Authors: Arlene Brathwaite
Ninety percent of the world couldn’t afford to spend one night in the $5,000 a night suites. Nine-point nine percent could, but did so sparingly. Then there was Josephine Delacroix, the point-one percent who was able to refer to one of its suites as home. Josephine had many suites, in many different countries. Owning an estate on thirty-six acres of land with armed guards and a high-tech security system, never appealed to her. To Josephine, estates and mansions were nothing more then clumsy shows of grandeur. In her lifestyle, clumsy meant certain death. No, she never liked the idea of being a sitting duck. Mobility and unpredictability saved her life on many occasions.
She rolled over on her queen-sized bed into the arms of her twenty-eight year old lover/personal bodyguard, Van. He wasn’t Saint, but he was a quick study and obedient.
She slipped from between the silk sheets and headed for the bathroom. She stood in the shower, letting the hot water beat on her bronze-colored skin. Josephine, looked to be no more than thirty-six, thirty-seven. She had her ballerina physique, dieting, and her personal trainer to thank for that. The only asset she attributed to her fifty-five years of age, was her seasoned intuition. It was her seasoned intuition that caused her to put her men on high alert. After Saint contacted her and told her about his situation, she knew, just as he did, that only two people knew where he was. Claude and Petrescu would have to be taken care of.
Through the shower’s opal glass, she watched Van’s blurry, naked body walk toward the shower. Without a word, he got in and stood behind her. He lathered up a sponge and began washing her back. He slowly worked the sponge to the front of her body while he inched up on her from behind.
“I love you,” he whispered in her ear.
Josephine felt his manhood throbbing against the small of her back.
“I love you,” he said over and over, as he lathered her breasts the way Saint used to.
“Get out!” she barked without warning. Van tried nibbling on her ear, but Josephine pulled away from him then turned to face him. Her steel-gray eyes dug into him like claws. Van rinsed off and stormed out. Josephine finished washing up and then returned to the bedroom.
“Get dressed, I’m hungry.”
Van didn’t move from the couch. “Did you hear what I said?”
He didn’t answer. She stepped around the couch and stood in front of him. “What’s your problem?”
He stood up calmly. “You know what my problem is.”
“I’m not going through this with you. Either you get dressed or I’ll find someone to take your place.” Josephine walked off.
Van ran in front of her. “What do I have to do to get him out of your heart and me into it?”
Josephine caressed his cheek and then spoke to him in French.
“Saint is not in my heart, he
is
my heart.” Van pulled his face away from her touch. Josephine grabbed him by the back of the neck. “Remember your place,” she hissed. Her gray eyes seemed to be turning dead black as her grip tightened on the back of his neck. He swallowed his pain and bowed his head.
“Get dressed,” she said walking away from him. “We’re going to Silk’s.”
Silk, the highly renowned restaurant was on the east end of town. There were restaurants that were much closer, but Josephine didn’t want close, she wanted Silk.
Josephine’s three-car convoy arrived. Van watched as a man from the front car and one from the rear car got out and gave the surroundings a quick look over. Both men nodded subtly to let him know the area was clear. Van exited the driver’s side of the middle vehicle, and walked to the back to let Josephine out.
She took his hand and exited the heavily modified S-class sedan. The maitre d’ met them at the entrance with a smile that could block out the sun.
“Good to see you again, Miss Delacroix. We’ve been expecting you.”
Josephine stopped in her tracks and looked at Van.
“I called ahead to make sure we had a table,” he said shrugging his shoulders.
“You idiot. Get me out of here.”
“What?” Van asked, looking alarmed. Josephine spun to rush back to the car. Her quick turn saved her life. Instead of the sniper’s bullet piercing her back and ripping through her heart, it hit her high, dislocating her right shoulder. Van knocked her to the ground while the armed guards exited their cars and drew their guns, searching for a target.
CLACK!
A split second later one of the guard’s head snapped back, spraying blood straight into the air.
CLACK!
Another guard’s head snapped to the left. As the rest of the guards shot in the general direction of the sniper’s gunfire, Van hit the key pad on his key ring, opening the rear door of Josephine’s car. He dragged her unconscious body into it and slammed the door shut behind them. He heard the screeching of tires. Two SUVs careened around the corner, heading for them. Van hopped over the front seats. The sedan roared to life and he peeled off. The gunmen in the SUV’s hung out the windows shooting.
The Brabus 6.1 UTV, or Urban Tactical Vehicle, was a heavily modified S-Class. One car, of many, that Saint had outfitted for Josephine. Van remained cool as he heard the clinking of bullets hitting the car. He knew the UTV was lined with lightweight Kevlar padding. And the windows were shatterproof, blast-proof and could withstand multiple rounds at close range.
Van dipped in between cars, nearly side swiping one. The jostling caused Josephine to become semi-conscious.
“Saint?” she whispered. “Saint, what happened?”
Van gritted his teeth at the sound of his name. He took a chance and looked in the back to check out her condition. The front of her shirt was covered with blood. He lifted the armrest and flipped the second red switch. A signal would be sent to Josephine’s, team of backup bodyguards who were on standby at the Villa Kennedy. They would track their GPS signal and meet up wit them. He just prayed he could make it to the safe house before Josephine lost too much blood.
Josephine cried out. “Saint! My shoulder, it hurts.”
“Try to relax,” Van cried out. “I’m going to take care of you.”
Josephine didn’t respond.
Van’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as it jerked to the right. One of the gunmen’s bullets had shot out one of the front tires. The tires were run-flats. Van was able to quickly regain control of the Mercedes. He was coming up on a hairpin turn. He took a deep breath and flipped the fourth red switch. Just below the rear bumper were dispensers to release the tank full of oil slick contained in the trunk. He growled as he hit the hairpin turn at nearly fifty miles an hour. He barely made it. The two SUVs weren’t so lucky. As soon as they yanked their steering wheels to the right, the SUVs spun out of control. Van heard a loud crash and then an explosion.
Two black UTVs identical to the one he was driving were heading right for him. The backup had come. He zoomed past them and looked in the rearview mirror. They spun around and caught up with him. One drove in front of him while the other one drove behind him. He grabbed the walkie talkie off the console.
“Pull over,” he said.
At the shoulder of the road, Van hopped into the back seat to check Josephine’s injuries. One of the armed guards approached the car.
“Get in, and drive to the safe house!” The man hopped in, told the other two cars their destination, and then pulled off. Van ripped Josephine’s blouse open. The bullet went through clean. He sighed. He used her shirt to cover the wound, as he laid her head on his lap. Josephine winced, he could see that her shoulder was dislocated.
“We’re almost there,” Van said to her. He saw her lips moving, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. He leaned his head down as close to her lips as he could.
“Saint,” She whispered. “Kill ‘em alllll.”
At a monastery near the Dam bulla caves, located in Sri Lanka, India, a taut-bodied monk pours buckets of water over his body. The water mats his curly afro to his head. His scraggly beard makes him look much older and less dangerous than he really is. The kids giggle as the cold water cascades down his body and he shivers. They scatter as he spins around and threatens to throw what’s left in the bucket at them. He uses his hands to wipe the excess water off his body and then unwraps his orange robe from around his waist and puts it on.
Today, the monk planned on walking the country side, begging for food and engaging in heavy meditation. The character of the soul-searching monk was one that Saint found to be the most fulfilling. He loved simplicity. He got more fulfillment begging for food and helping others than living a life of loftiness. Living high, he believed, made a person arrogant, lazy, and weak. He loved the trenches. They kept him rooted, sharp, but most of all, the trenches allowed him to keep an ear to the ground and his finger on the pulse of people.
No matter how far away he distanced himself from Olivia, he still couldn’t stop thinking about her. That’s why he traveled all the way to India. He knew for a fact that if he remained anywhere in the Western hemisphere, he was going back to New York. And that was a chance he knew even the Saint couldn’t risk.
There were only two people who knew he was in New York. Marion Claude and Petrescu. He thought back to a couple nights ago when he had Petrescu dangling off of his penthouse balcony by his ankles. As bad as he wanted to release him and watch him bounce off of the street, he knew he was telling the truth. He didn’t give him up. He didn’t go after Marion Claude, yet. He wanted Petrescu to call him and tell him what was going on. He wanted Marion to stew in the juices of paranoia and flinch at every sudden gust of wind for a while.
As he grabbed his begging bowl and started to head out of the monastery, an old monk called out to him. Saint bowed to him and walked over. The old monk led him out of the monastery and to his dwelling down the road. He pointed to the satellite phone and said something in his Hindi language. Saint made out a couple of the words. The phone started ringing, and he had rushed to get him.
“Don’t worry,” Saint said, struggling with the Hindi language. “It will buzz again.” He didn’t know the word for ring.
The old monk smiled and then bowed.
Saint and the monk had an interesting history. Josephine had introduced them seven years ago. A broker from Korea convinced the monk’s niece that a wealthy Japanese businessman was interested in marrying her. The businessman came to Sri Lanka and they were married, but he had to rush back to Korea for an important meeting. He left the monk’s niece a plane ticket and promised to meet her at the airport when she arrived two weeks later. When she arrived, the broker met her at the airport and told her that he would first take her to where she would be working and then to her husband.
Unbeknown to the naïve girl, the broker dropped her off at a brothel. Six months later, the girl was able to smuggle out a message to her uncle, who turned to Josephine for help. That’s where Saint came in. Five days later, the brothel mysteriously burned down with its owners still inside. Saint returned to Sri Lanka with the monk’s niece, and the monk was forever indebted to him.
The old monk smiled when the phone rang again.
Only one person had this number. Saint answered it. “What’s up?”
“Saint.” Her voice was so low that he had to put his hand over his other ear to hear. “Josephine?”
“Saint, I need you.”
“What’s wrong?” He could hear the phone being taken from her.
“Saint, Josephine was shot.”
“Who is this?”
“My name’s Van.”
“What happened?”
“We were on our way into a restaurant—”
“Which restaurant?”
“Silk.”
“In Germany?”
“Yes. Josephine had a funny feeling and she turned to go back to the car, and that’s when it happened.”
“That’s when what happened? Be specific.”
“A sniper shot her high in the shoulder.”
Saint dropped his head. The monk could see the pain in his expression and gave him some privacy.
“How could you let this happen?” Saint growled.
“Hey—”
“You’re her personal bodyguard, right?”
“How do you know that?”
“If you weren’t, she wouldn’t allow you to be on the phone with me, right now.”
“Yes, I’m her personal bodyguard,” Van said with authority.
“Then it should’ve been you who took that bullet, not Josephine.”
“Wait a minute.”
“Where are you now?”
Van didn’t respond.
“Don’t fuck with me!”
“We’re at the safe house in Frankfurt… Hello? Hello?”
Saint turned the phone off and sat on the dirt floor. He rubbed his temples. A soothing thought sprinted through his mind. He looked around the simple hut and imagined him and Olivia sitting on the ground of a hut of their own, eating red rice and okra. That calmed him down. He took a deep breath. Someone had gave him up to the CIA, now, they had made an attempt on Josephine’s life. As he sprung to his feet, he could feel the thrill of the hunt coursing through his veins. He bowed to the old monk, and explained to him that he had to go. The monk went into his bedroom and retrieved Saint’s duffel bag.