Tara (3 page)

It had been almost two hours since Sebastien had brought her to the basement at Gianni’s behest and she was humming to herself – Albinoni’s
Adagio in G Minor
, her mind supplying the string instruments, when she heard the sound of heavy boots on the stairs. Sitting up she dropped the magazine to the floor and quickly adjusted her hair and clothes.

It wouldn’t help much if she looked like a mess.

A swipe under each eye to check her make-up and she positioned herself at the bars just as Sebastien made an appearance at the bottom of the steps. He came to a halt and a slow, cocky grin came over his face as he held up a black rectangle of technological wonder and joy – her iPod.

“Sebastien!” Tara made sure her voice was achingly sweet as he came to the bars of her cell and she reached for it, but he pulled it back. Her stomach dropped but she kept the playful smile on her face. “Come on, let me have it.”

“You want it?” Sebastien’s eyes were moving over her, and she chewed on her lower lip as his brown eyes came back to her face. She had known she’d have to pay for the favor, but the music was worth it, and this was nothing new when it came to Sebastien.

“Yes.” She spoke quietly and he was through the door to her cell in an instant. Reaching her hand out for the iPod that held 160GB of her lifeblood, he kept it out of her reach and instead pulled her mouth to his. It felt like she’d swallowed a handful of ice cubes, but she reminded herself to kiss him back, to wrap her arms around his neck – to be perfect.

“I don’t know why he’d ever give you up, if I had anywhere near the money it would take to buy you, I would have. And I’d never let you go.” Sebastien’s hands were moving down her sides as he moved her backwards, and she saw him carefully lay her iPod on the table before her legs hit the bed. He leaned her back and everywhere his touch moved she felt cold, a comfortable numbness taking over her body that let her be the fantasy he wanted her to be.

“I believe you.” Her voice sounded sultry, but it was like it was coming from someone else’s mouth.

Smile, Tara
.

“What do you think of him selling you?” Sebastian pushed his hand into the loose curls of her hair and pulled it sharply, but she managed to turn the hiss of pain into a breathy laugh, turning her head towards his hand to place a kiss on his wrist and ease his grip.

He must be angry about Gianni’s decision.

Sebastien held her hair tight as she searched for the answer he wanted, the
right
answer. The one that would make him happy.

“I’d rather stay here.” She pouted and lifted her eyes back to his. Eye contact was important when you wanted to look like you were telling the truth, averting your eyes was a sign of a lie. Too much eye contact gave away a lie too. Either way, it wasn’t really a lie. Leaving meant going into the unknown and this master, Gianni, had rarely been violent, and had lavished her with gifts and comforts. Not something she’d voluntarily leave, no matter how much he treated her like a shiny object.

Sebastien’s grip on her hair loosened, and his eyes softened as he leaned down to kiss her neck. “I wish you could stay too.” Her skin felt so cold that she wanted to shiver, but she fought the urge. Everywhere he touched she mentally pulled away until her mind was nothing more than a pale fog, filling her body up, carefully suspended so it never touched the surface. “Maybe I can get a job with your new master? And we can be together?”

“That would be wonderful.” The words come out of her mouth on reflex, but her mind wasn’t fully conscious of the decision to say them. She was somewhere outside of herself as his hands slid that jewel-colored blue top out of the way, and her body went on autopilot. With the ease of centuries of practice she slipped away, and even though the iPod wasn’t on she let herself be distracted by music. Plucking notes from the ether and assigning them to instruments as she built a cacophony in her head to drown out every physical sensation that tried to filter through.

His mouth, warm and wet on her breasts. His hands searching her skin for some secret he believed in. Soft sounds slipping from her lips, her hands reaching for him like she was supposed to. The weight of her own body as she slid to her knees to cup his balls and take him into her mouth, pleading mentally that this would be enough. That this pleasure would be all he wanted.

It wasn’t
.

Sebastien wanted to taste her as well, and he was fumbling, average in his skill, but the steady, lilting thrum of pleasure of his tongue still wound its way into the music in her head. Then he was on top of her, kissing her so she could taste the tang of herself on his tongue. Another moment, another bar of music in her head, and he thrust deep.
Crescendo
. Tense strings, belting high notes like mezzo sopranos, and then the crash as she cried out, wrapping her empty arms around him to pull him to her like a real girl would. Pressing blank kisses to his cheeks as his groans echoed his own release as he came inside her.

The weight of his body pressed her down, and the music slowed – mellow and dark. She could imagine the conductor’s hands subtly twitching to keep the plucking bass notes lingering. The audience waiting for what was next – but Tara had no answers for her imaginary audience, because she couldn’t even answer herself.

“Tara?” Sebastien’s voice was soft.

Too numb. Too numb to respond
.

She turned the music down in her head, and Tara realized with a bit of internal pride that she’d maintained the smile. That was good, it had taken centuries to be capable of that, but then why did Sebastien’s brown eyes look pained?

“Hmm?” She tilted her head to the side to see him sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling his boots on and tying them with quick jerks of the laces.

“I’m really going to try and get a job with him.” His eyes were sincere, but she still wasn’t fully present. Too detached to really react so she had a bit of trouble even processing what he’d said. Everything she did for the moment was just a show, like a sunset reflected on water – pretty, but intangible, with not a hint of what was really happening beneath the surface.

“I’m glad.” Her voice stayed sweet, exactly how Sebastien liked her to sound. Maybe if he went with her he’d protect her if it was a bad master. That would be nice. Sitting up she slid her jewel blue shirt back on and wished he’d thought to bring her a change of clothes too, but she wouldn’t ask for it. Asking for anything so frivolous would be stupid – she didn’t want to pay the price for them. She could wear the same clothes.

He pointed at the iPod on the table. “I hope it’s charged, I didn’t grab the cable.”
Of course he didn’t.
“I guess I’ll see you in the morning to say goodbye. For now anyway.” Clutching his jacket he moved slowly out of the cell and locked the door, his eyes meeting hers through the bars.

“Thank you, Sebastien.” She smiled as he paused, shaking his head before he turned away. His feet thumped up the stairs at a steady rhythm, leaving her in the quiet of the room.

As she stared at the black iPod reality snapped back hard and fast, the fog of her mind reconnecting with her body like a car crash.

She almost didn’t make it into the tiny room in the corner to throw up.

Gianni had sold her. There would be a new master soon.

Her empty stomach tried to retch again. And again. And again.

Someone new. New rules. New rules she would probably break before she even knew them.

When she was finally done the mirror above the sink showed how messy her hair was and she made it as neat as possible before rinsing her mouth, wiping off her thighs, and returning to the bed. She threw the dust covered comforter onto the floor, lay on the sheet, plugged the white headphones into her ears, and flipped it to shuffle.

Classical, then rap, then electronica, then rock. Round and round. She floated away on the music and reminded herself that it didn’t matter, she didn’t care. The same mantra that had helped her through two thousand years alone.

It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.

I don’t care.

I’m fine.

Chapter Three

Milan, Italy

Stepping out of the Milan Linate Airport, Alaric kept his sunglasses and a knit cap on as he scanned the lanes designated for car service and found what he had requested waiting for him. A nero black on black Maserati GranTurismo, all shiny and new. With his duffel bag thrown over his shoulder he walked over and couldn’t help but smile when the young salesman stumbled through the details on the ride after he’d given him his false ID. Alaric already knew it all, knew what he – well, his client – had paid for, but he let the guy do his job.

“Thanks.” Alaric smiled and gave the guy a fifty euro note, which the guy stuttered over his thanks for. As he was sliding into the driver’s seat he took the key and signed his alias’ signature on the dotted line, and then Alaric realized the kid was probably his age. Twenty-two or twenty-three. And they were in totally different places in life. One delivering the car, and the other driving it.

The kid was probably happier though.

Shutting the door he turned the engine over and it roared like a big cat. At least
that
could bring an authentic smile to his face. People standing on the sidewalk lifted their heads and watched as he pulled away, the smooth acceleration humming through the body of the car as he merged into the traffic.

If someone had asked him ten years ago where he’d be, he would have said he’d still be in London, still in East Sussex, working some crap job just like his worthless father. He definitely wouldn’t have guessed he’d be wearing clothes worth more than a month’s salary to his family back then, or driving a car worth as much as a house, on his way to a luxury hotel known for its discretion and lack of cameras.

Nope, this kind of life had never been in the cards for him. Not before Luca.

His phone let off a
bing
from the messenger bag in the passenger seat. Pulling to a stop at an intersection he took it out and checked the message. It was from Luca, nothing more than an address to go to. Alaric rolled his eyes. When he was in work mode, Luca could be a real prick.

It had taken Alaric about four hours to clear out of Toulouse, get on the plane and get to Milan, and he was coming up on hour five when he bought guns, ammo, and stealth gear from a local contact of Infinity Consulting. Always cash only, no names – and way too easy.

He decided to do a test run by the target on his way to the hotel, so he could time it in heavy afternoon traffic to see a maximum time for transport that night. The villa he pulled up on was tan and butted up against a four story white building. It was old world pretty on the outside, but through an open curtain downstairs Alaric could see new world luxury on the inside as he drove by. Letting the Maserati take him towards the hotel he found it was about twenty minutes in traffic, not bad at all.

When he got to the hotel he parked his own car, not wanting a valet messing with the clutch of the beautiful car before he even got a chance to test it out. Alaric got out and it was now two duffel bags that he walked into the luxury hotel with, and as he smiled at the front desk he was reminded of Luca’s comment to him when he was a kid –
anyone with a smile like yours is dangerous, a smile like that isn’t real, but everyone wants to believe it is.

The girl behind the front desk seemed to want to believe it, and he leaned casually on the desk to talk to her. When he asked for a quiet corner of the building in fluent Italian she blushed and obliged, telling him that they were doing construction on the floor below him, so it should be private. He winked at her as he walked away, replacing the sunglasses as he stepped into the elevator.

Seven floors, turn left, luxury suite. Bedroom off to the right of the living room, separated by French doors. Huge bathroom that was bigger than the childhood bedroom he’d shared with his sister.

If only he could show her all this – show her he wasn’t a screw up.

Opening his duffel he took out something extra he’d bought from their contact, an electronic pressure lock for the inside of a door. Sealing it into place Alaric sat back and then yanked on it, when it didn’t budge he nodded.

“Get through that, Luca.” Alaric mumbled to himself and checked the windows. They didn’t open anymore and there was a seven story vertical drop. As he fell onto the plush bed he knew he needed to reset before the job. Get himself centered. Focused.

Taking out his phone he told it to wake him up in two hours and then he crashed.

An electronic nuclear siren went off about six inches to the left of his ear and Alaric sat up straight holding one of the guns he’d purchased that afternoon, aiming at absolutely nothing through those delicate French doors. No one and nothing. He fell back against the pillows.

There were benefits and drawbacks to being trained like he had. Benefits? You reacted without thinking, you could follow most orders without question, and your body generally didn’t really fail you. Your body would catch you, respond to you, protect you - even when you weren’t aware of it. The drawbacks were along the same lines though. Sometimes it reacted when you didn’t want it to, sometimes you did a duck and cover when you didn’t need to, and sometimes you woke up pointing a gun at a bad painting of flowers. If he’d ever been some kind of military he might have called it PTSD, but for his job he didn’t think any kind of workman’s comp covered what was wrong with him.

But, honestly, there were only so many times in training someone could attack you in your sleep before you started sleeping light and waking up a little jumpy. Luca had designed the training for these reactions though. Luca had designed everything.

Even him.

Dragging himself out of bed Alaric peeked out the window and from his high-story viewpoint he could see the sun heading down. Popping open his laptop again he heard it whir to a start as he called room service, more tea and a light dinner. When it arrived Alaric thanked the guy and dropped a white strip into the tea. Luca had assured him it could check for over a hundred different drugs and poisons, and Alaric kept a handful of them in his pockets all the time.

Sixty seconds later? Nothing. Just a wet white strip.
What a way to live
.

Drinking the tea Alaric was reminded of why he preferred having tea in the UK, the Italians prided themselves on their coffee for a reason. You could take the boy from England, but you couldn’t take England out of –

She was beautiful.

Alaric hadn’t scrolled past the first two pages of her pictures, but the others had more casual snapshots. Some were through the windows of what looked like her bedroom. In one her hair was down in waves, a simple shirt and jeans, no makeup, no jewelry. She had headphones in her ears, the bright white cord standing out against the dark color of her shirt, and her hands were up like she was conducting. In another series she was doing push-ups, then sit-ups, then yoga. He may have looked at the yoga pictures longer than he should have. Could the guy with his arm around her waist in the earlier pictures be her father? She was fair of skin, none of the olive complexion, but if her mother had it…

Was he going to kill this girl’s father?

He grabbed his phone and sent one question:
is he her father

Luca responded instantly, never far from his army of communication devices:
No

Well, that was settled. Alaric didn’t want details, but he had needed to know that, needed to know he wasn’t killing her father. With her smile so bright, seeming so happy where she was – and knowing he was about to rip her out of it – he’d had to know.

Stop
. No investing.

He shut himself down and knew he had stared at her too long, he couldn’t even argue with himself that it was to know for sure what she looked like. He’d memorized her face after the first picture. Pulling up the floor plans again to cover the document with her pictures he started on a plan, while stuffing a small backpack with all his what-if items. Someone had gone to the effort to label the rooms in messy handwriting. The whole second floor was Gianni’s, and strangely the room next door to his massive one was labeled with one word,
girl
. Nothing else was interesting, except for the basement which simply read:
off limits - why?

A knock on his door had him palming his .40 which already had the silencer attached. Stepping up to the door he looked into the hall to see someone in a hotel uniform, so he pressed a button on the pressure lock and leaned it against the wall, calling out, “A moment!” He opened the door with one hand, keeping the .40 trained on the person through the door. The wood might slow the bullet down, but not enough.

The guy smiled at him and gestured at a huge box at his feet, which had a smaller box on top. “You’ve got a delivery! How did you know what room you were going to get? Didn’t you just check in?”

Alaric looked down and on the printed labels of both was the alias he’d used to check in, the address of the hotel, and his room number.

Luca
.

“Ah, I booked ahead. Thanks.” Alaric stepped back enough to let the guy shuffle the boxes into the doorway and then he eased the door forward so the guy knew to step back. “Here.” He offered the guy a fifty-euro note, which hopefully meant the guy wouldn’t ask any follow-ups.

“Have a good night!” The guy shouted over his shoulder as he headed back towards the elevator, and Alaric shut the door. Looking down at the boxes Alaric tried to figure out what the hell Luca would have sent him. He already had the guns and the equipment. With a sigh he slid out his knife and slit the large box open. On the top was a note:

For the girl.

-L.

Alaric ignored the guidance from Luca and still sorted through it a bit, mostly clothes and the box smelled a little like perfume. Grabbing the smaller box he moved the larger over by the couch in the living room. Slicing open the smaller box there was a black case inside, with another note on the front:

Sedative. Use it. No damage, I promise.

-L.

Unzipping the black case there were three syringes filled halfway with a blue liquid, a small label was wrapped around a vial on the left of the case with more blue liquid inside: “
30cc only
”. At least the sedative would keep her calm and quiet. As the reality of the job settled on him his stomach turned at the idea that he had been basically hired for a kidnapping, but, like Luca had said, if he refused they’d just send someone else.

At least she’d be safe with him
.

With a mental shake he returned to planning his entry and exit strategies. Pre-loading magazines for instant reload inside while he studied the floor plans again along with the external photos – both day shots and night vision. Someone good had done the recon for this, so why weren’t they getting the girl out? Maybe they weren’t willing to pull a trigger like they were willing to click a camera.

Alaric had been in that place once. Recon only for the first couple of years on the job, but that hadn’t lasted. Luca had always said he’d seen something special in him right from the beginning. Laying a full clip down he grabbed another magazine and continued filling, pressing the bullets down against the spring as he reviewed everything again and again until it all lived in his head in full color.

When night fell Alaric found himself pacing in the hotel room. The bag was packed, he’d memorized his plan, and his back-up plan, and his fallout plan. He’d texted Luca with a simple “
ready
” and received a short “
ok
” in response.

Time was crawling, and it left him too much time to think, and too much time to look at her pictures. Why would someone pay so much to get a girl out of a house she seemed happy in?

Looks can be deceiving.

That had absolutely been true at his house. It could be true of this house, she could be miserable. She could be in danger. For a moment he felt a spark light up inside his chest – maybe he was
saving
this girl. Maybe he’d be a hero for once in his life instead of just some grim spectre of death.

Doubtful… but possible
.

Checking himself in the mirror he tilted his head. All of the matte black stealth gear didn’t even reflect the harsh light in the bathroom. A bulletproof vest weighed him down, along with his two guns, pre-attached to silencers. Two reload clips on each side. His knife. A garrote cable tucked into a pocket. Flashlight, glass cutter, back-up knife. And his small pack was sitting on the couch, holding even more. He’d be carrying about sixty pounds when all was done, and he definitely didn’t
look
like a hero.