Soul and Blade (19 page)

But it is him, and if I want him, I have to suffer through them. His arm around me or his hand at the small of my back feels better than anything in the world. There is nothing like being loved by someone willing to go to every length for you. He has already committed crimes and paid for things I don’t even know about, to protect me.

I smile wide and shake hands, doing the same thing for him.

It’s something I want to do.

It’s part of the girl I am.

The one I want to be.

19. TATTERED BANNERS AND BLOODY FLAGS

M
y flats don’t click the way her heels do. I am little next to her. But Cami looks up to me in every other way. She wants to learn the art of being a spy.

Cami gives me a smirk. “I know who Dash is. I know who his family is. I mean, everyone knows of them. It’s like knowing who Sir Richard Branson is.”

“I don’t even want to talk about this.” I roll my eyes as we round the corner of the building in downtown Taipei. It’s been months since the last time I was at their castle, and I am still a little shocked one of his houses has friggin’ turrets.

She laughs. “I figured. After knowing you and seeing what a Yankee you are, I was a bit surprised that your man was actually a Townshend. It’s shocking, I won’t lie.”

I give her a look. “Are we done with this conversation and that little bit of judgment you are throwing down? Because the woman we are actually looking for is across the road from us, and I figured you might want to start tailing her so I can sneak inside her apartment and take a quick peek. I mean, we can totally stand here all day and chat about how ridiculous my life is. I like a sturdy Jeep and he likes Bentleys. I like hot dogs and he likes veal and game hen.” I wrinkle my nose. “Game hen just makes it sound wrong.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “The target is moving south. I will be over there if you need me.”

I nod, still scowling. “How’s Antoine?”

She glares back as she crosses the road.

“That was uncalled for, and I think you were a bit hard on her. She can’t help but fan-girl over Dash. They all do. He’s the next lord of the manor,” Antoine torments me in my ear. “She was a tween when he was first an eligible bachelor.”

“Shut up.”

“Do you incorporate the mansions and castles in your sex games? ’Cause I feel like I would—lord of the manor. Do you play the kitchen wench or the girl in the dungeons? They have dungeons, right?”

“Like I would.” My mind wanders the corridors of his words. I can barely speak and the discomfort twitching through me is actually visible.

“That was too much, wasn’t it?”

I shake it off and scoff. “No. I just hate you.” I don’t think he can understand how inappropriate it was. That I haven’t entirely shed the mind-run damage.

“You love me. Now go left and laugh aloud again. We have a situation. The man in front of you is quite a bad man. When you glanced at him, the facial recognition went crazy.”

I glance at the chubby man and nod. “How much time do we have on the assignment?”

“Not enough. But I can remote-access his cell phone if you get close enough. Maybe he keeps a schedule. You know, that thing I tell you about all the time.”

I laugh again, but this time it’s a bit forced. “Then people could get into my schedule the way you do. I don’t like being surprised by tech-savvy spies.”

“Keep your voice down. He speaks English. He actually lived in Chicago awhile back. Did his degree there. He moved home and kept it honest for a few years, but now he’s back. His uncle is a drug lord and runs some of the gambling in Macau.”

“Yikes.”

“Right. The man in front of you is known as Cheong Lou.”

“Isn’t that a fried noodle dish?” I mutter with my head low.

“In some variation. He must really like it. We don’t have intel on that.”

I sigh. “I feel like one of us is working a lot harder than the other.”

“Oh, I know I do.” He chuckles.

“Right, if you need to believe it’s you, that’s fine.”

“This guy is actually on Interpol’s list for most wanted in Macau. If you can make the kill in ten seconds or less, then do it. We need him gone, no matter what. It will actually start a small war there, which I know the CIA has been wanting for some time.”

“I never trust anything they actually want.”

I follow the chubby man into a building, pausing as he walks to the elevator. I turn and take the stairs, grateful I’m in flats. “What floor?”

“Nine.”

I take a breath and kick it into high gear. When I get to the ninth floor, I am sucking wind, but I force my breath back to normal as I hurry along the corridor of the office building. My sunglasses and wig make it impossible for me to be recognized by the cameras in the halls and stairs.

When the elevator opens, I bump him back inside and shoot at the same moment. The silencer keeps the noise level down. I press the fifteenth-floor button and step back out. Mr. Lou falls to the floor. His eyes roll into the back of his head and I turn, hurrying back to the stairs.

I run for the exit and take the direction opposite to the one I need to be going. I circle the block before entering an older building. Ripping off my jacket and wig, I leave the building from a different door as a different person.

I circle the block again, but walking slowly and texting, like all the other people on the streets.

My slight ethnic look blends me in well here. I look similar to a Taiwanese girl, but maybe one who had some surgery to look more Western. It’s something I have come across here a lot.

Breast enhancement and Western-style ass padding are advertised on every corner. The girls are beautiful here; they don’t need to look Western.

But I am biased. I think women in Asia are stunning. I always have. I
think
I always have. It feels like something I have always thought. When I see a woman from Thailand or Bali or the Philippines, I can’t help but admire her beauty.

“That was well done. I have wiped the security on the cameras in that building. They will be very shocked when they open the doors to that elevator.”

“No one has found him yet?”

“No.” Antoine laughs. “But of course, two old ladies are walking into the foyer as we speak. So it’ll be those two sweet old ladies.”

“You shouldn’t assume old ladies are sweet. You never know.”

“That’s true. One day you will be an old lady.”

“Exactly my point.” I hurry to the place I was meant to be going from the very beginning. It’s an office building with a bar downstairs. The man who owns it is an Australian who loves Taiwan. I imagine it has more to do with the fact he loves the women. Possibly because they are more forgiving than women in the West.

I enter the bar, smiling at the owner, who smiles back with lips too big for his face. He’s got the ruddy cheeks of a man who spent a lot of years in the sun. His forehead is shiny and missing the blond hair the back of his head has.

“This guy is fugly as hell,” says the voice in my ear.

I smile wider, trying not to laugh when the unattractive man turns to face me. “Hello, love. Can I help you?”

“I was wondering if you had any job openings?” I smile as I lift my sunglasses to the top of my head and bat my lashes.

I don’t look completely Taiwanese, so he doesn’t check me out the way he does the girl bending over the counter. “We don’t. But you should come back in a couple weeks. We are losing some girls to college. You got bar experience?”

“I worked in a bar in Manhattan for a while.”

His eyes widen. “Manhattan. That’s impressive.” He chuckles like he’s mocking me maybe. “Then what brings you here?”

“My boyfriend is an engineer.”

He nods, wiping the counter and still staring at the girl bending over. “Of course he is. They all are.”

“I know. It’s weird. So many factories here.”

“My favorite is the BMW factory. Nothing is made how it should be anymore.”

“Jane, you have three minutes before she is back.” Cami whispers in my ear.

“Do you have a washroom?” I ask sweetly.

He winces. “Customers only.”

I lean against the bar and tilt my head. “Shot of whiskey.” I slap some cash on the bar.

He smiles at my haste and pours a shot, spilling some on the counter. I slam the shot back and place the glass down.

“Bathroom’s in the back.” He nods his head at the door I already know is the bathroom.

I walk slowly, sauntering until I reach it, then I hurry inside. The cameras freeze the moment I pass them, making it seem like I am in the bathroom. But I bolt back out, running to the back alley. I rush to the row of apartments I am trying to get to, climbing up onto the railing to the fire escape. This is the only way into this building without having to cross through a guard house.

I doubt anyone will even see me, thanks to the lines of laundry everywhere. They extend from each back deck where there are also crates of things Americans would have a stroke about. Food and extra dishes and a dog or two. All on the deck, getting covered in the pollution from the city.

I climb like a madwoman, swinging and jumping and pulling myself up. When I reach the fourteenth floor, I climb onto the balcony and enter the apartment. It is the only balcony that doesn’t have laundry or anything on it.

When I get inside, I sigh and try to catch my breath.

The one thing I’m seeking is the computer in front of me in the barren apartment. There’s also one camera set up on a tripod. One bed. One rack of clothes, all schoolgirl outfits and other varying forms of young-girl apparel.

I slap a strip of magnetic metal on the back of the computer, a sleek remote access for Antoine. The system is set up with outstanding security. We had to make it inside to get at it.

I turn but stop when I see a photo on the desk. I blink and look closer. The girl is young, maybe fifteen. She’s got dark hair and pale-green eyes, filled with real tears. She pouts in the picture. It’s a random Polaroid.

That draws my eyes upward to the cameras and the minimal furnishings. It’s a den of slavery.

“She’s in the building,” Cami mutters.

“Okay,” I whisper back.

Antoine whispers as well, “I am in too, and Jane, I might add, the cameras are everywhere. That tripod is nothing compared to the other shit here. I am talking everything, including a piss cam from the bar downstairs. That ugly fuck is in a bunch of pictures.”

“I don’t want to know.” I speak through the acid burning in my throat.

Something about this is familiar. “Have you ever run facial recognition for me over the Internet, searching for porn?” I whisper it, but the words feel like they were shouted. They hang in the air.

“Yes.”

“Did you find anything?” I take a breath. I know the answer.

“Yes.” Humor has vanished from Antoine’s voice. He sounds like he wants to talk about it as much as I do.

“Do you think it’s why I ran away, or were they taken while I was a runaway?”

He pauses. “Before you ran.”

“Are they gone from the web now?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a street address?” My heart is racing with panic and plotting, but I need to do this. I need it. I have to see where I came from and what brought me to this moment. It’s part of letting go and moving forward and being a clichéd mess.

“Yes.” I can hear the sadness and nausea in his voice.

“Send it the moment we get on the plane. Fly me to the place I came from. I don’t want details.”

“Okay.” Antoine sounds like his voice is cracking.

“She’s on the floor,” Cami whispers. I’m grateful she doesn’t hear Antoine and me speak.

I pull my other gun from my right holster. It’s one made for assignments like this where you don’t commit murder and leave a body behind. Even if this isn’t the mission I am meant to be on.

I can’t control myself.

When the door opens, I lift and pull the trigger. The dart hits the woman who has just entered in the eye, causing an instant seizure. Her other dark eye lands on me as her lips part to scream but the poison in the dart put her in shock and then she’s dead. I pluck the dart from her head and stroll to the bathroom to wrap it in toilet paper and flush it. I flush a second time just to be sure it’s gone. She will look like she had a massive aneurysm.

Cami is there a moment later. “I thought we were keeping her alive. We haven’t found out who is doing the abducting and trafficking.”

“I fucked up.” I don’t offer anything else. Antoine remains silent as well. We turn and leave through the stairwell, running down in complete awkward silence.

At street level, we leave the building as if we don’t know each other. The plan is that we will meet back at the airport. But that plan is gone. She is catching a commercial plane, and I am taking a private one to the place I am from. She just doesn’t know that yet.

20. ELASTIC HEART

M
aybe it’s the flight from Taipei or the mental exhaustion of the past months, but seeing this house I feel something—a twinge of sadness.

I grew up poor, I expected that. Something about running away and being a drug addict and hooker made me think I might have already had low standards.

Walking through the neighborhood to get to this small and run-down house was a bit disappointing. The houses are all dilapidated, but it is just a plain low-income area. But the house itself is much worse.

It isn’t dirty.

Just soulless and dull, like the light of day might never actually reach inside of it.

The walls haven’t been painted in a long time and the roof has spackle on it, making the ceilings feel even lower than they are. Everything about the house is small and damp.

The whole town has a dampness to it. It’s not anywhere I have ever been before and it’s not somewhere I will ever be again.

There are no pictures of me on the walls. Not one. I expected that too.

But there are pictures of a woman with dark hair who might be half Filipino, or maybe half Thai. She is pretty and demure looking. Actually, she is beautiful. She’s about fifty in the most recent ones. She poses and smiles the same in all the pictures.

Not what I expected.

The man in the photos is older than the dark-haired lady, maybe sixty-five in the most recent photo. He’s white and looks like the sort of pervert who would frequent Thai brothels. The sort who might bring a purchased wife over from abroad. I don’t think I look like either of them, but I might look like a mixture of them.

“Where is she from?” I ask softly, knowing the eye in the sky is still with me.

Antoine mutters back, “Her father was an American soldier during the Vietnam War. Her mother was full Vietnamese. She grew up in Taiwan; her mother was a maid. She came to America when she was twenty to be an au pair. She met your father then. He was forty and she was twenty.” He stops short and I don’t ask for more. I don’t want to know her.

I am a bit surprised I am a quarter Vietnamese, though. It’s sort of fascinating. My grandfather was in the American military too.

I turn my focus back to the house, noting there are brightly colored items about, lending a surprisingly cozy feel—elephants and doilies with swirling patterns and lamps that look like they might have been bought at a garage sale.

I examine room by room, while my insides burn. Everything about me is begging me to leave this house. I ran from it once for a very good reason, I can sense that now. My entire body has gone numb except for the burning sensation.

My heart is so constricted in my chest I don’t know if it’s actually beating normally or pounding and screaming that we, the version of me that was here and the version I am now, ran once and it’s likely there was a reason to do so. And that reason might still be here.

But the warrior in me shakes her head. She wants to stand up and show them what we have become. That we are no longer scared little girls running away in the night.

I am separate from her, that sad little girl. She is like the twin sister I never had.

When I get into the bathroom, I flip open all the cupboards and drawers, looking at the normal things they have. They are not monsters as far as the contents of the house go.

“Jane, I know you want silence, but I need to know if you’re okay every couple minutes, all right? I don’t want you to freeze up.”

I nod. I know he can see me in the mirror. I never removed the camera or earpiece. I want him to see it all, I don’t know why. I guess so I am not completely alone in the horror show.

I sit on the toilet and stare at the wall, absolutely stunned by what I see. There’s a picture of a beach house and sand. And written in the sand is “Tell me about the swans, the way the swans circle the stars and shoot across the sky. Tell me about the angels, the angels in your heart that remind you of the beauty in a day.”

I swallow hard. Every time I peed I stared at those words until they burned in my brain to the point that even memory removal couldn’t take them away. I glance at the door. “Maybe I shouldn’t be here,” I whisper.

“I already said that twice,” Antoine whispers back.

My stomach threatens to empty itself as I stand on shaky legs. My heart begs me to leave the house, but my head rules, as usual. I turn and walk through the bedrooms, shocked at the lack of bad things. Jesus on the cross hangs in every bedroom. Dirt on the screens dims the old windows, but the rest of the house is immaculate.

I turn to leave, but as I pass a door, my inner alarms go off. I turn and face it, grabbing the handle and twisting. There are stairs behind it. Basement stairs.

Bad things are always in the basement. It’s so clichéd.

I take the stairs like I am in a trance. I am, I suppose. When I get to the bottom of them, my breath hitches.

It’s unfinished and mostly concrete down here. Everything is gray and dank. It smells just like something terrible is about to happen. It is nothing but dreary, dim lighting and doors that lead nowhere.

I realize I might have actually been showing Dash my life. The gray, dank space is what I knew.

Canned goods line a wall at one corner. Jars of peaches and pears and beets and beans. They all have dust on them, like she canned too much.

A washer, dryer, and hanging rack are in another corner.

The back wall has a couch. It’s old and rotten looking, but I walk to it anyway. I walk so blindly I almost stumble over cords leading to a door in the corner under the stairs.

I know this door.

I know this gray, dank space.

I lower my gaze to the electrical cords on the floor and follow them to the door. The tiny windows provide almost no light and they are clear across the room, but I don’t need much light to see this place and know it.

I lift my hand to the doorknob and hold it, trembling and begging myself not to open it. In my head there’s a ring of light around the door, as if there were light inside the room. But my eyes do not see what my head says is there. Courage or stupidity takes over and my hand turns the knob.

It takes a second for the door to open, as my arm has joined the idea that I shouldn’t see inside. When I do open it, I gag, heaving at the sight of the plain room. There is nothing in there but the tail end of the cords. However, my head is suddenly full of memories that fill the empty spaces of the dank basement.

The memories were never taken; they were blocked. I see that now as they all fill the empty space. Time spent in this horrid little room takes space up in my brain. The small room is the trigger. It is the memory bank I have sought for so many years.

I drop to my knees, still heaving and somehow now sobbing.

“Jane,” Antoine whispers. “I’m here, Jane. It’s okay.”

I don’t share what I see inside of my head, the things he cannot. Because I know deep down he has seen them. He has seen the photos my own father no doubt loaded on the Internet so his disgusting friends could see too. I would have been long gone by the time the Internet was around, but the pictures would have been there—here.

I close the door, turning around and leaning against it.

The song fills my head. The one I believed had come from Samantha Barnes. But it’s not hers, it’s mine.

My childlike voice fills the empty space in the dank room. I am singing it, alone in the corner with the Barbie he gave me. She’s so pretty. Her name is Andrea. And I am singing the song to her. I don’t know where I heard it. “Listen, listen to the wind and stone. Listen, listen to the sounds of old. Listen, listen as my hopes are drowned. Listen, listen to the sounds that bullets make of blood and bones. Where will you run today? How will you ever get away?” My voice cracks as I sing it.

With my tiny little fingers, I tie the purple scarf around Andrea’s throat, making it fluff exactly the way my mom always does with her scarves.

I lift her up, looking her over. She’s so pretty. I wish we were twins, Andrea and me. I named my Barbie that because of the beautiful girl at school. The girl with the blonde hair and the pretty face. She’s exactly the sort of girl I wish I were. Her eyes match.

Even though my mom tells me that eyes are sisters and not twins, I wish my eyes were twins like Andrea’s.

“Penny!”

We both look, me and the little version of me. My mother is there, with her dark silky hair and beautiful face. Her eyes are haunted, dead like fish eyes.

“I told you to clean your room before your dad gets home. You know he likes it clean.” Her accent is thick, but her English is good.

The little version of me puts the Barbie in the room with the door. There are other things in there now, in my old memories. A camera on a tripod and a Polaroid picture that shows my face with tears in my eyes. My different-colored eyes. The pale-blue walls make me cringe. I hate powder-blue paint. I hate powder-blue walls.

I get up and follow the memory to the stairs.

Little me, little ten-year-old me, climbs the stairs. A picture on the wall catches my eye when I get to the top and open the door. It’s of me and my mom at the beach. She’s wearing a purple scarf and sunglasses. She looks happy, but in the reflection of her glasses I can see him. He’s holding the Polaroid camera. That was the day she was singing it, “867-5309/Jenny.” She sang it in the car. It was her favorite song.

I hate him.

Penny, the little girl I am not, walks into the kitchen and sits. Her mom is making a drink. A tequila sunrise with maraschino cherries. She pops one in her mouth and ties the stem off. She hands Penny one and Penny tries. She can’t do it. I can
’t do it.

She leans across the counter and sips her drink, letting Penny have a
sip too. “One day, my lucky Penny, me and you are gonna be happy. One
day.” She winks and sucks back the drink too fast. She takes cash from her
pocket and leaves the room. I leave Penny at the table and follow our mom.
She walks down the hall to my room. She pulls down the four-leaf-clover
box and places cash inside it. She tucks it back into the nook in my closet.

She turns, stopping when the front door opens. Penny is watching from t
he hall; she and I are standing beside each other. We both see the look on her face. We both feel the same dread.

He’s home from his trip.

Penny loses all the sweetness on her little face, and I force away the memory.

I close my mind off and look around the gray, dank house.

All the pictures of me are gone. Penny is gone. She ran away when she was fourteen. I remember sneaking out the dirty window. I remember the way my fingertips smudged the dirt as I opened the window and climbed out, taking the box of money with me.

It had seemed like so much money, but it didn’t last.

The rest is history.

The attack is still blank, and I don’t want to recall the other things. I don’t need to remember living on the streets. Whatever the trigger is for that, I am fine without finding it.

My father was a pedophile and my mother was an immigrant who never stood a chance at getting away. She wasn’t strong as I was. I pause at the doorway, as I am about to leave.

“Where is my fath—the man who lives here?”

“Dead. He died a few years ago.”

I have a terrible feeling I know the answer but ask anyway. “How?”

“Stabbed in Atlantic City. He was there gambling.”

“Did you have him killed?” I ask. It isn’t something I would put past Antoine, not in a situation like this. I would kill someone like that man without even a slight provocation.

“It wasn’t me.” He leaves it there, offering nothing else. I wonder if it was Rory. If he had ever done me a kindness like this one.

“Is she alone, then?” I don’t want to call her
mother
. She was not my mother. She was Penny’s mother and even then not much of one.

“Yes. She still works as a housekeeper at a hotel. She’s been there for years.”

“Is she happy?”

“I don’t think so. She has a simple life. She is alone all the time.”

“Tell the driver to go. I want to walk for a bit,” I whisper as I leave the house, leaving it in the past where it belongs. The few memories I have of it are bad and I want them gone. The way they were before.

But like always, there are a million things in my brain that I want gone. If I get rid of those, everything else goes.

My career. My love. My friends. All I will have is the distinct feeling I know that black-and-white cat and I love him. Beyond that I will have nothing. Nothing good or bad.

It’s a big decision to make.

I had hoped to enter the house and kill the monster. I’m a little disappointed by the fact I am not going to get that opportunity.

“You all right?” Antoine asks in my ear.

“I will be.” I walk along the broken concrete of the random street in the random town. Not Atlanta. Not Andrea. Not at all who I thought I was.

I make it off the block when I see him.