“Then you find out where he is and what he’s buying.”
“Understood.”
Faina’s matter-of-fact responses speak of experience, but each one is just a reminder that she was a cop. And working for Interpol again seems as easy as slipping into familiar shoes.
Should I even worry what she could have given to Interpol about me? I have no family left, no one to mourn me if I end up in prison and no one to betray. But Gifford loyalty runs so deep that the very thought of sending myself to my last days in a cell feels like I’m letting their memory down.
That and a four-by-four cell might actually kill me.
“A lot of work for some weapons,” I mutter. “But where the fuck were you guys when we were fighting the scum of human trafficking, huh?” My gaze narrows to Richard. “Is it onlyweapons that you give a shit about? Only weapons that make you run across countries trying to catch an asshole?”
Richard’s face hardens and he pulls a gun from the black case to his left as the van pulls to a stop. As he hands it to Faina, he speaks. “You’re on a one-way ticket to the rest of your life behind bars so if you want to argue the semantics of which crime is worse, then I’m all ears.”
As Faina takes the gun, she suddenly flips it around between her fingers and slams the butt right into Richard’s face. “Shut thefuckup!” she yells as she’s restrained by the other guard next to her. “Threaten him again and our deal is off the table, understand?”
Richard, through a bloody nose, barks orders for us to be tossed out and as we’re thrown from the van, I barely manage to keep my balance and stumble to my knees. Faina lands next to me with a grunt and our eyes meet. I see hope there, the same protective spark that makes my heart flutter, but this time, there’s pain too.
“I don’t need you fighting my battles,” I say as I pick myself up.
“I’m fighting for your freedom,” she replies. “Why can’t you see that?”
“Because I can’t trust anything you say.”
Those words sour on the back of my tongue as we adjust our clothes and slip into the lie of a married couple. I want to believe her. I want to soak up the relief I felt when she walked into that room and I saw she was still alive, but all I hear is the siren in my mind that she can’t be trusted.
She lied to me and yet what hurts more is that she never trusted me enough to tell me the truth.
Leaving the van behind, we walk across the street and approach the large iron gates that stand between us and yet another rich bastard’s mansion where money changes hands for skin. Faina slips her arm around my elbow and I dig the fake invitation out of my pocket.
“This is suicide,” Faina mutters as she adjusts her blonde wig with her other hand. “Hawk knows what we look like and these disguises won’t fool someone like him.”
“Death at his hands or death at the hands of them,” I mutter, jerking my head back toward the van. “I see no difference. At least this way I can pretend I’m making an active choice in the whole thing.”
“So how do you want to play this?” She slips into such a business-like role that reminds me of when we first reunited all those weeks ago. “Tipsy on arrival or quiet and unassuming?”
“Play it by ear. We’ll match the crowd.”
“Alright.” Faina sucks in a deep breath as we reach the gate. “Showtime.”
This auction is much like the countless others I’ve attended over the years although it’s a relief to see actual weapons on display. I keep expecting to see people in collars and chains being sold off to the nearest rich bitch with how things have been lately. People around us speak a variety of different languages, but the numbers don’t lie on the placards arranged on a table next to various chess pieces.
Within ten minutes I’ve worked out that each chess piece corresponds with a certain type of weapon and if you’re interested in it, you get a stamp on the back of your hand. From there, a large bowl filled with multicolored stones is how we bid. Each stone represents a different value broken down into millions and once you have what you desire, you put the stone in an envelope and sign your name. It seems this auction keeps an air of mystery and it’s down to pure chance that you’ll bid the highest.
Faina and I walk the party and scan every face we pass searching for either Hawk or anyone who looks familiar. Faina makes small talk with a couple of women but comes back with nothing of use. The language barrier prevents me from engaging with anyone other than a waiter who’s kind enough to bring me a Bourbon after almost spilling a tray of champagne over me.
Unfortunately, there’s no sign of Hawk or anyone from his organization. Is this a dead end? I wouldn’t put it past that dick to leave us out to dry. Faina excuses herself once more for the bathroom and I’m drawn to watching her walk away. The dress they poured her into is black and floor-length, with an open back that features gold thread crisscrossing over the gap. It barely hides her beautiful body, and it’s a distraction that pains me once she vanishes into the restroom.
Complicated emotions swirl in my brain, amplified by the painful, anxiety-filled days I spent in silence locked in that cell. Being here feels like trying to make out the words on a page while a very bright light glares directly in my face. And Faina is a welcome shadow that hurts.
Why couldn’t she trust me with the truth?
Did she ever mention anything about my family?
Is she the reason Interpol even knows who I am?
My mind races faster and faster until someone appears at my elbow and steps past me in a hurry. He bumps into me, spilling the alcohol from my glass, but other than a hurried apology where he barely glances back, he doesn’t stop.
But during that glance, I see something that makes my heart stop. There’s a small scar on his lip and his face is familiar.
