Night Fury: First Act Page 3

  I cut him off by snapping, “I get the point. Thank you.” I work at the pins attaching my habit, removing them one-by-one. When my hair is free, I ask, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Marco. Codename: Flamethrower. Been here a year.”

  My lip quirks up. “Flamethrower?”

  Clark rests his hands on my shoulders, leans down to my ear and says an amused, “’Cause he can burn through any firewall put to him.” He sighs dreamily. “He’s amazing.”

  Great. My old crush has a bromance on an asshole.

  Marco searches my pink-cheeked face before smirking, knowing he’s shown me up.

  “Wonderful. Look forward to working with you,” I blatantly lie.

  Chapter Five

  My afternoon consists of preparing myself for tonight. I expected to be working closely with my old friend Clark, but instead, I’m put in a mildly uncomfortable situation when I’m paired with Marco to take me through who tonight’s target is.

  Frankie and Clark make their way over to the furthest whiteboard, where Clark begins chatting away furiously. Frankie nods her head as he speaks, and I know they’re discussing upcoming contracts.

  Feeling a little awkward, I wrap my arms around myself and wait for Marco to instruct me.

  He watches me.

  I watch him right back, my gaze unwavering.

  He grins.

  I do not.

  He jerks his chin to the second office chair by his desk. “Yo, sit your ass down.”

  This pisses me off. “You could ask nicely, you know.”

  His grin turns into a smirk. I’m coming to learn is his trademark, and I can’t help but notice he is extremely attractive. It also makes me want to show him how well I was trained by gifting him a broken arm.

  Marco surprises me when he stands, moves the chair right behind me and waits for me to take a seat.

  I wait a moment...it could be a trick.

  When he makes no move to send me flat on my butt and shows unexpected patience, I sit. He pushes my chair in gently, takes a seat next to me and states, “I can be a gentleman.”

  Shame tightens my chest. It seems I’ve misjudged him.

  His smile dazzles me. “It’s just I choose not to be.”

  Nope, I was right on the money about this cocky bastard.

  I roll my eyes and he chuckles, low and rough. The sound caresses me into awareness that this man is dangerous in more than one way. Voice cracking, I ask, “So, you’re ex-military, right?”

  Clicking away at the keyboard, he jerks his chin and replies, “Yes, ma’am. Army.”

  “How’d you get recruited?”

  He barks out a laugh. “I’ve got no fucking idea. Bob turns up at my house one day dressed as Father Robert, tells me he has something to discuss with me.” He turns to face me and admits with a soft smile, “The man could sell ice to Eskimos. The very next day, I arrived at Mirage. Sorta never left.”

  “I guess I’m wondering how you ended up at this end of the spectrum. You look like you can hold your own; I’m sure you’ve fought before.”

  The statement clearly makes Marco uncomfortable. His body stiffens and his features tighten. “Honey, I’ve seen more than my fair share of carnage. I guess you could say I’m done with it. Call me retired.”

  The way he says this only spurs more questions in my meddlesome mind. I want to ask a thousand intrusive questions, but instead, I ask, “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine last week.”

  My brows rise. “Happy belated birthday.” He looks younger than twenty-nine. I’d say he looks more in his mid-twenties.

  He grunts, and I take it as a ‘thank you’.

  He looks distractedly at the computer screen and mumbles, “Gimme a sec. I just got something to do really quickly, and then we’ll get down to business.”

  “No problem. Take your time.”

  I swing the office chair side-to-side, pretending to be comfortable and at-home in a completely unfamiliar and alien space. That’s supposed to work, isn’t it?

  Fake it till you make it.

  Still sounding distracted, he utters, “So Bob’s your old man? Must be nice for him—you steppin’ into the family business. He has to be proud of you.”

  “He started training me young, and frankly, I’m looking forward to tonight. I’ve been preparing for it a long time.” I bunch my nose. “Bob is the closest thing I have to a father, but I was brought here as an orphan when I was just a few weeks old. He’s cool though. I’ve never felt anything but loved.”

  Marco’s brows pull down in the middle. “Oh, but—”

  With a shake of my head, I cut him off, “I know he’s protective of me.”

  His confused reaction is understandable. Bob is everything to me a father should be. And I love him.

  He shakes his head as if to clear it, brings his palms down on his jean-clad thighs and spouts, “Okay, then. Let’s get to it.”

  He hands me a printed document and I read through it. My stomach dips.

  I try to hide my reaction, but Marco spots it immediately. “You know him?”

  I nod.

  “You ever see him act anything shifty-like?”

  “No. Never,” I whisper. I try really damn hard to see past the printed photo on the document, but I’m stuck staring. Before I can overthink this, Marco pulls my chair around to face his. His expression unsympathetic, he orders, “Turn the page.”

  I’m suddenly anxious. My stomach does somersaults.

  The first page of the document is just a target bio; the second page lists the alleged crimes committed.

  I swallow hard and turn the page.

  The words begin to blur after a minute of reading. My anger pulses through my temples, and I hold the pages so tightly my knuckles turn sheet-white.

  I can’t help myself from asking a stupid question. “This has been confirmed?”

  Without answering, Marco turns to a third page.

  More photographs.

  “Yep,” he counts the photos on the page, “one, two, three, four times over.” I feel his eyes on me. I can’t take my wide eyes off the page. They flicker from photo to photo. Quietly, he asks, “You still feel something for this fucking animal?”

  My voice shakes with anger as I answer, “Not a damn thing.”

  And I mean it.

  Unable to glimpse away from the horrifying photos, I jump when a soft hand rests on my back. Blinking, I look up, flushed and emotional. Sister Arianne stands at my back removing her habit.

  Ari—codename: War Paint—looks over my shoulder to the photos and jeers, “Choquant, no? Who knew? If I could take care of this salaud more than once, I would take pleasure in it,” she sneers and adds, “Putain trou du cul.”

  Silence seems fitting, especially since I don’t know what to say.

  “Tonight, we will make sure he cannot hurt anyone ever again.”

  I remain silent. Ari softly strokes my hair and asks, “Does this not make you happy, cheri? To make the world safer? To protect?”

  My emotions run wild. My anger has always been a problem, and some small part of me prays for a release—an outlet for my fury. Standing quickly, I don’t look at either Marco or Ari. I simply announce, “He’s mine.”

  Neither one answers.

  I look up at Ari and repeat myself, “This fucker is mine.” Without a backwards glance, I make my way up the stairs, out of Mirage and find solace in the one place I can.

  The rest of the afternoon is spent reflecting and praying in my garden. I pray for God to give me the strength to hunt a fucking animal.

  Regardless, hunt, I will.

  Chapter Six

  Name: Marcel Dupont

  Age: 48

  Hair colour: Grey, short cut

  Eye colour: Blue

  Weight: 190 lbs

  Build: Medium

  Height: 5 feet, 9 inches

  Other: Distinct scar on upper lip. Large nose.

  “This will be easier than most. H
e knows us. He trusts us,” Ari whispers. “He will be sorry.”

  She stands in the middle of the ground floor of Mirage wearing black athletic tights and a black tank. Her arms raised, she stands patiently as Clark and Marco work swiftly, strapping her body with everything we need for the night.

  They’re so preoccupied, they don’t notice when I take the printed page of photographs, fold it neatly and place it in my pocket.

  Part of me was worried I’d feel too much. Now that same part of me is worried I’m not feeling enough. My mind is at war with my faith.

  I choose to ignore both. For tonight.

  “Cat?”

  I turn to face Ari; she nods down to her body and when I see it, my heart stutters. “Koneko,” I say in awe.

  My katana is strapped across her torso. The sword is the most beautiful thing I have ever owned.

  Ari winks at me, and the bright light reflecting off her blade causes Koneko to wink at me too.

  I get what she’s trying to do, but I’m not sure I want my favourite weapon tarnished by dirty blood.

  “You okay?” Clark appears in front of me.

  I do my best to sound chipper. “Heck yeah. Tonight is the night.”

  Unconvinced by my bad acting, he leans closer to me and says quietly, “You don’t need to prove anything.”

  My gaze slides back to Ari and I whisper, “Yes. I do.”

  He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to.

  We both know it’s true.

  Chapter Seven

  Final preparations have been made, everyone is in place, and Intel is being steadily streamed through my earpiece.

  We are a go.

  Ari—dressed in her habit—places herself at the front door of the Dupont residence, while I walk around the small property to await my signal in the backyard.

  Marcel will get the surprise of his life tonight. It’s a shame it will be his last.

  Perhaps it’s better this way—starting with a person I know, that is. It can only get easier from here, I’m sure.

  Marcel Dupont.

  Churchgoer. Landscaper. Gardener. Husband. Father.

  Wife beater. Drunk. Paedophile.

  I cannot let him live. I won’t.

  Crackling sounds fill in my ear. Clark all but yells, “Can you hear me? Night Fury? War Paint?”

  I answer in a whisper, “I can hear you—a little quieter, please.”

  Ari responds in my ear, “War Paint here. Are we a go?”

  Marco comes in with, “We have it on good authority Mr Dupont got a little handsy with his wife again last night. She took off right after and took their son with her. It’s just a guess, but I’d say Marcel is having a one-man cocktail party tonight.”

  Ari comes in again. “Fantastique. This will be easier than I first thought. Night Fury, are you in place?”

  An eerie calm settles over me. I breathe deeply and respond, “Yes, I’m ready.”

  “Excellent. My earpiece will be out of service in ten seconds. War Paint out.”

  My heart begins to race. I’m out of contact with Ari. It’s unsettling being on my own.

  Now, I need to wait.

  It’s cold out tonight. A breeze passes over me, causing my body to erupt in goose bumps and my eyes to water from the sharp bite of the chill.

  I have dressed myself in black training tights, a black, long-sleeved tee, fingerless black gloves and black hiking boots. My hair’s tied up in a high ponytail, and I cover the majority of my face with a black cotton mask, which covers my cheeks, nose and mouth.

  Before I have time to second-guess my part in tonight’s job, Marco’s husky voice sounds in my ear. “Time to go, Fury. Get your game on.”

  Although my surroundings aren’t quiet, everything around me is cocooned in a bubble of silence. I take in a deep breath. My mind focuses on nothing but clarity. I smile to myself as I realise something...

  I’m ready. Really ready.

  My hand rests on the handle of the backdoor. I see a light turn on inside from the back window. Although Ari has removed her earpiece, she has left it live to stream through my own. The front door opens, and I hear muffled conversation.

  One, two, three.

  I turn the handle of the backdoor, and much to my satisfaction, it opens. When you live in a small town where everyone knows each other, people don’t care much for locking their doors at night.

  Thankfully.

  The backdoor creaks as I open it, and my heart stutters. Wide-eyed, I open the door the rest of the way using one quick motion. Sweat begins to bead on my forehead, even though warmth is scarce. I force my breathing to remain slow and steady.

  Anything could give my position away.

  I enter the Dupont household quickly and quietly. I find myself in the laundry room, which has a door closing it off from the rest of the house. A few more steps to the door, and I know this one will take me to my target.

  My hand rests on the handle as I press my ear to the cool wood and listen in. The conversation is muffled, but I can still make it out.

  Marcel slurs, “Sister Arianne, this is a surprise. It’s a little late for you to make house calls, isn’t it?”

  Ari forces herself to sound flustered, “I apologize, Marcel. Is Nancy here? I could really use a woman to speak to. I find myself in a difficult situation.”

  I turn the handle and pull the door open a sliver, peering in.

  Ari fans her face, looking clearly distressed. Marcel sways in his spot, and I can smell the alcohol on him from here.

  He is drunk as a skunk.

  Drunk is good.

  Accidents happen when people are drunk.

  Marcel clears his throat. “No, her mom is ill. She’s helping out there for a little while.”

  My lip curls in revulsion.

  Disgusting slob. Filth. You are filth.

  Ari puts a hand to her cheek. “Oh, my, the poor dear. I understand. I wish she had told me; I would have asked Father Robert to place her in our prayers.” She smiles up at Marcel. “Never mind. Tell me something, Marcel?”

  The man looks at her expectantly.

  Her eyes become devoid and her face morphs into pure malice. “Do you enjoy beating your wife?”

  In the midst of their silence, I pull the door all the way open and step lightly across the short distance into the living room.

  A shocked Marcel finally sputters, “You are insane.”

  Ari steps forward. “Do you like the way your son cries in agony when you rape him?”

  Marcel’s body stiffens, and he growls, “Get out.”

  Ari smiles cruelly. “No, I don’t think I will.” She reaches up to her right shoulder, gripping the material of her habit. “It’s time you got yours, Marcel Dupont.” Pulling the material free, her habit falls to her feet, revealing the weapons strapped to her body. She smirks into Marcel’s stunned face. “Tonight, you die.”

  Marcel puffs out a humourless laugh. “You have lost your mind, woman.” He points to the front door. “Leave before I call the police and have you charged with attempted assault with a deadly weapon and intent to kill.”

  Ari laughs then. “Oh, you silly man, I am not going to kill you. No. Not me,” she jerks her chin over his shoulder, then leans forward and whispers, “but she will.”

  As soon as Marcel turns to look behind him, he’s greeted with my swift kick to his head. He flies backwards into the dining room table. The corner point catches him in the centre of his back and he cries out.

  Ari whistles to me. I turn in time to catch Koneko mid-air.

  Pulling the outer sheath away from the twenty-four inch curved blade, my breathing falters.

  She truly is a beautiful sword.

  My gaze slips from Koneko to Marcel, who has yet to stand from his fall.

  He looks up at me, fear etched into his features. “I tried to get help.”

  Rage boils low in my gut. My teeth bare and I growl.

  I stride over to him, my katana out by my s
ide. Kneeling by the drunk man, I enquire, “You tried to get help?” He nods. My hand flies out and I slap him across the face roughly. I repeat sternly, “You tried to get help?” He begins to cry, but he nods regardless. The sound of the second slap echoes throughout the room. My palm tingles and itches from the impact. Reaching behind him, I grip his hair tightly and pull it so hard his head snaps back. My voice shaking, I relay the words my father figure has drilled into me: “There is no try. There is only do.”

  I release my grip on his hair and stand, lip curling. “You are disgusting, you filthy pig. You deserve to die.”

  Marcel shakes his head, whimpering and trembling. “No. Please. Don’t.”

  Ari walks up behind me. “You are doing wonderfully, petit fille. Do it. The quicker the kill, the quicker we can leave.”

  I nod soundlessly.

  “Marcel, I think you should pray for forgiveness.” I point to Ari. “Crawl over to Sister Arianne and pray for God to forgive you.” When he makes no move to do so, I add, “Now, you sick fuck.”

  Body quivering, his tear-filled, worried gaze darts from Ari to me, and slowly, he starts to crawl over to her, shaking in terror. He reaches her feet, lowers his head and mumbles his prayer.

  “That’s right.” Ari looks down at him. “You know what you are doing is wrong. Pray for God to forgive you, Marcel. You must beg for his forgiveness; your sins are great.”

  Marcel mumbles louder, his words slurred.

  My feet move of their own accord. I tread lightly, moving to stand directly behind Marcel’s kneeling position.

  Without another thought, I lift my katana and place the tip at the base of his neck.