The Eagle Read online

  The fighter veers and changes direction causing my stomach to flip again. The amazing savory crepes trying to come back up make me think of Lorenzo, of what he said tonight.

  Avionic controls flicker with activity in front of me. I focus on them, trying to clear my mind. Although I've never flown a plane, I was taught to in flight simulators, so if it was necessary, I could get by.

  That was one of my goals after graduation--to get behind the controls of a real plane. Although this isn't exactly how I pictured it--in a fighter jet being raced toward Paris and my mother's assassin.

  I can see stars through the canopy as well as the other fighter just off the starboard wing. I close my eyes and try to rest, but I can't.

  Instead, I visualize my mission. How each disguise will work. Step by step how I will track the assassin.

  And, of course, exactly how I plan to kill him.

  MISSION:DAY FIVE

  We land at a French air base less than ten miles from Paris, get out of the plane quickly, and are rushed by the pilots into a locker room.

  "You survived," the hotshot Cobra says to me.

  "No thanks to you. Somehow I don't think all those turn and burns were necessary. Were you trying to make me sick?"

  "Yes, ma'am," he says in an adorable southern accent, making it hard to be mad at him. He reaches for my front zipper. "Don't forget to leave my flight suit."

  I back up. "Um, I can't take it off right now."

  "Why not?"

  "Because the dress I was wearing when I arrived wouldn't exactly fit under it."

  He cocks his head and smirks. "Are you tellin' me that you're nekked under there?"

  "Almost," I reply.

  "Well, hell, darling. I hate to tell you this, but that there suit is the property of the United States government. I can't allow you to leave here with it."

  "Fine," I reply, stripping out of it, and now wearing nothing but my strapless bra and black lace thong.

  "It's like I'm livin' a fantasy."

  Ari walks by. "What the heck?"

  "The pilot needs his flight suit back. Said I couldn't leave. And we need to leave now. I'll find clothes later."

  Ari rushes off and comes back with a towel, wrapping it around me.

  "You're being weird."

  "I don't need to see my sister like that," he says, rushing me out to our car.

  "Thanks for the ride, guys," I say, waving goodbye with my evening bag.

  "The backpack you requested is supposed to be waiting in the car," Ari says as we get in.

  "And hopefully some weapons," I add.

  Thankfully, we have both in the car, and the backpack is set up exactly the way I asked. I quickly throw on my first outfit, which is a goth/biker chick look, and apply makeup while Ari drives.

  GPS says we will arrive at the location where the hit is supposed to take place in twenty minutes--putting us there in just under four hours.

  Once I am dressed and made up, I go through the other items in the car.

  "What all did they give us?" Ari asks.

  "There's a backpack for you with a change of clothes and an iPad. Two handguns--Glock for you. Sig Sauer for me. Keys to a motorbike that's parked just around corner from the hit location. A remote controlled, palm-sized drone for additional surveillance. Button-shaped pins that allow Terrance to see and hear us. And earpieces so we can hear him."

  "How do you feel about that?" Ari asks.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Do you think having Terrance in our ear will be a help or a hindrance?"

  "I think talking into our cuff will look pretty suspicious to an assassin."

  "We can't risk spooking him."

  I can't help but laugh.

  "What's so funny?"

  "You said we can't spook him. That's funny since we are spooks."

  "I don't get it."

  "Haven't you ever heard a spy called a spook?"

  "Uh, no. Why are they called that?"

  "Because they are supposed to be invisible. Like a ghost. Get it?"

  "Spooks, huh?" he says, nodding his head, like he finally gets it.

  "Whatever. Anyway, that's why having Terrance in our ear will be invaluable. He can hack into traffic cameras to keep an eye on the assassin, making us virtually undetectable." I hand him a small, clear earpiece. "Here, put this in and let's make sure it all works."

  "I'm more concerned about my gun working," he says. "How does it look?"

  "Freshly cleaned and oiled. Extra clips."

  While Ari continues to race toward our destination, I get the button positioned properly on each of us, put my earpiece in, and make contact with Terrance.

  "Can you hear us, T?" I ask.

  "Do I have a code name now, Spy Girl?"

  I laugh. "Apparently. I take it you can hear us. Are you getting visuals, as well?"

  "Yes, we're up and running. Are you going to make it in time?"

  "We are," Ari replies, glancing at the clock, gripping the wheel, and pressing down a little harder on the gas pedal. Then he goes, "Spy Girl?"

  Terrance laughs in our ears.

  We arrive at the given address and discover it's the location of a coffee shop. Ari drives past it and parks as I take in the neighborhood. It's morning in France, but most people are already at work, and traffic is minimal.

  "What's the plan?" Ari asks. "Should we go inside or sit on the patio?"

  "He shot the President with a sniper rifle. I feel like one of us should be on higher ground."

  "Should we send up the drone for that?"

  "Maybe. I just wish we knew how he was going to kill his target."

  "What would you do?" he asks, which helps me visualize the process.

  "It would depend what I was told about the target. For example, if the target goes to the coffee shop every day and sits inside to read the morning paper, I could poison the coffee, shoot the target with a poison dart, follow him into the bathroom and drown him, or just slit his throat. But any of those ways would mean he would die while I was there, and I wouldn't want that. Since the place isn't crowded, I'd want it to look like a heart attack or that the target had fallen asleep. It would take a waiter a bit to realize it, and I'd have already paid for my coffee and walked out the door. I could even walk by the target on my way out, bump into him, and administer a slow poison into his arm. I'd be gone before he died, and no one would be the wiser. What would you do, Ari?"

  "I guess I missed class the day we had assassin training. I'd put on a mask, walk in, shoot him in the head, and walk out."

  "No messing around with you. You're all force and no subtlety." I give him a smile. "I will say though, you've been doing a fine job of playing my brother."

  "What's with the look?" he asks, eyeing my first disguise. "You certainly don't look like Huntley."

  "That's the point." I put my chin down and speak to the button. "The drone is in my palm. She's all yours now, Terrance." There's no reply, but the little drone starts with a small buzzing sound then lifts off into the sky. "Why don't you take up a position at the bus stop, Ari. Maybe buy a paper and sit on the bench. I'll position the motorbike just down the street." I check my watch. "We have two minutes. Let's split up."

  Ari buys a newspaper and takes his position on the bench. I'm on the motorbike, having just come around the corner, when I hear him shouting.

  "Oh my God! The target is Clarice Vallenta. I repeat...the target is Clarice!"

  "We have to stop it," I yell back. "Go!"

  The sound of a gun's retort cracks through the air, and I watch as Clarice goes down in the middle of the street.

  "Help her and try to search her house for clues, Ari. I'll go after the assassin."

  Ari drops his newspaper and rushes into the street. Clarice has been mortally wounded and is quickly bleeding out.

  "Your sister was killed because of her plan for Montrovia. Don't let them get away with killing you, too. What do you know?"

  "Money," Clarice whisp
ers. "Ophelia money."

  He knows police procedure says he shouldn't move her, but he does anyway, pulling her out of the street and into the doorway she came out of.

  Ari knows Clarice is dying, but he takes his jacket off and holds it against the wounds on her chest, trying to stop the bleeding. There's nothing he can do. He's studied what happens when you get shot in the chest. From front to back, the bullet obliterates all the tissue near it. Even if the heart weren't struck directly, it would have ruptured, leading to catastrophic hemorrhaging. In military school, he watched videos of men dying in battle and although tragic, it's honorable. This is not an honorable death.

  He cradles her head in his lap. "It will be okay," he lies, as her reflexive breathing efforts continue. She's not only bleeding from her wounds but also from her nose and mouth. She coughs, gurgles, and tries to get oxygen from her pierced lungs.

  Her breathing slows, and her eyes become fixed upon him as her fight is over.

  He checks her pulse, confirms her death, and closes her eyes. Then he slides gloves over his hands and does a quick search of her house, looking for any possible clues.

  "Watch for the police," Ari says out loud, knowing Terrance can hear him. "And tell me if you see anything I miss."

  In the first bedroom, which he assumes is Clarice's based on the pink and purple paisley wallpaper, lace bedspread, and hippie looking clothing tossed about, he finds a notebook with a ribbon tied around it full of clippings. He doesn't have time to go through it, just stuffs it in his backpack. He finds a laptop on the desk, turns it on, inserts a flash drive, and copies its contents, hoping any monetary transactions would be in its files. Could her sister have been paid to take over Montrovia? Had someone already given her payment for the Strait and wants it back?

  He leaves Clarice's room and searches the kitchen, finding a stack of cash in the freezer and taking it. Maybe this is the money she was referring to. They can trace the cash and have it analyzed for fingerprints. Finding nothing else of interest, he moves to the living room. The model of the envisioned Montrovia is not there, just a photo of Clarice and Ophelia, the two girls arm in arm.

  He goes across the hall and finds a closed door. Cautiously opening it, he discovers Ophelia's room.

  It is the complete opposite of her sister's.

  Pale grey walls, pristine white bedding. Everything neat and orderly.

  There are a few photos of her and Viktor together. Viktor has money, he thinks.

  He checks his watch. He's been searching the house for two minutes. Although he managed to get Clarice out of the street quickly, someone will have called the police.

  He needs to call them too.

  He takes out his phone, makes a frantic call, and knows he doesn't have much time left.

  He wonders why Black X didn't have them continue their mission. Why didn't they investigate Ophelia and Clarice? Was there more to it? Did they believe killing Lorenzo was simply fueled by her hatred for her father? That's it, her father, his death started it all. Who killed him and why? Or did they believe it stopped with her? Is Lorenzo still in danger? If there is a bigger plot, he most definitely could be.

  He looks under the bed, under the mattress, and through the organized bookshelves. No books on money, mostly French history, poetry, and art. Notably not a single book about anything Montrovian.

  The sounds of sirens are getting closer. He checks the bookcase and the desk for hidden panels, and then moves to the closet. It is almost completely bare, not even a stray hanger. All that is there is a shoebox sitting on a shelf. He flips the lid, hoping to find something, but instead he finds it empty.

  Which is odd. Why would it be here?

  Afraid it could be important, he shoves it in his backpack, then returns to the computer and pulls out the flash drive.

  He runs back to the entry where Clarice's body still lies--blood pooling under her. He digs in her jacket for her phone, finding it and scrolling through the recent call list.

  "Are you getting all this?" he asks Terrance, holding the phone up so the camera can record this for later.

  Then he sees that she has messages from her boyfriend, urging her to see him. Sixteen of them actually, since the death of her sister.

  "Bring the phone with you," Terrance instructs. "The police are close."

  Ari rushes out of the home, noting the siren does sound much closer. He quickly throws his backpack in the car and then rushes back to the dead body.

  "You can't be calm when the police arrive," Terrance yells in his ear, but he knows this and is already mentally working himself up.

  When the police arrive, they are greeted with the sorrowful scene of a handsome man cradling a beautiful girl's lifeless body, smoothing her hair, and telling her repeatedly that help is coming and to just hang on.

  The man is obviously in shock.

  And the girl is quite dead.

  They question the man, and upon discovering that the woman is former royalty and a friend of his, they take down Ari Von Allister's passport number, pat him on the back in condolence, drive him to a hotel, and request he stay in town overnight.

  I see the muzzle flash from the corner of my eye and quickly determine which building it came from--four stories over a restaurant.

  But if the assassin is as good as they say, I know he will simply walk out the front door. The restaurant will remember a business man with a briefcase who had brunch, tipped well, but spent a few moments longer than he should have in the public loo, probably indigestion from his busy life. Or he could have been carrying a shopping bag, pretending to be a tourist. He'd have a map and a guidebook of walking tours through Paris. He'd tell the story of how he got off the trail and stumbled upon the quaint restaurant, which is clearly a hidden gem.

  In a perfect operation, I would send Ari to the back, just as a precaution, but I'm on my own now. Therefore, I'll have to go with my gut.

  I'm going through the motions of putting my helmet on and sliding my leg around the motorbike when I spot him.

  Businessman, shiny briefcase a bit larger than normal--possibly a sniper's case. The man stops and looks down the street. Seeing Ari pull a bleeding Clarice out of the street doesn't give him pause.

  And I know for sure I have my man. Anyone else would be startled by the scene. He's not, because it's exactly what he expected to see.

  I look downward as I start the bike, knowing the noise will cause the assassin to glance in my direction. Once it's running, I pull my phone out, pretending to call someone, as the assassin stops a taxi and gets in.

  I recite the license plate for Terrance, in case my looking down caused him to miss it.

  Then I take off in the opposite direction of the taxi. It's important the assassin doesn't think he's being followed.

  "Don't you lose that cab, Terrance," I say.

  "Don't worry. I've got it."

  Above the cab is the surveillance drone, one that probably has the Von Allister stamp on it. The drone is virtually soundless, and if the assassin did happen to look up, he'd think it was a bird. It was smart we sent the drone up earlier.

  "Turn left now," Terrance says. "You'll be on the street parallel to the taxi. It looks like he's headed for the train station." He gives me further directions then I park the bike and go into the station.

  "Where is he?" I ask.

  "I can't take the drone inside, so we're having to rely on the station's security cameras. Give us a minute."

  "We don't have a minute," I say as I purchase a ticket then move to the center of the station where I spot the assassin among a group of people staring up at the arrival boards.

  "I've got him," I say softly. "I'm going silent."

  The assassin, along with others who are all carrying suitcases, make their way to the airport express train.

  Following an assassin by myself is going to be tricky, even with a backpack full of disguises.

  Right now, I'm goth girl--tatted sleeves that are really just flesh-colored hos
iery with tattoos printed on them, but which look like the real thing. I have numerous fake piercings. My contact-lens-green eyes are heavily made up, but the eyeliner and heavy shadow is a sticker, expertly placed but easily removed. I choose the seat directly across from the assassin and slip my tongue out, revealing a fake piercing that is painfully clamped into place.

  My gesture has the desired effect. The assassin gives me a smirk.

  Truth, the assassin is quite handsome. Dark hair, stubble on his cheeks, and the kind of olive skin that both tans beautifully and makes it difficult to determine his ethnicity, but his eyes are dark and calculating in a way that defies the easy-going smirk.

  Although his face is far different than I remember--most likely the work of a skilled plastic surgeon--his eyes are the same, even though he's attempting to hide them behind glasses with a heavy frame.

  I could take him out right now. All I'd have to do is slip my hand inside the backpack and pull out the gun.

  Bang.

  My retribution would be complete.

  But it wouldn't be very satisfying.

  And I wouldn't properly complete my mission. I need to get him somewhere alone so that I can interrogate him before I kill him.

  I take earbuds out of my backpack and put them in, cuing up a playlist of death metal and playing it so loudly I'm sure that he can hear it. I'm also worried my ears may start bleeding.

  When he looks out the window, I bend down to retie my combat boot and stick a teeny piece of film onto his briefcase. Most assassins would ditch the gun right away. The fact that he didn't either shows stupidity or extreme confidence, and I'm betting it's the latter. On the other hand, it could just be a prop.

  As we come to a stop at the airport, he picks up his briefcase and stands. I blow him a kiss then grab my backpack off the floor and depart, as well. While he heads toward ticketing, I follow the route that employees of the airport take.

  "I put a tracker on his bag," I say to Terrance. "Figure out where he's going. I need to change." I step into a restroom, go into a stall, and strip off the leather jacket, hanging it and the backpack on the hook.

  I change into a microfiber business suit, pull off the eye makeup stickers, and quickly twist my hair into a severe bun. Then I stuff what's left in the backpack into a French designer tote, minus the gun and the disguise--dropping them into a trash receptacle on the way out. When I emerge from the restroom, I look completely different.