Heart of an Assassin (Circle of Spies) (18 page)

Malcolm and I looked at each other, fear rising between us as the walls moved closer. His eyes were troubled and in their depths I caught a glimpse of the boy I loved, the one who rarely showed his true feelings. His guard was down in the moments before death and love, caring, fear, compassion all rolled together. He grabbed my hand while the other one kept groping at the wall.

“It’s impossible,” I said, the last of any hope draining out of me.

He moved his hand to the back of my head and pulled me forward. His lips crushed mine in a dizzying effect. The fear of dying and the thrill of his kiss crashed. If the taste of his lips was my last sweet thing on earth, I’d die happy.

He broke off our kiss, the cool air stinging my lips.

“Savvy!” His eyes widened and excitement flashed.

The floor dropped out from under us. My face scraped the sides of the wall as they closed together the last few inches. I screamed. Darkness swallowed me. My stomach pitched as I whooshed down some sort of slide, the air rippling through my hair and clothing. The cold, rough edges scraped at my skin and every time I bumped against the slide, pain shot through my shoulder.

I landed hard on my back. Stunned. I sank in and out of awareness. The pain was constant. Sharp. Shooting. Ebbing. Flowing. It changed but never left, constantly there, tearing at me.

New blood seeped from the closing edges of my wound, wetting my arm and leaving a cloying smell that mixed with the dank dusty scent of where I’d landed.

A scratching sound. Rough bristles brushed against my arm. I tensed, sending waves of pain.

“Malcolm?”

He had to be here. I moved my good arm and patted the dusty ground. Nothing.

“Malcolm?” I asked louder, my voice swallowed by the walls and smothering air.

Still no answer. I got to my knees and holding my hurt arm tight against my body, I crawled, feeling for the touch of warm skin, the touch of his clothes. I started to work out in circles, moving faster and faster.

The scurry of little feet of what were probably big rats would normally freak me out but I didn’t pay them any attention. What freaked me out was that Malcolm was nowhere to be found. Nowhere. I spent minutes, pawing and clawing at the dirt, hoping, praying.

Finally, with my fingers sore and raw, I crumpled into a ball. My insides screamed. I sobbed and tears and snot flowed. My eyes swelled and I wanted to die right there. His family would never forgive me.

And when I could cry no more, I lay there, numb to the pain and the dark. And in that silence, the people I cared about spoke to me. With no fight left, my heart remembered. Malcolm whispered in my ear to not give up, that he hadn’t sacrificed his life for me to die in the depths of a monastery. Edith’s voice crackled in the air as she scolded me. A true heroine with grit wouldn’t die alone. Adamos spoke to me. The soft tones of his voice spoke to my mind and soul, prodding me to fight. The memory of his voice soothed me.

And then my mom whispered to me. How could I let my dreams wither and fade when she still needed me? She needed me. She was on the outside, waiting.

I pushed aside the numbing hurt and pain engulfing me and dug my fingers into the hard-packed dirt floor. The monks always had an escape route. I started to the left and moved along the wall, swiping away cobwebs and ignoring the imaginary feel of spiders running their legs across my shoulders. As I moved around, the wall grew damp and when I moved farther my fingers came away with a bit of slime.

Water.

Where there was water, there would be a way out. Hope blossomed and I continued until the ground sloped upward. An opening? I pushed up, and slightly hunched, walked blindly through a tunnel with my good arm out in front.

Eventually a bit of light crept into the air and I inched forward, anxious for sun and the feel of fresh air against my skin. I moved one step at a time until small drafts hit my face. When the draft disappeared, I retraced my steps and felt the wall until part of the ceiling moved.

Dirt dislodged and dribbled onto my face and into my mouth. I turned and spit, while pushing. More dirt crumbled and slid to the floor. With one last big push that almost made me pass out, a trap door opened. Rain and wind rushed through, pelting my skin and whipping my hair about.

I found steps built into the wall and climbed out, then stumbled forward, trying to make sense of the sudden onslaught of noise and light. A figure rushed toward me, his arms outstretched as if to grab me, and I started running back to the hole in the ground. Darkness was better than a fight with monks.

“Savvy! It’s Will.” He whipped me around, the rain streaming down his face and dripping from his hair. “Where’s Malcolm.”

A sob blubbered up from my chest and I hiccupped, trying, but not able to speak the words.

“Where’s Malcolm?”

I pointed to the hole. “The walls closed in, I fell, it was dark.” I hung my head. “He didn’t make it.”

He ripped my robes off and ran his hands over my body, and he cursed when he noticed the wound on my shoulder. He placed his smooth hands on my cheeks. “Listen to me. I’ll go find Malcolm. You go to the boat. My parents are waiting. Tell them to leave if we don’t come back.” He gave me a push. “Go.”

“Let me go with you! I can help.” I cried above the winds.

Will got right in my face. “You sure as hell can’t help him in this condition. Now go!” He disappeared into the hole to retrace my path.

Clumps of mud oozed into the hole, torn up by my pushing open the trap door, which probably hadn’t been used in decades. A draft of the muggy air wafted out and got sucked into the swirling wind. He’d told me to go the boat but I refused.

I saw the feathers first and thought a bird had swooped to take cover on the ground. But at my feet, an arrow sank into the ground, the end quivering in the wind. An arrow? I glanced up at the monastery, to the top, where a monk stood on the roof. Holy crap. A monk armed with a bow and arrows.

I grabbed my monk’s robe that hid the precious list within its folds from the ground and sprinted across the shoddy grass and onto the rocky shore.

Bartholomew stood waist deep in the water, urging me forward with wild arm motions. The boat bobbed in the choppy waters. They’d driven it in way too close. For us. I glanced back at the empty opening.

The rush of water splashed up my legs and when I reached Bartholomew it only took him two seconds to evaluate my condition before he scooped me off my feet. The wind clawed at my face and the rain stung my wound. He pushed farther out into the water to the point it lapped at my feet. Bartholomew handed me to Janelle then he climbed onto the boat, and then together they laid me on the bottom on seat cushions.

A tear slipped down my cheek and dripped down my neck. Janelle went to work on bandaging my arm.

“Malcolm! Will!” I gasped out through the sting of the antiseptic.

“Shush now.” Though I caught the apprehension in the line between her eyes and the twitch of her mouth.

They talked in hushed whispers, the words bumbling around me but never penetrating the wind. Finally, I shot up, causing Janelle to scold but I interrupted her. “We have to wait for them.” She gently forced me back down.

Janelle nodded to Bartholomew and joined him at the front of the boat. He gunned the engine then let it settle down to a hum and pulled away from the shore. The boat lurched and pressed me to the side of the boat so my wound felt squeezed. Janelle didn’t seem to notice as they both kept their backs to me, eyes looking forward out over the water, not even once glancing back to see if their sons were racing toward the water.

I grasped the side of the boat, my fingers in danger of slipping on the wet side and sending me crashing down on my back. With a last pull, my fingers cramping, I peeked over the side. The monastery moved up and down with the boat.

“No. We can’t leave them!”

My fingers couldn’t hold me and I crashed back down. My thoughts ran and coursed stronger than the pain. They weren’t even checking back every few seconds. What if Malcolm and Will ran out, desperate for escape, and the boat was pulling away, with no one to see them? I couldn’t think of one possible reason why Bartholomew and Janelle would leave them behind.

My next thought sent fear rising in my chest, stealing my breath. Were they going to dump me in the middle of the sea? They loved their sons, but they didn’t love me. I was technically the enemy. Maybe a truce didn’t mean much to them. Already I could feel the smooth fingers of the Mediterranean reaching up to pull me under, submerging me as water filled my mouth and chest, and the boat raced back to the monastery to pick up Malcolm and Will without me on it.

A convenient accident.

I scrambled to the back of the boat, pain slicing through my shoulder, but the adrenaline from my imagined death was stronger. With my good arm, I grabbed the First Aid kit, which had sharp, pointy corners. “I won’t let you!”

The wind swallowed my words and the two of them didn’t respond, unemotional and detached, straight on their path to the center of the sea. I sent a stronger message and hurled the kit. Instead of catching one of them on the side of the head like I’d hoped, it crashed down between them, the box ripping open and bandages and Band-aids rolling across the bottom.

 
Janelle gasped and followed the trail of gauze bandages back to me standing against the side of the boat, grasping the edge like I was hanging off a cliff. My body shook and I hoped I presented the image of a formidable foe and not a lunatic. She laid her hand on Bartholomew’s arm. He glanced back and immediately cut the engine, the boat slowing down until we bobbed in the water. The wind whipped my hair across my face and I swiped it past my ears.

“I won’t let you kill me,” I shouted.

Bartholomew stepped over the cracked plastic of the kit, moving forward, his arm outstretched. I bumped up against the back of the boat, ready to jump on my own.

“Savvy! Stop!” Janelle called out. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

I glanced between them at the hidden knowledge lurking in their eyes and the way they held their bodies. I nodded back toward the monastery. “Why else would you leave them behind?”

Sudden movement caught my eye. Then I whipped around for a better look. A head appeared out of the trapdoor in the ground back near the monastery. Seconds passed, and then another appeared: Will and then Malcolm. He crawled out and stumbled just like I did, blocking the rain with his arm.

“Malcolm!” I yelled.

Any thoughts of taking a dive into the sea left as the two rushed toward the rocky shore, waving their arms.

Bartholomew squeezed back between the two front seats, started the engine and raced back, drawing as close to shore as possible. The brothers ran across the grass, arrows flying, and then crashed into the waves. Will picked up Malcolm and pushed through the waters fighting his every step. He waited, the waves trying to knock them over.

The boat drew close and stopped. Will handed Malcolm over to his father who laid him on the floor. His hair was plastered to his head in clumps and his face was pinched with pain. He lay still, his ragged breathing sending out puffs of air in the cold. His face was deathly pale. I let out a quiet sob as relief filled my chest.

Bartholomew nodded to me and smiled. “We weren’t leaving them behind. We wanted the monks to think we were all aboard so the boys had a better chance at escaping. They’ve been trained for this.”

Then Bartholomew and Will moved to the front of the boat. The engine gunned once more and we were flying across the Mediterranean, water splashing into the boat, rain sprinkling our faces.

I slid to the floor, the adrenaline rush fading and a fresh feeling of safety taking its place. They weren’t going to kill me. Janelle laid blankets over our legs and then whipped bandages and anti-septic around like a ninja. All the noises and sensation vibrated in my ears: Janelle yelling out curses at our condition, the roar of the boat fighting against the wind, the swaying and dipping motion wreaking havoc on my stomach, and Will yelling at us to hold on. Pain flickered like the monks were wielding their knives in the wound at my shoulder. It all faded, thrumming in the background and turning into white noise.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, even though he looked battered and bruised with pink rivers running off his skin. I drank him in, every single piece of him. He was alive. Nothing else mattered.
 

He turned, his eyes finding mine and searching my face. “The wall closed on my robes, trapping me up by the opening of the chute.” He answered my question before I could ask it and reached for my hand. He searched my eyes, his face softening.

I dropped my gaze to his lips and the drops of water clinging to them. My chest heaved with a sob, sending more pain through my shoulder. I reached out with my good arm and traced Malcolm’s cheek.

He reached over, ignoring Janelle’s pleas for us to lie still, and touched my arm. He moved his hand gently up to the back of my head and pulled me in for a kiss but halfway his chest shuddered. He fell back.

 
I gripped the blanket, wishing away the pain, for both of us, wondering if he would make it.

The rest of the boat ride back was quiet and ominous, like the black storm clouds that hovered in the sky, following us. The bottom of the boat slapped the water and the wind created a tunnel of noise making it hard to hear anyone. Bartholomew glanced back at the fading view of the monastery. He’d look at Janelle and a silent communication would pass between them. But I didn’t like the way his eyebrows were so low they almost hid his eyes or the way Janelle pursed her lips in a straight line, marking her face with fear.

I focused on the feel of our fingers intertwined, and Malcolm’s thumb rubbing my skin. Every once in a while he tightened his grip and then relaxed it. While Janelle worked on his injury I tried to catch a glimpse of the gunshot wound but the bandages blocked the view. I’d have to wait until we got back to know how badly he was hurt.

When we reached shore, the family helped us into the car and we zoomed through the streets. I felt the urgency in the squeal of the brakes and the sharp turns that had Janelle yelling at Bartholomew to slow down. In front of the house, they helped us into Bartholomew’s office. I lay out on the leather couch. Malcolm leaned back in the armchair. Janelle brought out a bigger first aid kit and replaced our bandages, her gentle touch reminding me of a mother’s care. Relief crossed her face and she kissed Malcolm’s cheek.

“Savvy, the wound will take time to heal but if you keep it clean, you’ll be fine.” She briefly smiled then turned to Malcolm and traced his cheek, but no words of comfort left her mouth, no glib comments about how the monk was a poor shot. And this, the fact she said nothing, squeezed my heart.

“Is the bullet still there?” I asked, wondering if she was quiet for our sake.

She smiled weakly, doubt glittering in her eyes. “Yes.”

Fear shocked my core. As long as the bullet was still lodged in his side then he wasn’t okay. “We’ve got to get him to the hospital!”

Malcolm shifted so he could see me. “I’m okay.”

Bartholomew bustled through the room with a loaded suitcase in his hand, and a duffle under his arm. “Janelle!” he roared.

“Yes, yes!” she called out. She checked our bandages once more and then hurried off.

“You are not okay,” I said.

The rest of my reprimand choked in my throat because I understood that the life of a spy or an assassin called for sacrifice, and sometimes, discomfort. Survival of the family had to come first, but the hurried frenzy of his family, moving in and out of the room, piling up bags in the room, made me worry.

“I’ll get the treatment. My parents will see to that.”

I nodded. Were they packing to leave? The questions about what that meant for Malcolm and I sent a sick feeling spiraling down through my stomach.

“Hey!” he said. “It’ll be okay. Promise.”

Promises. Always promises. A promise could only go so far. “What’s going on?” I waved my hand toward his family still rushing, never stopping for a moment.

“We can’t stay,” Malcolm said. “They’ll be coming for us, to retaliate. Time to get out of the country.”

The truth behind his words knocked into me, leaving me gasping. I should’ve known. I needed to leave too, get away with Mom and Adamos and start a different life with Dad. Maybe Mom would leave since Constance was now safely off the target list. Just the thought of leaving Malcolm tore at my insides, my life splitting in two directions, and I couldn’t go both ways.

“Hey,” he said softly, his words sparking hope in my heart that he had a plan.

The door slammed.

There was a collective pause as we all froze. Then in one rush, Bartholomew gathered Janelle and Edith behind him. The point of Edith’s cane flashed with the sharp blade. I stiffened, ready for anything, even the rush of monks burning with vengeance, their dark robes flowing.

But Mom burst into the room, a wild look in her eyes, frantically searching until she found me. She rushed over and took in my situation with one glance then with fingers twitching and a flush of red spreading across her face, she spit out words like a gun peppering the enemy.

“What did you do to her? What about protection?” she demanded.

Adamos followed her through the door and rested his hand on her shoulder, passing on a message with his gentle squeeze and the words he spoke that were too quiet for anyone to hear. Her face changed and the rage passed, her lips pressing together and her brow furrowed with the seriousness of her visit.

“They’re coming. Now. Across the sea. Lots of them,” she said, her words flying out and whipping through the room, stirring up fear and dread.

Adamos nodded in affirmation.

“We’ve got this all under control,” Bartholomew boomed but the way he shifted from foot to foot and fiddled with his suitcase handle betrayed his words.

An awkward silence filled the room and I could feel the paranoid thoughts and theories racing and skimming along everyone’s brainwaves. Including mine. I watched everyone, tension strung across their bodies like the string of a compound bow. Even Will had his teeth clenched, but as he worked his jaw, a battle raged on his face on whether to accept this help from his mortal enemy, in other words, my mom.

“We speak the truth.” Adamos stepped forward and moved his arm to encompass the room in one sweep. “We’re all in terrible danger.”

Bartholomew snorted then hid his nervous smile with a fake cough. “And why should we believe you? You were one of them.”

Mom stepped closer to Will. Her shoulders were back and her chest out, but I could see the slight tremor in her fingers. Distrust dripped from her face, a sneer formed on her mouth. The hatred between her and Will pulsed.

He mocked. “Nice to see you again, Marisa. Miss me?”

Mom had always been as cool and composed as a spy, never letting her guard down around me. But the slight tremor spread from her fingers, up her arms, down her body and to her legs.

He didn’t give up. “Or maybe you’re just jealous that your daughter trusted me. She is kinda cute. Very sexy when she’s fighting.”

Silence dropped in the room like a bomb. Emotions ran high and my adrenaline started pumping. A noise started in my mom’s throat and built to a yell. She whipped something out of the side of her pants and lunged at Will, her scream reaching terrifying heights.

He deflected her with a sweep of his arm.

“Mom,” I whispered.

“This is your fault!” she screamed at Will.

She jabbed at him with a knife in her fist several times while Will grabbed the nearest weapon, a pencil sharpener from his dad’s desk. After Mom swung and missed, he countered and clocked her in the side of the head with the sharpener. She stumbled backward.

“Savvy, leave,” Mom ordered, pulling herself together.

“You see,” Will commented. “That’s your problem. Your daughter came to me because I let her in instead of sheltering her. She’s better off for it and that drives you nuts. Admit it.”

“You stole years from my life.” Her voice cracked yet she upped the volume a notch, bordering on sounding a bit mad. “You stole my family and memories. They haven’t recovered!” Just as suddenly as the crazy anger had appeared it slid from her face and body language and then she spoke, her voice strong and determined. “She’s been put in mortal danger, that’s why she’s here.”

He laughed and mocked her with his casual body stance. “Please, I really don’t want to hurt you, but if you continue I’ll have to protect myself.”

I moved off the couch and stepped toward Adamos. “Do something,” I whispered.

He grabbed my hand. “This is your mother’s battle. She needs this.”

While Will was laughing, Mom backed off with her shoulders slumped. I wondered what the hell happened in the past that created this strange power he held over my mom.

“That’s better,” he said.

But then as soon as he turned his attention away from her, she lunged and drove the knife into his shoulder. Shock rippled across his face and the room. Seconds later Will pushed Mom against the wall. Didn’t matter what he did, Mom fought back the best she could. She threw punches and kicks but Will was stronger.

No! No! No! I screamed on the inside. I didn’t want to see our families fight. Too much was at stake. I hurled myself between them and screamed. Not just any scream but a shriek that would shatter glass in an ancient church, a girly teenage screech that would make old people cringe and babies start wailing.

Everyone froze and turned their attention on me, the one connecting thread who could bring peace to our families.

I ignored the constant throb in my shoulder. “Good. Now that I have everyone’s attention, maybe we can act a bit civil around here.” My voice started off weak and fragile, but as I drew from an inner strength that had slowly built over my time in Greece, my words became clear and strong. “Spies and assassins don’t have to act like toddlers in the middle of a fight over their favorite toy.”

Edith rapped her cane against the floor. “First bit of wisdom you’ve spoken since the day I met you. About time.” She hmpfed. “Toddlers all of you.”

“We need to leave the country.” Bartholomew spoke the words with finality. He was agreeing with my mom and it was something he must’ve known anyway since the moment we left the monastery. That was why they were rushing around to pack.

“Well,” I said, a secret smile tugging at my lips, “there’s something you might want to see first.”

Everyone stared at me, the questions in their minds apparent by the open mouths and raised eyebrows.

I grabbed for the robe, which I’d been holding onto like a baby would her blanket, then reached into the pocket and fished out a squashed piece of parchment. “The list.”

Peace swirled through the room at the sight of the precious parchment in my grasp. Years of running, of being uncertain of their safety, disappeared, faded from their expressions, and slowly but surely, smiles spread, contagious, until Janelle giggled.

“Bartholomew, a lighter if you please?” I asked politely.

He scrounged in his drawer and handed it over. “Why certainly, young lady.”

Giddiness erupted in my chest and I flicked the lighter, creating a small flame, representing hope for our families. I brought the flame closer to the scroll, the fire licking the air.

Two seconds later, a canister shattered the office window and rolled across the floor. Smoke hissed and released. I dropped the lighter and the scroll.

And just like that, hope evaporated.