.

The elevator doors open and I step off. The scent of something sweet and savory fills the air, reminding me of my days in France. Pulled by the fragrance, I walk confidently into the kitchen, thoughts of Shadow fading to the background.

This is an incredibly foolish ambition.

I have no plan apart from my need to see Kendall Villanueva again. Perhaps I will be lucky enough to see her smile or hear her laughter. I feel that she has bewitched me and I have no power against her spell.

“Excuse me,” I tap the shoulder of a short man who is heartily whisking something in a bowl.

“Yah!” He whirls around and wields the whisk like a weapon.

His stance is too wide and his eyes are frantically flitting from one corner of the room to the other. If I so chose, I could knock him back and slice his head cleanly from his shoulders with the knife resting seven inches from his bowl.

I won’t of course, but I could.

“I’m sorry to startle you,” I hold my hands up in surrender. “I’m seeking Ms. Kendall Villanueva?”

The man regards me with a wary eye.

“Who’s asking?”

Belizeans have such a strange accent. It takes me a while to pick through the
potois
coating the chef’s words. Though the small country used to be a British colony and their main language is English, the Creole accent that peppers many Belizean conversations is one that still escapes me.

“My name is Alistair.” I reply when my mind has sorted his meaning.

“She’s not here. She’s on her lunch break.”

The man waves me away. I frown and check my watch, bemused at the time of day in which the kitchen takes its break. Surely, they could afford to enjoy a proper afternoon lunch at a decent hour.

The chef lifts his head and seems surprised that I’m still standing here.

“Are you a boyfriend?”

I shake my head. “No, I just… wanted to thank her for her work.”

His large nose seems to rise a few inches into the air as he lifts his chin. The man sniffs and mumbles beneath his breath.

“
She does nothing and still receives praise, while I work hard and receive none
.”

Obviously there is bad blood between the head chef and Ms. Villanueva.

I dip my head and back away, pretending I did not hear.

“Thank you for your time, sir.”

“You are welcome.” The man dismisses me and returns to his bowl and his whisk.

Well, that was surely a fail.

I have no clue what I meant to accomplish. Perhaps it is a good thing that Kendall is out for lunch. I had no speech planned, no conversation to pursue. She is a beautiful woman whom I met in a beautiful country.

That is the end of it.

I shove the kitchen doors open roughly, angry that I had not heeded my better senses, packed my things and headed out of Belize.

The door smacks against something soft and firm. A faint ‘
oof
’ resounds through the hall. Confused by the sound, I duck my head past the threshold. My eyes widen when I see who the door has run into.