8
1054 Words
His shrug is the picture of nonchalance. “A little,” he says. “Used to date a French girl.”
Sure you did. I narrow my eyes. His cool smile grows suspiciously wider. Suddenly, I feel like we’re in the middle of a film noir standoff, two spies on opposite sides of a bridge waiting to see who’ll draw their gun first.
“See you at eight, Angel.” Ryan kisses me on the cheek, slaps me on the ass, and saunters off, whistling, toward the pool.
I watch him go, convinced I’ve made a miscalculation.
I’m dealing with something far more dangerous than a wolf.
Back in my room, I unlock the safe and remove the burner phone I bought at the airport. I dial a number I know by heart. There’s a distant hiss, then a click as the line is answered.
“Reynard,” says a cultured British voice.
“It’s Dragonfly,” I say, relieved. Reynard always answers the line, he’s as reliable as Big Ben, but there are so few reliable things in this world, I still can’t take him for granted.
“My darling!” he says, pleased. “Have you completed your article already?”
“I need to check a source.”
A short pause follows. “I see. One moment.” Fingers tap a keyboard thousands of miles away. “Proceed.”
“Ryan McLean. Unsure if it’s M-C or M-A-C. Male, thirty-four, American, from Perry, Georgia. Served in the Marines. Unsure of the service dates. Blond hair, blue eyes, approximately six foot two, two hundred twenty pounds. Multiple tattoos. Perfect teeth.”
More typing. I know it won’t be long, but I’m impatient anyway, tapping my foot on the plush carpet as I wait.
Finally, a low chuckle comes through the phone. “Oh my. That’s quite a smile. I’ve seen sharks less deadly. Careful, my darling, this one’s got a serious bite.”
“Tell me.”
“Ryan Tiberius McLean—”
“Tiberius?” I’m incredulous. “He was named after a Roman emperor? Who does that to their child?”
“May I continue, or would you like to amuse yourself by repeating everything I say and asking rhetorical questions?”
I smile but don’t laugh. Under no circumstances does one laugh at Reynard. “My apologies. Please continue.”
“As I was saying. Ryan Tiberius McLean, born August tenth, nineteen eighty-three, to Betty Anne Rasmussen, a homemaker, and Thomas Robert McLean, a peach farmer.” Reynard’s pause drips with condescension. “Humble beginnings, indeed.”
I don’t point out that my father was a farmer too. Avocadoes. To this day, I still can’t bear to look at them. They’ll forever be paired in my memory with gunfire, bodies, and blood.
“August tenth,” I muse. “So he’s a Leo. That fits.”
Reynard sighs. I can almost hear the eye roll. “My darling. Astrology isn’t an actual science.”
“I know, but there could be something to it. If you met him, you’d agree he’s very lionlike.”
Though Reynard doesn’t reply, I know exactly what he’s doing at this moment. He’s shaking his head in silent disappointment. I miss him with a sudden, violent ache.
He’s the closest thing to family I’ve got.
Reynard continues, sounding bored. “Two older siblings, Missy and Cleo—you’re right, these names are dreadful—graduated Perry High School top of his class, football scholarship to Georgia State…” Reynard pauses. “Both parents killed in a drive-by shooting on a vacation to Los Angeles to celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary.”
The breath leaves my chest in an audible rush. The room starts to spin. The words get stuck in my head, replaying over and over until I want to press my hands over my ears and scream.
Parents killed. Shooting. Parents killed. Shooting. Killed.
Killed.
Killed.
I sit heavily on the edge of the bed and swallow back the hot, acid sting of bile.
If Reynard guesses the effect those words have had on me, he doesn’t mention it. He continues in the same monotone as before.
“Graduated Georgia State and entered the United States Marines. Seems your Mr. McLean excelled there. Commendations galore, rose rapidly through the ranks, selected for Special Ops, etcetera, etcetera… Oh, this is interesting. Areas of specialty include reconnaissance, close-quarter battle tactics, and edged weapons.”
“He’s a knife-fighting expert,” I say dully. “Why does God hate me, Reynard?”
“Again with the rhetorical questions. I wasn’t quite finished, my darling.”
I groan. “Don’t tell me there’s more.”
“You’ll love this. After aging out of Special Ops and leaving the corps, he was recruited to a private security firm—”
“Security firm?” My eyes bulge in horror.
“Wait for it…where he provides armed security services for high-profile clients, federal and local governments, law enforcement and intelligence agencies, and multinational corporations. Looks like he’s primarily doing extractions now. Retrieving the Russian oligarch’s kidnapped daughter from the clutches of the Serbian Mafia, that kind of thing.”
My silence must last a long time, because Reynard eventually asks, “Are you still there?”
“He’s a merc,” I say, miserable with disbelief. “Of all the men in all the world who could’ve been staying in that room, he’s a mercenary. A knife-wielding, kidnapped-daughter-extracting, goddamn mercenary.”
“Yes,” Reynard drawls, amused. “He certainly is. Am I to take it your article won’t be completed by deadline? That could be problematic, my darling.”
I grit my teeth and straighten my spine. “I’ve never missed a deadline yet, have I?”
“That’s my girl,” says Reynard, his voice a purr. “See you on the other side.”
As always, he hangs up with that cryptic goodbye.
I say aloud to the empty room, “Well, it could be worse. At least it’s not raining. The climb up to Khalid’s balcony would be really treacherous in the rain.”
From somewhere off in the distant mountains comes a low roll of thunder. I flop onto my back on the bed and close my eyes.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
- Writer
