Italicized dialogue is to be interpreted as French.
"Just follow my lead, do not talk unless spoken to and do exactly as I say. Understood?" Christophe stopped her just a few steps outside the restaurant's entrance, forcing her to look him in the eye. They were to meet one of her papa's distributors to talk pricing. A simple transaction of words, but Christophe thought otherwise.
"We've gone over this a thousand times Chris, stop worrying," She scoffed at him, making her way to the front doors, but he grabbed her arm and forcefully tugged her back to his side. She winced slightly and gave him a cautious stare. His hardened face told her he didn't want to play games today.
"I worry because if something goes wrong, your father will hang me with the linens," he released his vice grip on her to brush some invisible dust from his shoulders and flatten the darkened tuft of hair on his head. She followed his lead and adjusted her headscarf.
He did have an excuse to be concerned. This was her first time 'in the field'. She was to simply observe and listen to what was said. Part of the grooming process she assumed. But all the same, she was a liability and an extra body to protect if things went sour. Her breath hitched slightly at the thought, but quickly shook her head. Chris was here. Nothing would happen. She was just thinking this way because it was her first meeting.
She gave him a small nod of understanding before they turned back to their destination. The instant he opened the door, her nostrils were bombarded by a plethora of spices and a warm breeze wrapped itself around her form. They stepped into a somewhat confined sand-colored room. Vibrant carpets lined the walls of the restaurant and a four-man band sat in the back playing a melodious Arabic song on stringed instruments and a drum. It felt like they had been transported from the bustling streets of Marseille to a little café on the Bay of Tangier. They scanned the half-full restaurant for the rendezvous. They were spotted first, for a barrel-chested, jolly-looking fellow jumped up from his seat and quickly rushed to greet them.
"Christophe," The man took Chris's hand in his and planted kisses on each of his cheeks. On first glance this man's joviality clashed with his neatly trimmed black beard, slicked back hair and sharply fitted grey suit. Like he hid a more serious motive underneath his friendly airs.
"It's wonderful to see you, Malik." Chris responded with a lukewarm greeting before turning to the younger woman beside him. "May I introduce you to Monsieur Frenier's daughter, Mademoiselle Maureen."
"It is a pleasure to meet you, monsieur." Maureen offered Malik her hand and he deftly placed a kiss on her fingers.
"I've heard much about you from your father. The photos he has shown me do your beauty no justice." The kiss along with his silky Persian accent forced a blush to her face. Her reaction elicited a small predatory grin from him, flustering her further. These gestures didn't go unnoticed by Christophe, and he simply pursed his lips. "Please, come sit. We have much to talk about." They joined Malik around his circular table surrounded by low-seated whicker stools. Maureen flattened the folds of her navy dress after sitting and clasped her hands together.
"Before we be—"
"Would you like some coffee? Wine? The owner stocks a fine Malbec from Spain." Malik waved over a waiter.
Chris cocked an eyebrow. "Offering Spanish wine to a Frenchman? Malik, you insult me," he chuckled.
Malik chuckled as well. "What about you, my dear? Would you like some wine?" Maureen perked up at this. Her face grew hot again as she looked over to Chris for his approval. She hated having to ask for a glass of wine. It was humiliating. "You don't need permission from that old salak." Malik winked at her and directed his attention to the waiter, ordering their drinks in Arabic. She felt she needed to get her blushing under control because Chris, once again, pursed his lips and gave a small sigh.
The next half hour went on in this manner. Malik derailing the conversation from the price negotiation, slipping her small tokens of flirtation when he could get away with it and Christophe attempting to hide his annoyance as best he could. On the last sip of wine she looked over to Chris' glass. He had barely touched his. Gulping down what was left in her mouth, she placed the glass back on the table. Her curiosity of her mentor's terse behavior quickly dissipated as she went back to laughing at Malik's joke.
"So the Greek finds that his bottle of Retsina was unharmed in the car crash and exclaims to the Turk, "truly it is a sign from God that we were meant to meet if this wine was unscathed by the accident.' He offers the wine to the Turk who happily takes a few big swigs and hands it back to the Greek. The Greek puts the cork back in the bottle and hands it back to the Turk. The Turk asks, 'will you not have some?' the Greek replies, 'no, I think I'll wait for the police!'" He ended with a bellow of laughter.
"What police? They were in Bulgaria!" she chimed in with a tipsy giggle. He let out another roar and slapped his knee. Their table was attracting a few distasteful looks from other diners, but she didn't care. The mood was cheery and her ribs were sore from Malik's jokes. Chris on the other hand looked as though he were on the edge of bursting from something other than mirth.
A waiter hurried over to their table and spoke to Malik in a hushed tone. He frowned at whatever the waiter was telling him and spoke harshly in Arabic before letting out a loud sigh. "Please, excuse me. I'm told I have a call waiting for me." He left the table, following the waiter down a small hallway.
Maureen was still smiling, blissfully unaware of Chris' sullen countenance staring her down. She turned her head to look at him and her grin melted. "What?"
"Did it ever occur to you why this man makes as many jokes as he does, offers you wine and flirts with you? He's practically buttering you up like a Christmas goose." He spoke in a low but threatening voice. Her head almost fell into her lap with shame. He gave a pregnant pause before speaking again, trying to pick his words carefully "As the daughter of Marco Frenier, your every action is scrutinized. You're seen as the heir of your father's empire, and they will judge whether you're a suitable successor. If you can't take yourself serious, they certainly won't either."
Her gut clenched from his words. She couldn't bear to make eye contact with him. I was just trying to have a little fun, she thought. She didn't know what to expect with this whole 'transaction' deal. Her papa had only mentioned they were done in cafes or over dinner, so she just assumed the atmosphere would be lighthearted. Flattening the folds of her dress once more she anxiously waited for Malik to return and break the tension.
As they waited, she noticed a quick flash of light in her periphery. She looked beyond the restaurant window in front of her for the offensive glare. The building across the street had an assortment of open and closed bay windows, each fitted with a flower box full of red poppies. She internally smirked at the sardonic plants.
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," Malik said as he sat back down at the table. He looked Maureen once over and immediately took note of her dampened mood. "I believe we have some figures to discuss."
"Yes, we do." Chris pulled out a folded piece of paper from his suit pocket and slid it across the table. Malik didn't miss a beat to pick it up and unfold its contents. He gave a small scoff at what was written and shook his head.
"This would be doable if you were also supplying the boats to pick up your merchandise. But you are not." Malik took a sip from his wine, keeping his gaze fixed on Chris. "Raise it thirty percent and we have a deal."
"That's hardly fair for the amount. I'll raise it five percent." Maureen looked back and forth between the two. It turned into a staring match that neither seemed willing to lose. Finally Malik gave a small laugh and broke his gaze.
"Oh Christophe, how we dance this dance every season," He took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He offered one to both of them. They both declined. "Fifteen percent."
Chris paused in thought before replying. "We'll await your boats in a week's time then." The two men shook on the deal and Malik sat back on his stool, allowing the flames of his lighter to lap at the tip of his cigarette.
That's when two things happened. The succinct sound of glass breaking made Maureen jump in her chair. Immediately following the sound she felt something hot splash onto her cheek. She didn't register what was happening until she looked at Malik. The cigarette hung limply from his lower lip, his mouth slightly parted. His eyes stared right through hers with a bleary unfocused gaze. Jutting out of his neck was a balle-sized hole. It took a second before blood began pulsing from the wound and soaking into his suit. A gurgling noise left his mouth, but only more blood bubbled out, staining his teeth. He lurched forward smacking his face into the table with a loud thump.
Maureen's pulse leapt into her throat leaving her breath stunted as she stared at the tablecloth slowly turning a dark crimson. A hand grabbed her shoulder and jerked her from the chair. She followed along obediently, her feet working of there own accord. Before she was pulled down a hallway she glanced at the restaurant window and the building beyond it. A similar size hole decorated the window. Beyond that the poppies still swayed in their flowerboxes but, she saw something metallic snake its way back into one of the rooms.
Second Floor.
Time finally began to speed up. A woman let out a blood-curdling scream, followed by other diner's yells of shock and confusion. She felt her back being pushed up against a wall. Letting go of the air stuck in her lungs felt impossible, as her breathing refused to even out. The hallway was dimly lit and looked like it led to the kitchens. For a second she couldn't remember how she had gotten there. It was then she noticed Chris in front of her checking her body for injuries.
"Were you hit?" he asked frantically while turning her from side to side. His fingers traced a tear in the fabric of her jacket just above the elbow. He whispered a silent 'merci' that the bullet hadn't pierced her skin. She took this time to touch what was on her face. Some part of her prayed it wasn't what she thought it was, but her fingers met gooey wetness that pushed the taste of wine and bile into her throat. "Stay here. I'm calling your father." With that he sprinted out of the hall, almost knocking over someone in the process.
She closed her eyes, forcing her breathing to return to normal. Inhale, and exhale, she kept telling herself. In, and out.
Second floor.
"No, no," she repeated to herself. Her feet twitched as she hopped back and forth on them. It was madness what she was thinking of attempting. Her stomach flip-flopped just at the thought.
Second floor, third window from the left.
As her eyes started to water she took a sleeve of her jacket to wipe the tears away. Pulling back the sleeve she saw the blood and thicker bits of flesh from her cheek smeared all over it, making her stomach roil more.
Second floor, third window from the left. You could still catch him.
Even if it was just to get a small glimpse of the man who did this. She could describe him to Papa and his men would catch him. She'd be helpful for once.
He's going to get away.
"Merde!" Before she could convince herself that this was the most idiotic, suicidal decision she bolted out of the hall, past the dead body and out onto the street. She quickly went through the doors of the poppy riddled building to see it was a hotel. A few guests looked up from their business at her sudden entrance and gasped at the sight of gore on her jacket. She ignored them, running through the reception to a door labeled 'stairwell'. She took the stairs two at a time praying she wasn't too late. Her heart was about to explode and her lungs were in a vice grip. Should I just wait near the room he was in? No, he's seen what I look like. Christ, what am I doing? She rounded a corner close to the second floor and slammed into a tall figure in front of her. She noticed he held a silver suitcase. She'd seen one of those before, one of her father's men smuggled guns overseas using it. She looked up to see frightful eyes and knew immediately it was him.
The tip-off that Malik Şahin would be at les tangine café wasn't false. Mundy loved disgruntled colleagues for the sole reason that they easily slipped up and gave away vital information to their foreign 'drinking buddy'. He ought to feel bad for the dumb sods, but it's their own damn fault for ratting out the boss' son. So he doesn't sympathize when they're hanging by their ankles being skinned alive in someone's slaughterhouse.
He flipped up the clasps to his suitcase and opened the lid. Inside a disassembled rifle laid snuggly on grey foam. He let a small smile play on his face and a wave of relief washed over him. This was the furthest he had traveled from home and his first job without Pete by his side. He'd be lying to himself if he said he wasn't nervous. But all worries seemed to dissipate when he had a rifle in hand. It was like a security blanket of sorts. With the target's location set and the room across from the café booked, it was all down to playing the waiting game. A game he was rather good at.
He set to work assembling the gun, keeping his eye on the restaurant below looking for any signs of the Turk. An hour went by with no indication of his arrival. He checked his watch every five minutes at this point while flexing his hands. This had to be the right place, he thought to himself. Another thirty minutes went by and his bladder was on the verge of bursting. Knowing my luck, he'll show up when I'm in the loo. Not long after he stood up a black Citroen pulled up outside the café and a sharply dressed man with slick black hair stepped out of the passenger side. Mundy pulled the mug shot out of his pocket and compared the faces. "Looks like we have a winner." His bladder decided that moment was the perfect time to double him over. Damn French coffee. He looked back and forth from the man now entering the café to the taunting bathroom door. "Ah shit," he said as he left his post near the window. After doing his business he came back out to see Malik was now accompanied by a gentleman who looked to be in his early thirties and…
"What the hell's a Sheila doin' here?" Well this was unexpected. The target sat with his back to Mundy but the angle was nothing short of awful. Any headshot would have risked hitting the girl as well. Normally this wouldn't bother him, but he'd never shot a girl before. She was young too, maybe a couple years younger than himself. She looked anxious to be there, what with all the nervous tics like tapping her foot and fiddling with the hem of her dress. Could be a prostitute? No, too conservative of a dress; and she was too nervous for that matter. Through his scope he watched as she slowly relaxed, drinking any wine she was offered and laughing at something funny the Turk was saying. He had to admit her smile was nice. "But you're still in the way, luv," he muttered to himself.
At some point the Turk stood up and left the table. Mundy panicked for a second, thinking he was leaving for good, but the other two remained seated. He repositioned himself to get a better angle, but the barrel of the rifle glinted in the sunlight. Next thing he knew the girl was looking straight at his window. He reacted in time to duck behind the wall and lower his rifle. A lump gathered in his throat as he waited what felt like ages before peeking around the corner. She was looking down at her dress with a dampened expression, but no indication that she saw him. He breathed a sigh of relief before setting up his position again.
The Turk returned to the table and it seemed their meeting was just starting to wrap up. His body broke into a sweat with fear that he would never get the shot. Malik shook hands with the other gentleman and did what Mundy had been waiting for a whole hour. The Turk leaned back, his neck out of line from the girl.
Small breath in.
Breathe out slowly.
Hold.
Click.
BANG.
Right through the Jugular.
A beat after the shot was fired he was breaking down his gun and placing the parts back in its case. Repetition and practiced speed made these actions a blur. His record for full disassembly was currently 14 seconds, but he was fumbling slightly from nerves. The next step in a job such as this was never his favorite. The running. Getting to another safe location before being spotted.
He shut the clasps on the case and dashed for the front door. Once in the hallway he stalled to find the door to the back stairwell. Running down a back hallway to the stairs he started the descent. He skipped steps in a frantic dash for the ground exit. Upon rounding a corner too fast he slammed into someone. He quickly grabbed their arm to keep them from falling, apologizing profusely the entire time.
He tried to maneuver past them, but when letting go of their sleeve he felt a slimy wetness cling to his fingers. Looking down at them he noticed. Blood? His gaze shot up and realized it was her. Her face was flushed and she panted heavily. Blood was smeared on her cheek, and her brown hair was disheveled and falling out of a bun under her headscarf. She directed her glance to his suitcase and some sliver of realization crossed her face. She looked back up at him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.
"C'est vous?" she blurted as she furrowed her brows in confusion. He made to move around her, but she blocked the way with her body. "Était-ce vous?" She looked absolutely terrified.
Why does he look so terrified? He's an assassin, no? She was certain this was her guy. He couldn't have been much older than her. She didn't know what to expect but it certainly wasn't this. He was lanky, with short brown shaggy hair and moving out of that awkward pimply teenage look every boy seemed to have and maturing into a more adult guise.
He didn't respond to her yells, but when he tried to dodge past again she threw her body in front of him. What the hell am I doing? He seemed to be thinking the same thing for his expression turned to confusion, then frustration.
"Move," he growled. Her body refused to respond. She shook from the adrenaline and underlying fear, but she stood her ground.
"Non," she said defiantly. They stood there a few seconds eyeing each other over.
"I don't want to hurt ya," he spoke in a lower tone. His accent. British. No. Australian?
Her body was still unable to un-root itself, so she resorted to yelling at him again. "you're a bastard." She was thankful he didn't seem to understand French, but he was getting irate all the same.
"Bloody 'ell. I didn't want to do this." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a switchblade, pointing the tip directly at her throat. She stopped breathing and felt the blood drain from her face. Fumbling with her dress pocket she cursed at herself for leaving her own knife back at home. It didn't matter much though. Even if she had it, she'd be too frozen in fear to use it.
Mundy mentally cursed the stubbiness of the switchblade. It was a pathetic excuse for a knife. He'd have preferred his machete or kukri, but this little poker was the only thing he could slip through security without being asked a hundred questions. Why do you need a knife that big? Do you have other weapons on you? Can we check your bags? He didn't need that kind of attention. But the size didn't seem to matter, since it appeared he finally held the girl's undivided attention. He gestured with the knife for her to step aside. She waited a pregnant pause before slowly backing into the corner, her hands slightly raised in a gesture of surrender and not taking her eyes off the switchblade.
He didn't hesitate to run past her and down the remaining steps, pushing past the exit and sprinting down the back alley. The coast looked clear, as he started his trek down the main streets to another hideout. She mentally kicked herself for how stupid she was acting. What did she hope to accomplish? Get on Chris' good side? Show her papa she was ready for tougher jobs? She clung onto false hope at this point, but she also refused to give up. She was only trying to help. You stupid girl.
She waited a few seconds to hear the click of the exit door slide back into place before following his lead and running into the back alley. She barely caught sight of his back as he slipped out of view around a corner. She jogged over to the street he turned onto and peeked around the corner of the building. He had disappeared into thin air. Her head fell slightly. There's no point chasing him now. She slowly turned around and began her slow trudge of shame back to the restaurant.
"Chris is going to murder me."
A/N: I've completely redone the first two chapters of this story so it reads in 3rd person instead of 1st person. As someone pointed out it read too much like a role-play.
Also, I apologize in advance if this story is very OC heavy and I know it being an Alternative Universe/History fic disconnects it one step farther from canon. It's a story that's been stuck in my head for years. I started it in 2013, but quit because of doubts and now I'm picking it back up because I need some self-indulgence in my life. With all of this in mind, please be gentle with comments.