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I’ve seen a lot of shit in my line of work, stuff that makes horror movies look like bedtime stories. I don’t get fazed any more. I do my job, go home, and sleep. You can’t be in my line of work if you let the job affect you. The ones who get attached get killed.
Or worse.
So when I picked up the crumpled, caramel-colored mess on the floor, I didn’t let it faze me. I didn’t register her nakedness, or her silent sobs, or the way her hair still shone despite the dirt that caked the strands. I ignored the way the flowers on her skin bloomed beneath the layer of dirt on her body. I didn’t question how someone so beautiful and unearthly could have ended up there. I tamped all of those feelings down.
As I carried her out to my car, I reminded myself that it was just a job. Whatever the girl had been through, it didn’t matter to me. I knew her name. I knew some of her story. Vic had sent me the pertinent details, but it didn’t matter. To me she was just a job. She was just a girl.
I didn’t register the fact that she clung to me the way a lover would. I didn’t mind the way she buried her face into my neck. None of that pertained to the job.
As I set her down in the passenger seat, I put a spare blanket over her. She greedily pulled the blanket up to her chin. Her eyes were closed the entire time, no doubt fatigued from the ordeal. As I pulled the seatbelt across her body, I again reminded myself it was just a job.
The seatbelt clicked and as I leaned out of the car, her eyes opened. Bright brown eyes the color of honey peered back at me. I froze, unable to move forward or go backward. Her eyes were warming, like caramel seeping into my veins. If you looked closely, you could see green flecks like little jewels around the iris.
“Are you an angel?” she asked, her voice small. I sucked in a breath. Even her voice was mesmerizing. I quickly removed myself from the situation, first double-checking that her seatbelt was secure. I couldn’t remove my gaze from her jewel-flecked one, though. As I exited her side, I banged my head on the roof of the car.
“Fuck.” I rubbed the top of my head before slamming the door shut. I’d already wasted too much time ogling the target. This was supposed to be a clean extraction, meaning no bloodshed. Bloodshed leaves a trail and a trail leads to questions. I was to extract the target and return her home. The longer I sat staring at the target, the more I risked the mission.
I slid into the driver’s seat and turned on the engine of the Land Rover. As we pulled out of the abandoned warehouse, I could feel her stare on me the same way I would feel a .45 pressed into my hip.
* * *
We pulled into the safe house just as night fell. The girl had fallen asleep somewhere around Lafayette and had stayed that way since. We passed through New Orleans and were now deep in Jean Lafitte. The safe house I had out there was unknown to anyone, even the men I worked with. It was a quiet and peaceful place, right along the Mississippi river.
Fireflies lit up the night, in most cases their twinkling yellow bursts the only source of light for miles. The cypress trees’ knees peeked out of the water, like ghostly hands. Their leaves hung like spectral curtains, glowing in the dark night. The bayou at night was an eerie, almost haunted place.
When Katrina came, it wiped away most of the houses in the area. In some places you could still see remnants of the past. Foundations remained, but the houses were swept away, leaving only the four posters. In other areas you’d see entire houses that were lifted from other parts of the city and carried down with the flood. The bayou had become a ghost town.
Naturally, I had built my home there.
Putting my car into park, I walked around to the passenger seat. The girl was still fast asleep. I lifted her out of the seat, making sure to keep her wrapped, and walked into the house. I was acutely aware of the fact that with every step I took into my house, I broke protocol further and dug my grave deeper and deeper.
The job was simple: find the girl and bring her home. She should have been on a plane by now, yet, when I drove to the airport, I kept on driving. Past the exit and beyond, until we got to the house with her safely in my arms. As I felt her in my arms, something tethered her to me. I knew nothing of her or how she had gotten herself into the mess, but I couldn’t let her go. Not yet.
I approached my hallway and was faced with yet another problem. Do I put the girl in my bed, or do I put her in the spare room? I was already in deep shit, but putting her in my bed…that was unspeakable.
Do not get attached to the target. It was rule number one. It was the simplest, most obvious rule. As I recounted the rule, my grip tightened on the girl.
Fuck.
I’m putting her in my room.
I shook my head as I cleared the distance to my bedroom. I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me.
I laid her down in my bed. Her breathing was steady, but a little shallow. She looked peaceful and serene. Her hair was black, with shades of chestnut highlighting it. Despite the dirt coating her skin, I could see her beauty. It was a beauty that stopped you in your tracks. A beauty that made poets write. A beauty that tore countries apart. As I watched her sleep, I felt like I wasn’t worthy.
A stray hair fell across her check and, like I was possessed, I moved it from her face. That one movement was so gentle and so unlike me, I whipped my hand back, staring at it as though it were a foreign creature. I was so busy staring at my hand that I didn’t notice her wake. By the time I did, it was too late. She was screaming, her beautiful hazel eyes contorted in fear.
She was afraid of me. I wished I could have comforted her and told her she had no reason to fear me, but the truth was she did. She should have feared me.
The girl scrambled to the top of the bed, practically pasting herself to the wall. She clung the blanket to her body and searched the room, trying to decipher meaning.
“Who are you?” she asked, fear lacing her voice. “Why am I here?” That was a loaded question if I ever heard one. The reason she was there was that I couldn’t figure out a way to shake her. I should have driven her to the airport and dropped her off. She should have been halfway to California by now. Instead, she was in my bed. She had a right to know why she was there, but first I had to figure out the answer.
“I took you,” I answered simply.
“Why?” Her brows caved as she eyed me up and down. Perhaps she was wondering if I was going to pick up where the asshole had left off. That’s what I would have been wondering.
“You have friends in the right places. They wanted you free.”
