Sake Bomb (11 page)

The eyes bulged, panic gripped the
oxygen-starved brain.

Hot throbbing hit so hard against the
voyeur’s palms it startled her. She let go quickly. Didn’t expect
it to feel like that. The next scene might have to be hands on, but
this one was already going as planned. She’d just watch. No need to
help it along.

“Does it hurt?” she whispered.

The woman on the floor sucked air down in
quick, inefficient bursts that made her belly jiggle. An
intermittent buzzing undercut the sounds of hyperventilation, and
the voyeur tilted her ear toward the noise. It came from her left;
turned her head to see the blob making a slow trek in her
direction.

She picked up the base of the bento box.
Splintered along the edges, lacquered wood beyond saving. Flowers
were hidden beneath it, delicate petals of the pink
wagashi
somewhat battered. Leaving the treats, she deposited the box into
the rubbish bin on the side of the desk and then returned to the
body.

Twitching now, short little jerks of
corpulent arms. Veins in the warrior’s face near bursting. Foam in
the corners of the rosy mouth intermixed with pink crumbs dusting
the lips.

Amazing to witness the ascension as it
happened; to watch something pull its last breath and then resign
to the end….

This one hadn’t done it yet.

This one still struggled for air she would
not find, mouth working like a gaffed fish.

“Nerium oleander,” the voyeur explained to
her spasmodic audience. Her voice was bright and animated, a
professor lecturing a small class. “The nectar is quite poisonous,
though not enough to cause what you’re experiencing. Cyanide
crystals. Added those, just to be sure…”

The gasping increased slightly.
Uselessly.

“You’ll stop that soon… Breathing. Oleander
affects the heart. Cyanide prevents oxygen uptake—starves the
cells,” she said, speaking more to the moving blob than the other
human in the room. It wasn’t just any blob, she noticed as it
inched closer, but a Japanese beetle. Terrible fliers, subject to
the turns of the wind.

“
Hello!
” blurted from the cell phone
and the voyeur jumped. The J-pop ringtone came to the end of the
snippet, and then picked up again from the beginning. She flipped
the device to see the display, but the damaged screen made it
difficult to make out the name and number.

The bleating ended; started again moments
later. She connected the call, held the phone to her ear and
waited.

No words were exchanged.

The legs were really jumping now. Arms
straight out to the side. Any harder and the neck might snap.

The call disconnected from the other end;
the beetle inched closer.

With the phone displaying the home screen,
she could make out the date on the bottom edge: July
28
^th
. A quick calculation in
her head and she deduced it was the same day there as well.
Just.

She pocketed the phone.

Stepping over the dancing body, the voyeur
went to the kitchen and took a glass from a cabinet; pulled a piece
of paper from a pile on the counter. Then she went back to the
woman, forehead creased by a frown. Holding the glass bottom up,
she lifted it high, and slapped it down right beside the jerking
head.

“Careful.” Sliding the page between the
floor and the wide mouth of the tumbler pinned the beetle inside.
Its iridescent green head twitched, little legs scrabbling for
purchase along the white sheet. “Nearly got yourself crushed.”

Eyes on the beetle, the voyeur addressed her
audience with unbridled enthusiasm. “In a class at university, the
professor said the Egyptian scarab beetles are a sacred symbol of
reincarnation. Reincarnation…” she repeated, her voice ethereal. “A
second chance….”

She studied the trapped bug and. “Don’t you
think we should all be made sacred? Get another chance at love?
At…” her voice tapered to a whisper, “pain….”

No response.

Another small hop over a slowly stiffening
torso and she went to the open window. “There.” She eased the
beetle onto the sill. “Now you’re safe.” It hesitated, and she
cocked her head. Would it come inside, or go back to the freedom it
knew, however uncertain the changing winds?

The tiny pest scurried over the edge and
dropped out of sight.

A soft evening breeze washed over her face,
and she braced her elbows on the ledge to admire the greenery in
the little courtyard two stories below. A Japanese maple reached
outward, branches extended like drooping arms, leaves wiggling in
the wind. Bunches of white hydrangeas dotted the small landscape,
interrupted by pops of pink from the wild roses sprinkled here and
there.

“No cherry blossoms,” she said, then over
her shoulder to the warrior, “I bet you knew that, though.”

Returning to the body, the voyeur toed at
the foot with her shoe before approaching the face. The eyes were
two dull buttons, pushed into a cherry-colored ball of dough. They
stared off into space, looking for all the world like they would
blink any moment. She half expected them to, having seen them so
animated only minutes before. Ear to the parted lips, she listening
for the soft rasp of wind and was delighted there was none.

A search through her bag produced a length
of red yarn. Getting it around the neck wasn’t so hard since she’d
had practice, but with the woman’s size the voyeur had to tie two
pieces together to make it reach, and that depleted her stash.
She’d have to find more. She made quick work of it, slightly
disconcerted by the juxtaposition of a warm body that wasn’t
alive.

“What is the meaning of rope, pet?” she
murmured, making a final adjustment to the knot to align it
perfectly in the soft depression of the throat. She brushed the
warrior’s hair clear of the eyes so she could properly view the
newly restored
shinsei
. This one demanded nothing more,
thankful for the gift of a last meal during the final act of her
life.

The voyeur raked her hand through her own
tresses, dug at an itch in her scalp. Uneaten
wagashi
lay
beside the body. She picked them up with reverence, cradling them
in her hand carefully so as not to damage them further.

It had taken two buds from the sweet bouquet
for this scene.

How apropos.

The treats in the voyeur’s gloved palm
numbered three.

Over Japanese
Airspace
…

K
izzie was shaking.
More precisely, she was being shaken. She didn’t hop up like Jason
Bourne, bright-eyed and raring to fight. She knew her location,
knew who she traveled with, and that was all that saved Xander from
being put on his ass. His fingers stroked her cheek and then
dragged over and around her ear. A hum bubbled in Kizzie’s throat
but she swallowed it.

“Wake up, Princess.”

“Don’t poke the bear,” she groused, peering
through one barely open slit. Xander crouched beside her, steady
browns in line with hers. “It’s a good way to get hurt.” Hoisting
herself up on one arm, she swung her feet to the floor and the
blanket slid down to pool around her middle.

“Come on, sweetheart. Up and at ‘em. We land
in a bit and I let you snore as long as I could stand it.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Sure you do. Kinda soft. Like a buzz saw.
On concrete. It’s adorable.” A half grin on his face, he stood in
one easy motion and headed for the front of the plane.

Kizzie rolled her neck to stretch it. Her
head was heavy, and it felt like cotton plugged her ears. How long
was she comatose? Xander had ordered her to the couch—yes,
ordered—and she’d been too tired to even manage a decent stink eye.
48 hours out from Brazil and on a plane over half of them. Jetlag
would be a huge bitch.

The intoxicating scent of brewed coffee
perked her senses and she untangled from the blanket Xander must
have thrown over her. Her boots were on the floor beside the couch,
laces neat and tidy, as if they’d be stored in a marine’s
footlocker. She hadn’t taken them off, and wouldn’t let herself
linger on the consideration of the simple act.

After a stop in the galley Kizzie loped up
the walkway and sank into a leather chair, steaming mug of jump
juice in one hand, half a baguette and a packet of jam in the
other. She yawned, covering her mouth with the bend of her bread
arm. Her ears popped, and the sound of the luxe plane cutting
through atmosphere grew louder.

On the other side of the table, Xander
intently studied his laptop screen.

“What are you working on?” Setting the bread
down, she jutted her chin toward the white cable and flash drive
jammed into the ports of the machine. “New Intel on Harvey, or
3-19?”

“More important, actually.” Xander tapped a
button and disconnected the data cable as well as the device
blocked by the screen. He slipped it back into the case and wrapped
the earbuds around it before handing it over. “I’m stealing music.
Got bored and decided to see what you listen to. And then you made
a donation to my library.”

The hot mug went on the table and Kizzie
snatched her iPod Classic with a disapproving glare. “You can’t
just—”

What was the point? He’d done it, so
obviously he
could
“just.”

“I’m not all take and no give, Kizzie. I put
some stuff on there you might like.”

“We need to have a discussion about
boundaries.”

He reached for her coffee. “Any time you’re
ready, Princess… Hard limits, soft limits…I’m more than willing to
push you to them.” A seductive gaze on his face, Xander watched her
over the rim as he took a sip.

“You could’ve got your own.”

“You could’ve brought me one.” Another slow
drink and he slid the mug back to her; made himself at home with
her baguette.

“By all means, help yourself.” He flashed
her a grin and smeared on the jelly. Kizzie rolled her eyes and
pointed to the item still connected to his laptop. “And that?”

“That…is a jump drive.”

“Smart ass. What’s on it?”

“
That
…is a secret.” He winked and
took a bite of the bread.

Mug in hand, Kizzie curled her feet into the
seat. If nothing else, the man had great taste in upholstery. And
coffee. The comfy leather could easily make her slip back into a
doze if left alone, but the steaming cupp’a would have her fully
alert in a few minutes.

“We should talk.”

“We should,” she said curtly. “Phil tells me
this is one of a handful of hits off the necklace. The network’s
been wonky and location isn’t specific. But since there’s a photo
of the tattoo, I suppose this is the best of a bad situation. So
what’s the plan when we get on the ground?”

Xander stared at her a long moment, shook
his head. “Will we ever have a normal conversation, Princess?
Something other than bombs and nefarious plots and the fate of the
world?”

Kizzie snorted. “That ain’t us.”

“Us…” He repeated the word like he enjoyed
the taste. A dangerously slow smile crept across his face. “What
is
‘us?’” Pursed lips and narrowed gaze were Kizzie’s
response. “Of all my subs, you’re the most challenging.”

“Because I’m not your sub.”

His brow furrowed a touch then relaxed. “You
know what I mea—”

“I know what you
said
, Duquesne. And
what you said is what you meant.
That
ain’t us. There is no
‘us.’ The Lifestyle,
your
lifestyle, not for me. Three
reasons—no particular order: you’re a criminal, you’re
married
, and I like my sex regular.”

“With just a little bit of pain?” Xander
asked, forefinger and thumb an inch apart. He narrowed the gap,
shook his head, then widened the distance a bit…a bit more… a
little more, and then he had both hands three feet apart and
spreading with no stopping in sight.

Kizzie puffed out her cheeks and shifted in
the chair. “Can we get a plan together? Hate to be a spoilsport,
but when you and Nikolay Sokoviev started this steaming pile—”

“You want to do safe.” A million images
bombarded her at the same time, and she breathed a laugh through
her nose. His scarred brow went up. “Do tell.”

“Years ago, I was on an op…” Kizzie trailed
off, seeing the events play out clearly in her head and wondering
why she felt compelled to tell any of this to one Xander Duquesne.
“FUBAR from go…things happened—”

Better to thrust her first time in Belém
soundly from her mind.

Meeting Xander’s gaze, she gave a smile that
curved her mouth but didn’t reach her eyes. “Let’s just say, based
on my line of work ‘safe’ isn’t something I do.”

“That kind of danger’s safe for you. And
what’s more, it’s easy. You have the formula: recon, strategize,
execute.” Xander leaned back in his chair, confidence in his easy
demeanor. “I’m talking
my
kind of dangerous, Kizzie.
Unpredictable. The kind you want but have been running from since
the first moment I saw you.” He tore off a hunk of crusty bread and
set it close enough for her to reach it.

“I don’t do safe, and I don’t run.”

“Tell me about your last boyfriend.”

Frowning, Kizzie drew her head back at the
unexpected change in topic. “What, you want to play twenty
questions now? How was the wedding, Xander? I’m simply crushed I
didn’t get my invite. Where should I send the gravy boat?”

“Three questions, that don’t involve Harvey.
Plenty of time for that when we get on the ground.”

“I want to be
prepared
when we get on
the ground. Harvey, Duquesne. That’s why I’m here, not for an
episode of
This is Your Life
, m’kay? So talk.”

Xander folded his arms over his chest.

He wasn’t talking.

Fine by her. Hell, he could have let her
sleep until they landed. Kizzie bit into the bread. Xander watched
and waited, the only sound the whirring of the plane’s engines.