That Was Then (The Re-Do Series Book 1) (3 page)

K
endall

I headed to my favorite street side vendor for lunch, but –because of the late hour–she was out of food. My sadness was soon eclipsed by the tinkling sound of a passing cart and ringing bell.

Ice cream
.

I shouldn’t have. But I did anyway.

I decide to take the stairs to balance the fat from the ice cream. The thick carpets of the fourth floor hallway swallow the sound of my footsteps. I lick the small hump of ice cream left on my cone and extend my hand toward the door handle of the kitchen entrance.

Instead of pulling the metal aside and stepping into my kingdom, I see the door coming for me like a train down a track.

Puzzled, I stupidly stand in place until I realize too late that someone is flinging the kitchen door wide open.

The good news is the door smacks into my raised hand instead of my face and I manage to stay on my feet.

The bad news is the raised hand is holding my ice cream cone which ends up plastered onto my nose like a unicorn-human hybrid.

Creamy clumps stick to my face.

Cross eyed, I laugh at the picture I must make. Why does this keep happening to
me
?

“Miss, are you alright?”

I freeze, the chuckle immediately getting stuck in my throat.

That voice. That beautiful, British voice. I recognize it immediately. It belongs to the man from the elevator.

Black shoes, not shiny but not dull either, stride into my line of sight. My eyes slowly parade up black slacks and a casual, white polo. He’s wearing a leather necklace around his neck, which is only faintly visible through the collar of his shirt.

I simply cannot stare into his eyes or I’ll die right here, right now of mortification.

“Miss?”

The ice cream cone plops to the floor and I groan. If an elephant was stomping down the corridor it wouldn’t have made as much noise.

“Uh…”

Come on, Kendall. Say something. Don’t just stand there like an idiot!

He dips his head closer to mine. His eyes are so, so beautiful. They’re a chocolaty brown, lighter than the average Belizean’s. His hair is thick and brushed to a fine wave at the front. The guy’s basically a sexy face on a sexy body.

I swallow.

Lick my lips.

Taste the ice cream still dripping from my nose.

And wince.

Shoot
.

Using the crook of my elbow, I try to wipe the cream from my face.

“Here,” he produces a handkerchief from some unknown place and grasps my chin.

With a confident tilt of his head, the stranger cleans my cheek and then offers me the napkin. If some other, less attractive man on the street had touched my face and then wiped me down with a cloth, I would have shoved them in the stomach. And then run screaming for the police.

This man… this man can clean my face forever.

I awaken when he curls the napkin into my grip. With stilted movements, I begin to wipe around and around my lips. He watches with an indiscernible expression. The moment becomes suddenly intimate. I feel shy though we are doing nothing inappropriate.

He clears his throat and steps back.

“I’m sorry for that.” He points to the doors that orchestrated this little meeting.

John Doe is waiting for a response. I see it in the stature of his body, in the straight line of his shoulders. This is the part in the conversation where I’m supposed to answer.

I sing the alphabet in my head and will my lips to move in an understandable manner.

“Um….”

You can do it, Kendall.

“It’s okay.”

He seems amused. By my words or by my expression, I’m not quite certain which. I’m still rubbing my face because I don’t know what else to do. This man is extremely attractive. I’m extremely not.

I knew I shouldn’t have eaten all those Oreos last night!

I glance at the doors and realize he exited from the kitchen.

“Was there a problem with your food?”  I nod toward the room he just vacated.

John Doe looks confused for a minute before he turns around.

Understanding dawns.

“Oh, no. I was actually looking for you.”

“Me?” My hands fall limp.

Crap. My meat pie display this morning left an impression
.

I cringe at the thought.

“Yes.”

“What did you want to see me for?”

He steps forward with not a lick of awkwardness. I try to breathe but it is suddenly, incredibly difficult. With determined movements, the stranger darts his hand out and presses his rough fingertips on my cheeks, removing a drop that I missed.

My shuttered breath escapes my chest in an explosion of sighs at his touch. I’m going crazy. I’m going crazy right here outside of the kitchen doors with Serachi on the other side, plotting more ways to make my life miserable.

“I wanted to ask you to dinner.”

The words are so out of place, they don’t register for a few moments. On my list of expected responses ‘I want to take you to dinner’ ranked the lowest.

“No.” The word flies out of my mouth before I can corral it.

He’s clearly surprised. John Doe is not used to being turned down.

I gain a little confidence at the glimpse of his uncertainty. He’s got a crack in his armor. Perhaps the handsome, debonair British model has finally met his match.

I know I’m a little loopy. And clumsy. And irresponsible. But I’m not stupid.

Even though this guy is so, so hot, I don’t make it a habit of going around Belize with strange men that I meet at work. No matter how amazing they smell or how symmetrical their face.

“I mean, I can’t.” I quickly clarify. “I won’t be available.”

There. That’s a safe, non-committal answer.

I expect him to give up and run away, to find a model that’s better suited for his magnificent looks. Instead, he smiles and rolls up the folds of his sleeves.

The move is so unconsciously seductive that I find myself spellbound.

John Doe speaks, barging into my little day dream.

“I haven’t specified a date.”

“Well, I’ll be busy for the next few days.” I wave my hand and back up to the kitchen doors. “Thanks for this.” I shake his handkerchief in the air and push the doors open, nearly falling through on my behind.

John Doe’s bemused face is the last I see of him before the metal doors swing back in place.

“There you are,” Serachi’s squeaky voice cuts through the noise of my thumping heart.

His voice is like an unwanted scratch on a record.

“What do you want, Serachi? Still upset because the Taiwanese ambassador asked to shake my hand and not yours?”

“He obviously has a ruined palette.” Serachi grumbles. “And no, it’s not that. There was a man around here looking for you.”

“Oh really?” I feign surprise.

“Looks like a dangerous one,” Serachi lifts his knife and points it in my direction.

“How do you know?”

“Just a feeling.” The chef shrugs.

“Don’t worry,” I assure him, even though I don’t think Serachi loses sleep over me. “I don’t plan on seeing him again.”

A
listair

I have to see her again.

It is a fact. A certainty. A simple decision that I plan on seeing through no matter what.

I wipe the smile from my face as I stalk the streets of Belize City a few hours later. Night has descended on the plains in the distance. Vehicles zoom by, carrying passengers eager to head home after a long day of work.

One by one, street lamps blink on, illuminating dark-skinned youths in ragged jeans slung low on brown hips. Girls in long white uniforms or in undershirts and jersey shorts roam the sidewalks with hair organized in thick braids.

The houses are colorful and bear zinc fences to chain link fences. No two structures are alike. Belizeans seem to thrive in their diversity. It is a culture that extends beyond their houses and businesses. It seeps through to the friendships that are forged here.

Dark-skinned teenagers with flaring noses and deep curves stroll beside friends with creamy, fair skin and long manes. White, black, and red skin tones merge together so that no person can trace their lineage back to one sole ethnicity.

The vibrancy of Belize is intoxicating. The pace is inevitably slower than other cities I’ve visited, such as Milan, Paris, even New York. Yet it holds a magic that no other country has been able to capture.

I walk around the block as I do at every place that I stay, studying the city, the movements of the atmosphere, and the shadows in the corners. An assassin can use these things as weapons or as covers when the need arises.

It has been a while since I’ve followed these procedures but the instructions are ingrained in me. The first part of any successful mission is good planning. Though none can account for unexpected eventualities, it is best to never enter a city blindly. Not if you want to survive.

I check my watch and zip my jacket to my neck. It is almost time for my appointment with Tatum. I suppose this is enough scouting for now.

I haven’t seen or heard any whispers of a new mercenary in town. The thugs on the block all work for bigger bosses. I have gleaned no information, nor did I expect to. The news I seek won’t be found in the common riff-raff.

Turning on my heels, I return to my car and hop in. The SUV rumbles to life as soon as I turn the key. I pull on the clutch and charge out of the city.

I’ve been to Belize a handful of times. It was one of the first Caribbean territories to host the Caribbean Assassins. Unlike most of her sister territories that are surrounded by water, Belize is situated on the mainland.

The Caribbean Assassins build their fortresses on mountainous terrain, often etching staircases into the mountains, camouflaged by forests. I’ve been to the Belizean fort each time I’ve visited the country so the dark roads I travel are familiar.

It takes an hour and a half to move from Belize City to San Ignacio, a small village in Cayo. The roads are smooth and the highways curve around the mountainsides as if Mother Nature constructed the paths.

Much of Belize’s forestry is untouched. Tatum and his ancestors had a decent amount of plots to choose from when building the Belizean headquarters. They chose a large swath of land in the back roads of San Ignacio.

A few minutes later, I see a shadow of a jaguar in the night. It is the sign of the Belizean Assassins. The closer I draw to the shadows, the more I recognize the landmarks. A fort rises, tall and mighty in the distance.

The road becomes more treacherous, but I am not approached. Tatum knows I am here. The Assassins of the Caribbean have upgraded their security measures as well as their weapons over the years.

Decades of successful missions have filled the coffers of the Brotherhood who then reinvest in state-of-the-art technology, computers, and security cameras.

A lot has changed since the
Firenzes
, the sworn enemies of the original
Demartian
assassins, sent their warriors to steal maps of the New World in the sixteenth century. And yet, nothing of value has wavered. The principles of the Brotherhood stand.

Order. Honor. Fulfilling the mission.

Death and escape are the only options when cornered. Some of the Caribbean Assassins still enter hostile situations with
nightlock
poison locked in their teeth cavities. It is a way of life, as much as it is a calling.

I park the car and walk the rest of the way. The doors carved into the mountainside open on their own. I am out of breath as I trod unto the rough, cavern floor.

Bright lanterns held in iron clasps are strapped to the smooth walls. Firelight flickers against stone.

The fort is a testament to rugged elegance. The place is spotless and bears several artifacts that are priceless. The Brotherhood is deeply religious though the religions vary amongst the territories.

I hear the clack of booted heels against the tiles and bow low.

“Rise, Alistair.”

I do so and am encapsulated by two brown and brawny arms. The leather of Tatum’s tunic smells of alcohol. I hope I haven’t interrupted his evening meal.

“It is good to see you, boy.” Tatum slaps my back three times.

“It is good to see you.”

“Come,” he leads me down a hallway littered with guards dressed in the traditional robes of the Caribbean Assassins.

“I see some new faces,” I comment as we stroll.

“Yes, I’ve gotten some transfers from Kingston, Jamaica.” In a softer voice, he admits. “I feel they’ve cast off their runts to be trained on my dime.”

Tatum laughs.

I chuckle along, though I wouldn’t doubt his claims. Tatum’s Assassins are known for their prowess in battle, their intelligence, their wit in the heat of a mission, and their strength.

Tatum leads me into a richly decorated room with plush Persian carpets and ornately welded lanterns.

“Have a seat.” Tatum indicates the floor.

He lowers himself with not a hint of strain on his face. Despite his advanced age, Tatum’s muscles are defined and his eyes sharp. It is no wonder. Assassins train all year round. It is the only way to survive in the life that we have chosen.

Tatum’s voice is raspy. “What have you come to discuss?”

A kettle is produced and he pours me a cup of tea. I accept it.

“Shadow.”

The tea pot rattles in his hands. Tatum places it on the table between us.

“I have heard whispers but thought it was only idle talk.”

“It is true. Damien confirmed it this morning.”

Tatum strokes his neatly trimmed beard.

“This Shadow, he came from nowhere and yet in his short tenure has struck fear in the hearts of many. I fear he will not stop until he has you.”

“I have no clue how I have offended him. Perhaps I could make amends if I could.”

“That is not the point anymore.” Tatum’s brown eyes lock on mine. “You must now concern yourself with beating him when he finds you.”

I dip my head in respect of his opinion. “You do not think I should run?”

“Death is a consequence of our choices. It is better to do so with honor than as a coward.”

“I shall do as you say.”

“It won’t be easy.” Tatum stares me down.

I think of the stories of Shadow’s exploits. His murders are done with passion and skill gleaned only from training with the best assassins in the Brotherhood.

“How do you suggest I beat him?”

“You train,” –Tatum sips his tea and swallows– “you train or you die.”