Chapter 5
Raine
Iglance at my watch. Smyth should have been here ten minutes ago, but he’s late. Again.
Typical Agency tech-head, brilliant with servers and cracking codes and hacking into the most secure networks in the world, but useless with clocks.
He hasn’t been on time once this past year.
Not that I have much leverage; I can’t exactly report his tardiness to anyone.
The Agency would crucify us if they knew we were meeting to discuss the one topic I’ve been banned from digging into—my mother’s unsolved murder.
I guess I can analyze this painting for a few minutes longer.
But, damn, pretending to give a shit about fine art is a fine art itself. It’s a lot of head tilting and squinting, paired with small, micromovements, and an occasional “oh.” Apparently, if you sit and stare at a painting or sculpture long enough, you’re supposed to feel something.
At least, that’s what my mom used to tell me.
She’d bring me to art galleries and museums and wax lyrical about how art has soul, speaks its own language, has life, tells a story, blah blah blah.
I wish I’d listened more. Took more notice of the way her eyes sparkled when she described the difference between realism, abstract, and classical.
At such a young age, all I used to feel was bored.
Now? I’d give anything to hear her voice once more.
I glance at the man standing next to me and wonder what he’s thinking about. His arms are crossed, deep in thought, examining the painting on display in front of us. There’s nothing extraordinary about him.
A sharp pang crunches in my chest as I realize I’m envious of how ordinary he is.
He probably lives carefree; the biggest decision he has to make is where to send his bratty kids to school, or what color he should paint his stupid picket fence.
He moves through this fucked-up world totally oblivious to the danger simmering beneath the surface.
Blissfully unaware of the monsters who lurk around him.
Me, being one of them.
He has no idea the woman who stands beside him in this unassuming Boston art gallery is a seasoned assassin, contracted for life to the Agency; a top-secret organization that straddles the line between good and evil, run by the powerful elite.
I mimic him and cross my arms, continuing to stare at the artwork, dead-eyed.
A small price card on the bottom left corner snags my attention.
Fifty thousand dollars for this? A painting that looks like a smear of color?
That’s financial assault. Turning away from what I have bestowed as “Rainbow Puke” (an amazing name for an artwork if you ask me), I take a seat on one of the viewing benches in the middle of the large room.
It’s been a whole day since the briefing with Agent O, and my head is still spinning from the mission and my new work colleague.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of Soren about a hundred times.
It’s a mixed bag of thoughts. I’m angered at his arrogance and how easily he called the shots with O.
I’m offended at his instant dislike for me, and lastly (and perhaps the most disturbing of all), I’m ashamed at how attracted I am to him.
Sighing, I toss my black hair over my shoulder and zone in on the sound of sneakers squeaking towards me. A perk of being an assassin is having the ability to pick up on the little things, like a shift in atmosphere or an invisible ripple that heightens any one of the five senses.
Spidey senses, if you will.
Immediately, I know the footsteps belong to Smyth.
I’m betting they’re New Balance, Smyth’s favorite sneaker of choice.
‘Dad shoes’ the kids of today refer to them as.
Smyth slides onto the backless bench beside me.
I drop my eyes to his shoes and smile softly when I spot the New Balance sneakers. Haven’t lost my touch.
“Hey,” Smyth’s husky voice greets me. “Sorry I’m late.”
To any outsider, we’re two art enthusiasts, contemplating the deep emotional void of Rainbow Puke.
“What do you see when you look at this?” I purposely keep my tone flat, embodying the act, just in case.
Smyth takes a second, giving me a quizzical glance, before he shrugs at the artwork in front of us. “Like a kid went wild with finger paints?” His voice tilts upward at the end, like he’s questioning his answer.
“Damn it.” I frown. “Who typed a question mark on the teleprompter?”
Smyth laughs, relaxing a little. “Wait, I know this one.”
I raise my eyebrows, awaiting his answer.
“Anchorman.”
I smile, impressed he got it. “You’re getting good.”
Quoting movie lines is my quirk. My memory is ridiculous, jammed with one-liners. It’s my fun little party trick. I can also stick my entire fist in my mouth, but that’s not as mentally stimulating as reciting the lines from my favorite films.
“I enjoyed it. It’s probably one of your best recommendations so far.”
“Well, don’t ruin it by watching Anchorman 2,” I say, running my hands over my jeans. “Not nearly as good as the original.”
“Are they ever?”
“There are exceptions.”
Actually, there are many exceptions. Scream 2 (controversial, I know), The Godfather Part II, Aliens, The Dark Knight … But I’m not here to debate which sequels are better than the original. I’m an assassin, not a goddamn movie critic.
“Did you find anything new?” I ask, changing the subject.
He shifts in his seat and takes a beat; he’s nervous about answering me.
Smyth’s not wired for fieldwork. Typically, he’s safe and sound, tucked away behind computer screens most of the time, rarely ever out in the big bad world.
He’s a codebreaker; not a spy or an assassin. So, naturally, he sucks at lying.
“Your mom’s file remains classified.”
“That’s not news, Smyth.”
“I know,” he replies, eyes apprehensive. “But when I did gain access to one of her files, it set off an internal alarm.”
My jaw clenches. Fucking cyber nerds.
“Forensics were on me instantly, questioning me about why I was attempting to look at a classified file related to a dead operative.”
I flinch at his description of my mother.
“Sorry.” Smyth squints. “Poor choice of words.”
I gesture for him to continue.
“Anything related to your mom is tripped with alarms. Which means it’s either still an active mission or they don’t want anyone knowing what happened. I’d say whatever assignment she was on is what got her killed.”
“Obviously.”
“In saying that, though, there was something …” he says, hesitant.
“What?”
“Before the screen froze and melted down, I was able to see a few lines of a file.”
My heart starts pounding. Please be something of use. Please.
“There was a reference to another person. Someone she was involved with in some capacity.”
My stomach knots. It would be unlike my mom to work closely with someone … Unless she was grooming them to become a source or an asset.
“Did you get a name?”
“The name’s redacted completely.”
“And you think this person is connected to her murder?”
“I can’t say for sure. But if I’m a betting man? I’d say it’s likely.” Smyth pauses, takes a breath. “She was one of the best, Raine. She’s the stuff of legends from what I’ve learned about her. And from what I know about the Agency? They’ve been known to kill assets when it serves them.”
My throat tightens as I’m transported back to the worst day of my life.
I was fourteen when I found her sprawled on the floor of our apartment, lifeless. One shot to her head, execution style. From day one, the Agency was cagey about it. They fed me bullshit about it being a past enemy. “Likely a revenge hit,” they told me.
For years, I believed that horseshit.
Until I became an assassin myself. Indoctrinated into the Agency, trained to kill and set free to do my worst. Experience taught me that Mom must have known her killer. She was too good. Too careful. She wouldn’t let anyone through the door unless she trusted them.
And she sure as hell wouldn’t let someone shoot her in the head.
Which means one thing. She knew—and trusted—her killer.
And I’m convinced the Agency knows too. They’ve always known. Hell, I think they could be responsible for her death which is a real mindfuck. But it makes sense to keep the truth from me. It keeps me tethered to them, and more importantly, keeps me obedient.
“I’m sorry I don’t have more to tell you.”
I nod once.
“Maybe go through your mom’s things again?” Smyth asks. “There could be something you missed in her old files, letters …”
It’s insulting that Smyth thinks I haven’t gone over all that I can.
But what he doesn’t know is that the Agency cleared out our apartment before I could save anything.
They seized everything in the name of the investigation.
Papers, files, laptops, phones. Eventually, I was given a shoebox with a couple of old photos in it.
The only other part of her I have left is a diamond snowflake necklace she gifted me on my thirteenth birthday.
I absentmindedly touch it between my fingers.
It’s the last present I ever received. Proof I once had someone who loved me. A snowflake no bigger than my pinky nail, each branch tipped with a pinprick diamond. Mom told me no two snowflakes are the same, just like we are.
Or were.
I hate to talk about her in past tense.
“Smyth?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something else? Unrelated?”
“Of course.”
“What do you know about a current operative, codenamed Bodysnatcher?”
Smyth’s brow furrows. “Ex-black ops guy?”
“Yep,” I reply, leaning back on my hands. “Know anything about him?”
“Not a lot to be honest. Pretty sure he was discharged for war crimes. Why?”
“No reason.”
Smyth’s eyes round in alarm. “Are you on an assignment? With him?”
I avoid looking at Smyth, because like Tony Montana once said, “The eyes, chico. They never lie,” and Smyth knows damn well I can’t answer that.
“Jesus.” Smyth runs a hand through his short, sandy-brown hair. “Be on guard, Raine. He was part of a terror squad, and I’m pretty sure he’s the reason they’re dead. He goes rogue from what I’ve heard.”
Great. An insane ex-black ops, war-crime dabbling, anti-hero. Can this week get any worse?
“I should go,” Smyth says as he stands, brushing his palms down his jeans. “You’ve got my burner if you need me.”
I nod, keeping my eyes on Rainbow Puke.
Smyth hesitates and lingers for a few seconds. “Or if y-you want to grab a drink or something?”
By society’s standards, Smyth is handsome.
Quarterback type of guy. The kind of man you could bring home to your parents.
If I had them. But he’s not my type. Missing a few key characteristics such as tattoos and the skill to flay a person alive.
But instead of shooting Smyth’s request down in flames, I give him a small, noncommittal, close-lipped smile. “Maybe.”
It might be a bitch move, leading him on like this, but I need him to continue to help me. I don’t have any other way into the Agency’s encrypted network without him. This might make me a user. But I make no apologies.
Smyth nods once awkwardly in farewell before slipping into the small gallery crowd and disappearing.
I continue to stare at the overpriced blend of swirly colors.
It really does look like puke. The canvas is splattered with color, but that’s about as deep as it goes.
Nothing about it is meaningful. It’s almost hollow.
Rainbow Puke is a mess pretending to be something beautiful.
I can’t help but think the artist who created this must have been in pain.
I recognize it, you know. Pain, I mean. Pain recognizes pain.
It stays. Lingers like bad perfume. Sometimes I wonder if I’m even capable of feeling anything else.
Or have I carved myself into a shape so twisted that it only knows the ache?
It’s a lonely thing, to be made of shadows and to measure your life in how many you’ve taken.
I know what Rainbow Puke reminds me of now.
Me.
No wonder I fucking hate it.