Table Of Contentfor Brent
Text copyright © 2009 by Kate Mathis
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31855, Tucson, Arizona 85751-1855 U.S.A.
CHAPTER 1
Melanie Ward was running on pure fear as she raced down the marble
corridor. In 30 minutes the sleeping pill would wear off and he’d come hunting
for her. There would be no hesitation or remorse in his dark, cold eyes. He’d
give the nod, and one of his thugs would cut her life short. But … there was no
turning back.
Melanie stopped at the door that, according to blueprints, was his office. She
took in a deep breath, looked in either direction and, with a sweaty palm, twisted
the gold handle.
Moonlight streaked through two slits in the heavy drapes, throwing her just
enough light to navigate around the ornate furniture to an imposing desk that
presided over the room. Melanie lowered herself into the leather wingback chair
and pulled the chain of the small desktop lamp. Without a sound, she felt behind
the drawers for false backs, hidden compartments or locks that would reveal the
cache. Tracing her frozen fingertips along the underside of the pencil drawer
Melanie gasped and sprang out of her seat. Sending the chair skidding across the
tile and crashing loudly into the credenza. Her heart leapt with the thunderous
noise and she dropped cowardly to the floor, waiting for the outcome of her
recklessness.
After a handful of seconds with no sign of Malik’s brutes, her confidence
resurged. Melanie examined the hidden lock she had found and rummaged
through the obvious places searching for the key. Without success, Melanie
contemplated where an arrogant, self-absorbed primate like Malik would hide
the key. She checked her watch not having the luxury of time, hastily she began
righting the damage she had caused on the credenza. A thick gold frame that had
been knocked over, a photo of a young Malik with a woman caught her eye.
They were both smiling, he at the camera and she at him. The woman was pretty,
with flowing dark hair and features like Malik. As Melanie righted the frame,
something shifted inside.
Broken glass, she thought, giving it a stern shake to dislodge the fragments.
Instead of glass, a small gold key dropped to the Italian tile floor, bouncing
and clanking to its final destination, an inch from Melanie’s left foot. Using one
hand to steady the other, Melanie slid the tiny key into the lock and the latch
released with a soft pop. Among the guns and stacks of cash was the thin folder
she was looking for. She delicately laid out its contents on the desk and
photographed it all, page by page. A continuous prayer of thanks looped in her
mind as she meticulously replaced all as it had been and tucked the camera into
her waistband.
Taking a deep breath, Melanie poked her head into the hallway - empty.
Filling her lungs beyond capacity and with her stomach in knots, she prowled
through the corridor and back to the parlor where she’d left a drugged Malik. His
face was buried in an overstuffed pillow on his spacious red couch. The fire,
though less intense than it had been, was still blazing, sending the beads of sweat
that had collected on her brow rolling down her face. She wiped her temples and
dumped the remainder of Malik’s Cabernet Sauvignon into a nearby potted palm.
Taking her seat next to him, Melanie smoothed her hair back, steadied her
trembling hands and prepared to deceive. Never having been a skillful liar, she
now felt the pressure to perform.
“Hey, wake up.” Melanie lightly shook his shoulder.
His eyes fluttered as he struggled to gain consciousness, licking his lips and
clearing his throat.
“I fell asleep?” he asked, wrestling with the pillow to sit up.
“Yeah, while I was talking to you,” she said, her voice ringing with
impatience.
She’d been out with Malik every Friday and Saturday night for three weeks
and, fortunately, tonight she was going to break up with him. It had been
increasingly difficult to avoid his advances, and although his kisses were
surprisingly pleasant she was not eager to go further.
This was her longest relationship since high school and Melanie was nervous,
unsure of how to end things without offending him or raising suspicions.
“I should take you home,” Malik said, obviously still groggy.
In the car, Melanie tried to recall how Hollywood handled break-ups. She was
drawing a blank, distracted by the Beach Boys CD. All she could think of was
“Ah, ba ba ba ba Barbara Ann.”
Malik’s black Mercedes rolled to a stop outside her building. With the camera
pressing into her hip, Melanie began to speak, her voice cracking and tripping
over a list of incoherent words. It was Malik who finally stopped her in mid-
incomplete-sentence.
“You know, baby, you’re too much work and you don’t give Malik the love he
needs,” he said, his piercing dark eyes devoid of emotion.
Her momentary speechlessness gave way to an absurd pang of rejection and,
finally, the joy of relief as she realized she was off the hook. He was breaking up
with her. Melanie almost laughed.
“I’m sorry, baby, but this was our last night together,” Malik leaned across her
chest, his spicy aftershave searing the inside of her nose.
Preparing for a last kiss she closed her eyes and paused, suspended for a
moment … until a gust of chilly wind swept in from her opened car door. Malik
wasn’t pursuing a farewell kiss, he was kicking her out. Embarrassed, Melanie
stumbled out onto the broken curb and stared dumbfounded as his cackle drilled
into her ears, sending prickles down her spine.
“All you American women hate rejection,” he said, leaning over the passenger
seat to get a good look at her.
“Whatever,” Melanie spat back, slamming the door.
He sped down the narrow residential street, his laugh still ringing in her ears.
Heated and offended, she stomped to the top of her stairway and sat, pulling
her jacket tight around her trembling body as a cold wind whipped through the
stairwell. Her assignment for the United States Government was over,
successfully completed, the spy camera tucked safely away. Freezing, Melanie
ducked into her apartment as a group of giggling girls spilled into the hallway.
Filling the tub with the hottest water possible, she twisted her long auburn hair
into a messy heap and rubber banded it in place.
Her nerves were raw and her mind raced as she lowered her 5’6” frame into
the steaming water.
In May she’d graduate with honors. She worked hard and was proud of her
scholastic accomplishments, but tonight she proved that she was capable of more
than just good grades. A senior at San Diego State, Melanie had earned and
maintained a full academic scholarship. But classes were over for the semester.
Her three roommates had left for winter break. For weeks she’d wanted to share
her experiences and gossip about Malik, but the Covert Defense Division – the
CDD – had prohibited her from divulging any information, so Melanie had
censored every dialogue. The stress of such a huge secret had weighed heavily.
She was relieved there would be no more lies.
The next morning, her daily six-mile run followed the well-pressed path that
weaved deep inside the 1,200 acres that made up Balboa Park. She pushed
herself harder than normal, her lungs stinging and her nose pink from the brisk
morning air. The familiar path was lined with evergreens, but today Melanie’s
mind was on the destination, not the journey. She’d cut five minutes off her best
time and her legs burned from the extra strain as she reached the 200-foot
California Tower of the Museum of Man.
Sitting on a bench, a man buried his nose in the daily paper and waited.
Melanie couldn’t believe it had been just five weeks since he’d appeared at her
library study cubicle, back when her life was as predictable as this trail - every
curve known, every tree familiar and safe. Her well-planned steps had been
charted out well past graduation.
“Melanie Ward, I’m Agent Gary Collins with the CDD,” he said quietly,
flashing his badge. “I was hoping to speak with you for a few minutes.”
The minutes turned into an hour as Agent Collins explained his situation. A
man who had approached Melanie on Friday night at the local hot spot, the
Jungle Jim, was Malik Razul, the suspected leader of an information theft ring.
The CDD had been unable to penetrate his tight inner circle but now they hoped
Melanie would gain access to his home office. Female agents had attempted to
lure Razul, none had succeeded and it was time for a new tactic. Melanie.
“He’s not a nice man and if you’re caught … well, he has people for that. But
we have people, too and we’ll keep you safe.” Agent Collins had promised.
Collins awakened her sense of adventure and there was no masking the thrill.
She felt alive and passing on the opportunity was not an option.
“I have confidence in you, Ms. Ward,” Agent Collins said, his expression taut
and stern.
The following Friday night, Melanie changed her outfit three times and only
nibbled at the sandwich she’d made for dinner. The poorly ventilated nightclub
was packed, as usual. Lights from the dance floor illuminated the cigarette
smoke that permeated the air. Melanie sat on her usual stool at their usual table.
“This is my last year of college and I am going to meet someone tonight,” she
told her best friend and roommate, Carla Wagner.
Scanning the faces she recognized from school, Melanie kept an eye out for
Malik Razul.
“It’s about time. You’re missing out on the college experience by studying so
much,” Carla said, her Southern accent almost undetectable.
For a year, Melanie and her friends upheld their weekly ritual of gathering at
the Jungle Jim. Only a mile from campus, it was a popular school hangout, and
although the name denoted a sense of the tropics, there were neither plants nor
animals to be found. There was, however, a large dance floor, a loud DJ, pool
tables and, of course, alcohol.
“What about him?”
Melanie’s gaze followed Carla’s discreetly pointed finger toward Danny Ashe.
There was no need to look. She already knew his face, his eyes, his smile. He
had been in at least one of her classes every semester since freshman year, but
she had long ago given up hope that there could be anything between them.
Danny was a jock, on the university’s rugby team, popular and handsome, and
Melanie was an academic. She wore little makeup, kept her hair imprisoned in a
tight ponytail and wore a uniform of jeans, freebie Tshirts and tennis shoes.
Hardly the type of woman Danny Ashe dated. But her crush lingered.
“Yeah, he’s cute, but he’s got a girlfriend.”
Melanie took one last, long glance at him as he ran his fingers through his
blond hair. Perpetually bruised and broken from his battles on the rugby field,
tonight he sported a fresh black eye. Her gaze shifted momentarily to Carolyn,
Danny’s girlfriend, who laughed with her friends and pointed at people who
were not as popular or beautiful as they were.
You wouldn’t have fit in with them anyway, Melanie told herself with a heavy
sigh.
At a nearby table, her other roommates, Jenny and Trish, shamelessly flirted
with two boys who were relishing the attention. Melanie watched as Jenny lit up
a cigarette and Trish leaned forward, pulling down the waistband of her skirt.
She’d recently added a butterfly tattoo to the small of her back, its bright blue
wings stretching out several inches. Trish was 5’10” without her stiletto heels
and was as beautiful as any cover model. At the start of the semester she’d dyed
her hair a brilliant red and cropped it military style. She was playful and carefree
and it seemed to Melanie that, whatever the circumstance, Trish always got her
way. The flashing strobe from the dance floor reflected off Trish’s short haircut,
deepening the color to a rich violet.
Jenny, though not as skilled as Trish in the art of the come-on, kept up with
Trish, boy for boy. She was the classic girl next door, baiting the male species
with her bouncy golden hair, which she forever tossed back and forth, her large
baby blues giving the false impression of innocence. A long cigarette had
become her signature over the past few months as she tried to lose the extra 15
pounds she’d put on since her high school cheerleading days.
“Hello again, foxy lady.”
Completely absorbed in the activities of her friends, Melanie hadn’t noticed
Malik standing beside her.
He had a strong Middle-Eastern accent with eyes that looked right through
her. He wore shiny shirts with wide collars, unbuttoned down to an
uncomfortable level. Melanie had dated sporadically, mostly study dates, but her
usual type was of the geek variety. Her friends were surprised when she agreed
to go out with Malik and, because of his gruff behavior, confused that she kept
dating him. Here was a man who regularly struck the “gotcha” pose, interrupted
any conversation and honked from the car instead of ringing the bell. But to
Melanie’s surprise, Malik was funny and at least polite, if not gentlemanly when
they were alone. Guarded about his life, Malik pressed for each of their dates to
end back at her apartment. Finally, after three weeks of charm and diligence,
Malik invited her to his house, where he cooked her dinner and she slipped him
the sleeping pill the CDD had provided. That evening had been the most intense
of her life and she loved every scary, sweaty second of it.
“How did it go?” Agent Gary Collins asked, not looking up from the paper as
she sat down next to him and tied her shoe.
“Task completed,” she muttered, masking her delight.
From the pocket of her red hoodie Melanie took out a small brown bag that
held the tiny camera and an energy bar. She ate the bar and left the crumpled bag
on the bench between them.
CHAPTER 2
The window from the second story room gave a perfect line of sight. It was
spring and the sleepy town in the Italian Alps was about to awaken. This was
only the second time his target had been a woman. He took one last look at her
photo – an elegant blonde with bright blue eyes and red lips – before stashing it
inside his large backpack along with the rest of his gear. The hotel room had
been wiped clean of fingerprints and any other signs of his existence.
He waited patiently, keeping vigil through the night and watching for her to
emerge, ready to fire the fatal shot.
Every task, even murder, became routine if done often enough, and eight years
was a long time. He no longer felt the fear or the horror of his work, no longer
cared who or why a hit had been hired. Payment – it was all about the payment.
His blood was icy and his heartbeat slow and steady as the woman, in a sable
coat, appeared in his scope. Her scarlet lips were now a pale pink but the blue
eyes were unmistakable. The barrel of his gun rested on the wooden flower box
as his gloved finger caressed the trigger.
An uncharacteristic uncertainty flashed through his mind as he gently
squeezed. The victim dropped heavily to her knees, dead before her head
cracked on the wet cobblestone street. Blood sprayed the vibrant flowers outside
the chic inn and ran down the street like water. Her small entourage screamed in
unison and crowded around the collapsed, lifeless body.
Indifferently, he collected his few possessions and walked past the fallen
target, noticing her eyes, still open, staring up at him accusingly.
Quickly, he left the scene, ignoring his reflection in the blood-spattered
window. Three blocks later he ducked into a dusty tavern as police cars and an
ambulance screeched through the quaint streets. The weapon, tucked into his
backpack, leaned against the sturdy wooden chair as he ordered breakfast.
A stout blonde woman, sitting alone, flashed him a yellow smile.
