Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) (11 page)

Aisha was late.

0112 hours and Vanessa stood shivering at the edge of a glistening pool of light cast by a streetlamp on the corner where they had agreed to meet. Her aviator-style jacket, although fleece-lined, was no match for the wind chill, and her leather pants and red stiletto boots were definitely wrong for Paris in February. She tugged her red patterned wool scarf tighter around her neck.

The Sorbonne was only a few streets away; this was an area frequented by students. But in the twenty minutes she’d been waiting, she’d seen only four people on foot, two on bicycles, and three vehicles.

She felt pinpricks of moisture on her face, the rain starting up again.

Perfect.

Vanessa’s glowing watch face showed 0119. She caught a new sound—the rev of a scooter—and then she saw the white Peugeot approaching the intersection; dark hair streamed out from underneath the driver’s helmet.

Come on,
Vanessa thought. Even in Europe people drive cars, not scooters, at night in the rain.

Aisha pulled up to the curb. “You don’t look happy,” she said, pointing to a spare helmet strapped on the scooter.

“I’m not. You’re late and I’m freezing. Who are we looking for?”

“She goes by Tanya. Hop on. I’ll fill you in when we get there.”

—

THEY DIDN’T FIND
Tanya at the first stop, an after-hours club located in a narrow alley and marked by an exterior blue-neon display—martini glass with a cigar balanced on its rim and a plume of rising smoke—and the faint but deep bass vibration carried on the night air. The crowd was in its twenties and rowdy, and the overwhelming need to socialize, drink, dance, and live in the moment with friends won out over curfews.

Life in a war zone, the chance to defy death
—Vanessa empathized.

“A lot of the girls here come from eastern Europe,” Aisha had explained as they exited the club past a long queue waiting to get inside. “One of the dancers is lovers with a Ukrainian girl, Tanya, whose brother drove for the thieves who supplied Schoeman with junk rads.” She even gave Vanessa a half-nod as she climbed the few concrete steps to the alley. “Nice work putting him away, by the way.”

The rain had eased off and the cold air felt good to Vanessa after the heat of the club. She was almost getting used to riding on the back of the scooter.
Almost.

About ten minutes later Aisha braked near a bike rack. Vanessa climbed off feeling damp through her clothes to her skin. She tugged her leather pants into a more comfortable position while Aisha secured the scooter with a lock.

Vanessa watched while Aisha shook her long curls loose from the helmet, reached into the V-neckline of her jacket to adjust her cleavage, and finally smoothed the leather of her cliff-heeled boots that stopped just above her knees; she definitely looked hot.

Already moving, Aisha said, “Not far to the next club.”

Vanessa caught up, jamming her hands deep into the pockets of her leather jacket. “If Tanya’s your asset—”

“The brother was my asset.” Aisha kept her eyes straight ahead. “He’s dead. The family lived close to Chernobyl. He died a few years ago, but his sister and her lover still party with those guys who sell spare nuke parts. Good enough for you?”

“It’ll do for now,” Vanessa said.
Yeah, it’s going to be a long night—no problem as long as there is a payoff coming before the end.

She braced against the wind, grateful when Aisha turned sharply to follow another back alley Vanessa would have missed.

The only sign Vanessa could see identifying the second club was the Greek zeta spray-painted on the wall of an old warehouse. But the insistent call of the deep, throbbing bass overlaid by a sinuous Arabic melody was a giveaway.

She followed Aisha down narrow basement steps to find a long passage obstructed by a line of twentysomething clubbers—from the look and sound of them, a mix of French, German, English, and a fair number who looked Middle Eastern. Their mood felt boisterous and defiant—terrorists weren’t going to frighten them or control their choices.

Aisha didn’t slow. Vanessa had to admit grudging admiration for the way she wove with seeming ease among the excited, intoxicated men and women. Repeating
“Désolée”
and
“Ana asfa.”

Like Vanessa, she carried herself with athletic confidence, but she had some mix of privilege and street toughness that seemed to make her untouchable.

Vanessa barely caught up with her at the inner entrance, where Aisha joked familiarly in Arabic with a huge man, his dark skin made darker with copious henna tats—the club bouncer whose bulk seemed to be made up of equal parts fat and muscle.

Aisha gestured back to Vanessa, and the laughing bouncer opened
the gate to let them pass—but not before offering Vanessa an exaggerated leer and a wink.

Inside, amid the crush of sweat-slick dancers, Aisha headed for one of several circular bars. Vanessa stepped up next to her, ordering club soda to Aisha’s “usual.” She was beginning to overheat and she shrugged out of the aviator jacket, glad she’d chosen a sleeveless silk shirt.

Aisha turned to take in the club floor, giving Vanessa the chance to observe her—rainbow lights catching the sheen of her flawless skin, illuminating her beauty, and the sense that she was haunted by things she’d seen . . . or done.

After a moment, Aisha turned back to the bar to pick up her shot glass. She downed the shot and leaned in so Vanessa inhaled the strong scent of licorice alcohol. “I told the bouncer you have a thing for dark, mysterious Arabic men.”

Vanessa raised one eyebrow and returned Aisha’s stare.
Where the hell did that come from?
She took a drink of soda, just now realizing how thirsty she was.
“And what about you?” Vanessa countered. “How do you like your men?”

Aisha’s dark eyes narrowed. “I like a man who understands my world, who speaks my language, who gets where I live.”

“Thats a lot to ask.”

Aisha’s mouth curled into a private smile. “Maybe not . . .”

Is she talking about Khoury?
Vanessa shook off the thought and shifted impatiently. “Where’s your friend?”

Aisha held up one hand. “Be right back.” She wove her way past the bar to a stage set up for the DJ, who was spinning a house mix—he or she, Vanessa couldn’t tell which, was pretty and skinny, with a brilliant smile and ultra-short, glittered dark hair. And the mixes were good—deep and sexy and pulsating.

Along the edge of the stage, Aisha stepped into a narrow passage that was just visible from where Vanessa stood. She felt the instinct to
follow but made herself stay put. Aisha had stopped to speak with a short, wiry man who wore a black sleeveless T-shirt; his choice of wardrobe showed off vibrantly colored body art.

He turned and disappeared, and Aisha walked back toward the bar. “Okay,” she said. “Now we wait.”

“For?” Vanessa took a deep breath, attempting to keep calm. She really hated that she wasn’t the one in control.

Instead of answering, Aisha grabbed Vanessa’s wrist, pointing to a small scar. “Where’d you get that?”

“Jumping out of a tree when I was nine.”

“And that one?” Aisha let her finger slide over the faintly pink and mottled mark on Vanessa’s biceps—where she’d been grazed by the Chechen’s bullet.

Vanessa forced herself not to squirm at the touch—she barely even acknowledged the scar, almost never touched it herself. She leaned away casually to lead into her lie. “I did some brush-up training this fall—jumped out of a plane and landed in the wrong bush.”

Enough focus on herself—Vanessa pointed to the scar she’d noticed earlier that evening at the base of Aisha’s neck. “What about that?”

“Probably when I was about nine, too. Shrapnel from a bombing on my street in Lebanon.”

Vanessa took that in; she’d asked around about Aisha and she knew enough about the factions and fighting in Lebanon to take a pretty clear guess what Aisha’s childhood had been like. A nightmare. She ran a finger around the rim of her glass. “You win.”

“No, not really.” Aisha tipped back her head to drain her shot. “You and me, we win, but we don’t win.”

“That sounds grim,” Vanessa tried to joke. “I hope you’re not one for gambling.”

“Only with life and death,” Aisha said, holding Vanessa’s gaze before she looked away again.

The music melded into a new song, and behind her, Vanessa felt the bartender in motion. She turned in time to admire his skill as he filled three small glasses with a liquid that was both milky and blue.

Vanessa made a face, glad she wasn’t drinking.

Aisha handed a large bill to the bartender. She slid one glass to Vanessa and raised the second before setting it down again without drinking.

Vanessa assumed the third glass was for the missing Tanya.

One long song later, Tanya finally appeared. She was thin, small-boned, and she wore a skimpy lingerie top that showed off her striking tattoo: A taloned bird of prey gripping a skull in its beak flew across her left shoulder.

Vanessa quickly studied Tanya’s face: eyes wide open, pupils dilated, makeup smudged over wan skin. High on something, she guessed.

Aisha greeted Tanya with a kiss-kiss, and then she introduced Vanessa as
“Chloe, mon amour.”

Mon amour?
Vanessa quickly donned the role of girlfriend as Tanya kissed her cheeks.

“À l’amour!”
Aisha raised her glass, toasting Vanessa.

“À l’amour!”
Tanya took the stool between the women and she grabbed her shot with shaking hands—but to her credit, she waited until Vanessa reluctantly picked up the third shot.

Ignoring Aisha, Vanessa smiled at Tanya. Fine, she could play Aisha’s lover, especially if it would get the intel they needed. And then she drank, sputtering as the sharp, cloying liquid stung her throat.
Bourbon was no problem, but this stuff
—her whole body seemed to go a little numb.

Aisha waved for another round and the bartender set them up with three more of the same. Tanya reached for the drink with trembling hands, gulping it back. Vanessa ignored hers. Aisha drank her second glass more slowly. Then she surprised Vanessa; she reached across
Tanya to gently touch Vanessa’s cheek where the tiny cuts were still visible. Her eyes flashed, and her mouth quivered as she spoke—“Chloe got hurt yesterday. She was in the courtyard when the bomb went off. She could have been killed. I might have lost the love of my life forever.”

Tanya’s deep, dark eyes filled with tears. She broke into speech—a Slavic language, probably Ukrainian—and from her gestures and tone she was very sad for Vanessa’s troubles.

Aisha caught the bartender’s eye and signaled for another round. She pushed the unclaimed glass toward Vanessa, nodding.
“Bois!”

You’re kidding me—you’re working.
Vanessa shook her head. But Tanya was staring at her, a tear rolling down one cheek. Vanessa drank, but she managed to spit almost all of it back into the glass before she pushed it away. She knew her stealth move hadn’t fooled Aisha.

When the new round arrived, Aisha put a drink into Tanya’s hand and raised her own glass—but both women again waited for Vanessa to join in on a toast.

When Vanessa raised her glass, Aisha said,
“Tchin!”

Tanya grinned suddenly, calling out,
“Za vas!”

“Santé!”
Vanessa added. She kicked back her drink in time with the others.

As the milky blue liquid hit her throat, the burn spread and she almost coughed it up. Instead, she went into a new sputtering fit. Tanya laughed tearily, and Aisha mugged, letting Vanessa play the clown. And Vanessa was feeling the effects of the drink; it appeared to be a lethal mix.

Aisha focused in on Tanya, talking to her, laughing, joking, and as minutes passed Tanya relaxed visibly from the alcohol and the attention.

Aisha leaned over to whisper something in Tanya’s ear.

Instantly, Tanya stiffened, visibly spooked.

Aisha put another drink gently between her long, childlike fingers. She gestured to Vanessa to share another toast, but Vanessa covered the empty glass with her hand.

Aisha put her arm around Tanya’s shoulders and started talking in French. Vanessa, slightly light-headed, heard most of what Aisha was sharing with the other woman.

She spoke in singsong—about growing up in a war zone, about the hardships for family and friends, watching them die around you, how hard it was to see a brother or sister get sick, how the poisons took Tanya’s brother so slowly . . .

“I know what you’ve lived through,” Aisha said, holding Tanya’s hand. “You know I’ve lived with war and evil my whole life.”

And Vanessa sensed the authenticity of Aisha’s monologue, even as it was framed to manipulate Tanya into giving them good information.

And through it all, Tanya nodded and weaved on the bar stool and came to the brink of tears repeatedly.

Aisha reached the end of her sharing. It was time for Tanya to deliver.

But the woman shook her head, her eyes filled with sorrow, her voice breaking.
“Non, non. Désolée, non.”
She slipped off the bar stool and stood evenly, apparently steadied by the alcohol. She apologized again, hugging both women before she disappeared into the crowd.