Young Love Murder (25 page)

He grins at me mischievously. “What? I can’t come see my little sister?” The smile means trouble, usually directed at me and usually involving brotherly torture.

“Of course you can, but you don’t usually sneak up on me while I’m making the kill.”

“Annie, aren’t you forgetting something?” His pointed look doesn’t clue me in.

“What are you talking about?” I ask in frustration, racking my brain for what that
something
could be. 

“Oh, let me see. What’s in two days?” He raises one eyebrow at me and I get the familiar urge to yank on it. One of these days, I’m going to wax them off.

“Monday?” 

He shakes his head, as if disappointed, and sighs dramatically. “Annabelle, Annabelle. Two days from now is March 10
^th
.
Your birthday
,” He emphasizes his words as if speaking to a child. “We always spend our birthdays together.”

That’s right, I’m about to turn eighteen. What Jackson said is true. We do always spend our birthdays together. It’s one of the rare times that we do normal-people stuff, things real families do. “I totally forgot.”

We enter my hotel room and he pulls me in for a hug. “I know. You’ve had a hard time the past four months, but now I’m here to take you to Paris in time to celebrate.”

I pull back. “Why Paris?”

He has an impassive look on his face as he says, “Simon has received information.”

“What kind of information?” I step away from him and place my hands on my hips, knowing that something’s up.  

He gets cold look in his eyes from whatever he’s thinking.
Huh, he’s wearing gray contacts.
“All sorts of wonderful information,” he says sarcastically. “Sit down. It’ll take a while to get through the list.”

Sitting down in a chair nearby, I look at him expectantly. “Well?”

He also sits down, leaning back in a slouched position. “Well, let’s see. Where should I start first? How about Brazil?”

“What about Brazil?” I ask warily. 

“Simon has received reports on your assassination methods in each of your past six assignments, not including the current one.”

“And?” I ask, already knowing what he’s about to say. 

He shrugs his shoulders. “Fine, here’s what Simon heard. In Brazil you pushed the target out the glass window of a VIP booth at a soccer game.”

“Check,” I say while making a ‘checking off’ gesture with a finger in the air. This list is going to be long if Simon’s computer geek gathered the info. The dude is nothing if not efficient.

He narrows his eyes at me, but continues, “In China, you . . . nunchakued to death the target.” 

“Check two,” I say, adding another check mark to my invisible list. “I also threw some throwing stars at his jugular first.”

I think he’s trying not to laugh, but I can’t be sure. “In Mexico, you took a wooden baseball bat to the target’s head.”

“Check three.” Another check marked on the hit list. “And I’d like to add that his head was rather large. It reminded me of a piñata.”

He chuckles before clearing his throat, putting his serious Jackson face back on. “My personal favorite, you used a machete to make the kill in South Africa.”

“Check four,” I say, then grumble, “I would not recommend that one, bro. Messy as hell, I hate when the blood splatters on me.”

He grimaces and continues, “I’m surprised you didn’t car bomb the former IRA member when you were in Ireland. What’s up with shooting them in front of witnesses? And Simon heard that you stole a bottle of whiskey from the bartender.”
Wow, what a thorough report,
I think sarcastically.

“A car bombing crossed my mind, but I was in a bad mood that day. By the way, check. And that damn whiskey gave me a nasty hangover the next day.”

He gives me a ‘whatever’ look. “Moving on, in India, you dressed up as an extra and sent a poisonous snake into the dressing room of that Bollywood actor.”

“Dirty rapist,” I mumble under my breath. “And lastly, check six. That took some delicate planning and the snake was a bitch to catch afterwards.” I still feel guilty about giving up the chase and shooting it.

He shakes his head. “Oh no, after tonight, I’m adding another check mark to the fuck-up list. A garrote, Annabelle? You know it takes forever to strangle someone to death.”

“They say you should try everything at least once,” I remind him sarcastically.

He looks amused by my annoyance. “And who, exactly, are
‘they’
?”
I make an exasperated noise. “Uh, you know . . . ‘they’, people, everyone.” Pointing towards the hotel room’s windows, I add, “Out there.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” In a superior tone, he says, “I don’t really think that there’s a general opinion that every method of assassination should be tried at least once. Simon taught us well, Annie. You need to stick to the basics. Gun, poison, bomb.”

I lean forward excitedly and point at him in triumph. “Ha! You forgot knife! It looks like someone needs to re-read his assassin manual.”

He looks as though he’s about to finally lose his patience. “There’s no such thing as an assassin manual, drunktard. Why don’t we finish this conversation when you’ve sobered up?”

“Maybe I don’t plan on sobering up.”

And, yep, he loses his cool. Standing up, he practically growls, “And what’s up with that? You never drank to this extent before. How many of the last seven jobs have you been drunk for?”

I look up at the ceiling. “If I had to estimate, I’d say somewhere between one and seven of them.”

“So it’s all of them, then? Are you still having that hard of a time getting over him?”

I shoot my brother a dirty look and say through clenched teeth, “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Well that’s too bad, because he’s the other reason I’m here.”

“What do you mean?” Not sure that I’ll like what I’m about to hear, as my heart begins to race.

“He’s become a problem.”

“He’s my problem, not yours.” I don’t like Jackson even mentioning the word ‘problem’ in the same sentence that’s referring to Gabriel.

“Simon doesn’t think so.” Dammit! I definitely don’t want Simon thinking along those lines.

“What does Simon think?”

“He thinks your ‘experience’ with Gabriel is affecting your work. He thinks that you’ve become reckless on your assignments because you’re heartbroken.” Jackson gives me a pitying look that makes me want to poke him in his fake gray eyes.

“I am heartbroken,” I whisper and my eyes well up with tears. Squeezing them shut, a few slip out to roll down my cheeks. I am never drinking again. It turns me into a big damn crybaby. 

When I open my eyes, Jackson has a sad expression on his face. “You were going to quit for him, weren’t you?”

I nod my head and then shake it. “It doesn’t matter. We weren’t meant to be anyways.”

“Either way, Simon’s asked me to accompany you on your jobs for a while. Just to make sure you’re alright and keep you from continuing on the path you’re on.”

This annoys me, I’m not a child. At least in two days, I’ll no longer be a legal minor. “I don’t need a babysitter, Jackson. Nor do I need you tagging along to evaluate my work.”

He ignores me, saying, “There’s another thing that Simon mentioned.”

“Please, do tell,” I say in a hostile tone.

“It seems that someone has been trying to find you,” he explains cautiously. 

“Simon told me that Gabriel never told the police I was the one who killed his father,” I respond, alarmed.

“He still hasn’t,” Jackson reassures me. “The police still believe you’re a possible kidnap or murder victim. Or a runaway before you’d even moved to Miami, given the lack of records for an Anna Walker.”

“What’s Simon worried about then?” For whatever reason, Gabriel is keeping his mouth shut. I miss his mouth. I miss him. My eyes begin to fill again in self-pity and I blink rapidly before Jackson notices.

Jackson nods. “Simon received a call from Marie Perrot.” He clears his throat and blushes. Really, Jackson just needs to get over it. So Marie had one of her former employees teach Jackson about sex a little more thoroughly than I was taught. Big deal, the virginal blush is years too late. Avoiding eye contact, he continues, “Anyways, Marie told Simon that a young man by the name of Gabriel Sanchez, along with a private investigator by the name of Steven Russo, showed up at her home in Paris. The two went around the city, going to all known Madams and former Madams, asking if they knew a girl by the name of Anna Walker, showing a sketch of you.”

I tense up at this revelation. “Gabriel’s looking for information on me in Paris?”

“Yes. I guess he left school early for spring break.”

“And we’re going to Paris tomorrow?” I try to hide my excitement, but obviously fail, by the expression on Jackson’s face.

He gives me a suspicious look. “Why do you seem happy about this information?”

“I’m not,” I squeak out. 

He still looks suspicious, but slowly says, “Anyways, Simon’s asked us to go to Paris and meet with Marie. Also, we need to find out any information we can on Gabriel’s intentions. Why he’s looking for you.”

Aw hell, it’s useless. I give up and stop trying to hold back my grin. “Okay.”

“Annie,” he says sternly. “Simon’s instructions are that we’re not to make contact with Gabriel or the private investigator without receiving permission from him first.”

Squirming in my seat from excitement, I agree, “Okay.”

“
Annabelle
,” Jackson says in a warning voice. 

“Jesus Christ! Quit acting like you’re my father.” Rolling my eyes, I pretend that he’s the one being unreasonable. 

“No, I’m not your father. Our father died for the very same reason you’ve been acting so recklessly, for love.”

I scowl at him. “That’s heartless, Jackson. Our father died trying to save our
mother
because he loved her.”

He looks at me gravely, leaning forward to rest his arms on the chair he’d vacated. “That’s right, but we’re the only family each other have left. I don’t want to lose you too.”

Getting up and going over to him, I give him a hug. “Don’t worry, Jackson, you won’t. I’m the best assassin in the world. No one is going to be able to hurt me.”

He smiles reluctantly, returning the hug. “Second best, you mean.”

Chapter 19

Annabelle

Paris, France - March 10
^th
 

Waiting for us at the garish front desk of our infinity-star hotel in Paris is a package from Simon. The man always seems to be one step ahead of us. Jackson’s French is flawless as he thanks the concierge. Our father spoke French almost exclusively with Jackson up until the time he died. To speak as well as the natives, I have to actually make an effort. 

We own a flat in Paris, but whenever we’re concerned about the possibility of being compromised, we stay at hotels instead. It’s more anonymous and allows us to scope out our private home before settling in for any length of time. Within the next day or so, we’ll park ourselves outside of our Paris flat to see if it’s being watched. It’s always a joy to stakeout your own home. I doubt Gabriel or his private detective have found out its location. In each country that we own property, we have a different alias that we list them under. Not that we get to enjoy our own vehicles and residences very often.