Niklas pulls a cigarette from the pack and slides it between his lips, but doesn’t light it. He leans back in his chair, interlocking his hands together behind his head. “What about the woman?” he asks.

“She’s the girlfriend,” Victor says and then looks at me. “And the reason he’s coming out of a daycare center is because he just dropped off their eighteen-month-old daughter.”

A series of deep sighs moves lightly around the table.

“I don’t like this already,” Izabel says. She leans against the back of her chair and crosses one leg over the other, afterwards her arms.

“Are both parents targets?” I ask.

“No,” Victor says. “Just the man. His name is Paul Fortright. The girlfriend, Kelly Bennings.”

“OK, but why do all four of us need to take care of this?” Dorian asks. “I’m pretty sure any one of us can handle this one guy.”

“And you could,” Victor says. “But we’re not the only organization that the client employed to get the job done. The one to pull it off first is the one that gets paid.”

Niklas’s face spreads into a grin. “A competition. That’s my kind of work.”

“Hmmm”—Dorian rubs the underside of his chin with the edge of his index finger, in thought—“so because the stakes are so high, does this mean we kill whoever gets in our way? Rival operatives included?”

“Especially rival operatives,” Victor confirms. “The payday is twenty thousand—not a lot—but the money isn’t why I took on this job.”

“You took it because of the rival organization,” Izabel assumes. “It’s the perfect opportunity to draw them from the shadows.”

“Precisely,” Victor says.

“What happened to recruiting members of other organizations?” Dorian asks. “Don’t we need numbers?”

“We have numbers,” I speak out and Victor nods, confirming that I’m on the right track. “And if recruiting is the only thing we demonstrate, other rival organizations will begin to fear us less, leaving only the leaders and their right hand men and women looking over their shoulders.”

“Yes,” Victor says. “It’s time we start taking entire groups out and sending a message. In the past year after taking over the black market orders that we have, we’ve come across too many who have no loyalty. They’ll sell out their leaders and their entire organization at the drop of a few thousand dollars. I want future recruits to want to work for us, not because of how much they’re paid, and not only because of loyalty, but because they know we are the most dangerous and the most intolerant.”

All heads around the table, including Woodard’s, nod simultaneously in agreement.

Victor stands from the chair and straightens his suit jacket.

“There is a kill preference,” he says, “though ours is different from our rivals. It’s how the clients will know which of us got there first.” He pushes his chair underneath the table and stands behind it. “A single shot to the back of the head,” he adds.

“Well, that counts me out,” Izabel says disappointed. “I’d love to kill me some child molester.”

“Sorry, Izzy,” Niklas taunts, knowing she hates his nickname for her, “but you’re not the best shot at the Round Table.”

“Shut the fuck up, Niklas,” she snaps. “I could always practice on you.”

Niklas smirks and places the unlit cigarette between his lips again.

Victor’s eyes shut momentarily, appearing as though he has suddenly acquired a mild headache.

Then he looks over at me.

“The offer stands,” he says. “You can be notified if you’re needed. They may have no problem finding Paul Fortright without the girlfriend. She’s just a backup plan that likely won’t be utilized.”

I shake my head. “I’ll go just in case,” I say and stand up as well. “Besides, I’ll feel better about already being there if I’m needed, especially if we have competition.”

Victor nods, accepting my decision and probably agreeing with it. It strikes me somewhat odd that he would leave this decision up to me with so much at stake. That’s not like Victor Faust. While although he’s not a selfish, tyrant leader and he takes our well-being into careful consideration at all times, it’s still not like him to allow me such freedom on a job like this.

“All the information you need,” Victor says, looking at each of us in turn, “is in the envelope. Keep me updated on all events. I’ll see you in no more than three days.”

Everyone else stands from the table, all except for Woodard who isn’t sure what to do. His beady eyes dart around at all of us, taking in what’s expected of him by watching, and finally he follows suit.

“James Woodard,” Victor says and jerks his head back subtly, “come with me.”

Woodard swallows nervously again and stumbles around his chair as he walks away from the table. That guy’s going to have to grow a pair soon if he expects to survive with us, even if all he’s destined to do is sit behind a computer screen and be our eyes and ears over the information waves.

By midday, I’m on a plane to Seattle and although normally I would be able to think of nothing but the anticipation of a possible interrogation, Cassia is all that’s on my mind.

Chapter Eleven

Cassia


Greta retrieves my empty dinner dishes and sets them aside on the bottom step of the concrete staircase. She’s a wonderful cook. A wonderful person who has treated me with nothing but kindness since Fredrik introduced us. I think she worries more about me than I worry about myself.

“Would you like dessert?” she asks. “There’s a fruit bowl upstairs in the fridge. I made it just how you like it, with honey and coconut.”

I lay on the bed on my side, my hands fitted between my knees, the soft memory foam pillow crushed against my cheek. The chain around my ankle dangling over the side of the bed.

I smile at Greta. “No thank you.”

She approaches me with that motherly look she always gives when she’s about try to get me to open up to her. The bed moves gently as she sits down beside me. She brings my favorite blue and white tapestry quilt up from the end of the bed and drapes it over my exposed legs. The palm of her hand pats me lightly on the hip before sliding away.

“I didn’t tell Fredrik,” I say in almost a whisper.

“You didn’t tell him what?” Her voice is soft and kind.

Staring out ahead of me, I let the memory move across my eyes again before finally telling Greta.

“That I remember I used to love Connie Francis,” I say and suddenly my face breaks into a warm smile the more I picture the pieces of my old life. I laugh gently under my breath. “And my friend who lived across the hall—I think her name was Lanie—she thought it was funny I listened to that old stuff.” I adjust my head so that I can see Greta next to me. A bright smile has etched deep lines around her mouth and drawn out crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes.

She pats my hip again.

“I love Connie Francis,” she says, beaming. “She’s one of my favorites. Do you remember what made you start listening to her?”

My gaze falls out ahead again. “No, I don’t remember that much. But I can’t help but think it’s more than that. Maybe I didn’t just listen to her music, but that I might’ve…,”—I blush inwardly at the thought—“That I might’ve performed it somewhere. I don’t know. It’s ridiculous, I’m sure.”

“Hey, maybe not,” Greta says, “I don’t see any reason why that couldn’t be true. Surely you can sing.”

“What makes you think that?” I ask smiling in an unbelieving manner.

Greta shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. Just a hunch I guess. Maybe you’ll sing one of her songs for me someday.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” I say and feel my cheeks warm with a blush.

I hear the central heat hum to life amid the sudden silence between us and then the warm air filtering through the two vents in the ceiling.

“Why didn’t you tell him?” she asks quietly.

The smile fades from my face as I stare out ahead, thinking only of Fredrik now.

“Because I wanted him to tell me more about his life. And he did. But it wasn’t enough.” I pause and sigh deeply. “I wanted him to tell me about Seraphina. Anything about her. I think he owes me that.”

“Did you ask him again?”

Shaking my head against the pillow I say, “No. In fact, I even told him I didn’t care to know about her anymore. I guess I had hoped he might have a change of heart if I…it was stupid of me. I just don’t understand his…obsession with that woman. And I don’t like it.”

“Cassia?” Greta’s voice is careful and motherly. “I don’t mean to question your heart, but why do you care so much for him? A man who took you from your life, who keeps you chained in a basement. I guess I just have a hard time understanding your mindset.” She lays her hand on my hip again but this time doesn’t move it away. “I understand Stockholm syndrome. And for a long time I thought that you were a classic case, but…”

I feel her eyes on me and I look over at her. When she doesn’t continue right away, I raise my body from the bed and sit upright, looking directly at her with a feeling of impatience in the pit of my stomach.

Another moment of quiet passes between us.

“But Fredrik employed me only a week after he brought you here,” she finally goes on, “and you weren’t afraid of him, Cassia. Even with Stockholm syndrome, there’s usually still a lot of fear that early after a kidnapping. You showed absolutely none. At least not toward Fredrik.”

“What do you mean?” I peer in at her with curiosity and determination. “I was afraid of you?”