AH THE GOOD LIFE
The location where Pax now hung her hat was fairly secluded. She had been living out here for about three months and her small bungalow was the only house for miles. She didn't mind. Not one for socializing, she didn't give a shit. All the people on the entire planet could disappear [well, maybe Spankie could hang around for kicks] and she wouldn't have shed a tear. She wasn't sure who pulled the strings to get this setup for her, but she'd like to thank him or her profusely. She had the tiny house and a strip of beach that was all her own. She dug the shit out of this place and spent hours tooling around her small strip of beach. However, her patience had begun to poop out on her. The isolation had been nice for four whole weeks. After that, it had gotten annoying, and now, it was unbearable. Spankie and the upper brass of every law enforcement agency in the fucking country told her that she would need to hide out here for about six months. Obviously, this place was a halfway house of sorts for agents on the decline or those in transition. She had been pissed to the extreme when she hadn't gone to Miami as she wanted, but that would come later, when they figured out what to do with her. For now, they kept her hidden away as if she were some type of horrid secret that no one needed to know about. Of course, there were certain people who would probably prefer that she stay gone forever. Sighing, she drove the thought out of her mind. The one thing she had learned above all others, being completely alone meant all the time in the fucking world to meet oneself, to exorcise every demon inside, and to listen to ones own bitching, pissing, and moaning. In that solitary time unbroken by another person, she had discovered a few things here and there about herself, things that she hadn't realized, didn't want to realize. It was too much. All alone, some of her crassness had disappeared [well, not fucking all of it] basically because there was no one around to feel the brunt of her verbal abuse. What? Jonella Paxton? Just in it for shock value? No, uh uh, never. It was no damn fun being alone. She hadn't ever thought that before, but she also hadn't ever been completely alone either, had she? She hadn't been alone with her thoughts, with nothing to do other than reevaluate every little thing she had done in her life. Was this your fucking purpose, Spankie? Was this why you insisted I take this help? Why sure it was. She hadn't been exactly blind to that, though, had she? Hadn't a little tiny part of her known what this would mean?
UGH. What the fuck was happening to her? Why the fuck was she driving herself insane? Goddamn it. What was it about those weeks waiting to leave that needled her? Why the fuck hadn't Spankie kept his goddamn hands and dick to himself? Jonella Paxton wasn't a woman who found herself confused very often. She hated confusion, would take it out and beat it senselessly if given a chance. She needed to break away from this solitary shit to escape the confusion, but she had three more months of this sorry shit. She didn't know if she could make it. Her feet had begun to itch and she needed to move. Yet, someone was monitoring every move she made. The CIA, FBI, VHF, VHS, DVD, every acronym in fucking America, was watching her. It was unnerving and unwelcome. She couldn't take three more months of this, she absolutely couldn't. If she had to continue to brood over this shit with Spankie, she might run off screaming into the night. She wouldn't need to go to Miami; she'd end up in a straight jacket. The little psychoanalyst in her mind began picking at her. So, tell me Pax, why is it that you came back a few months ago? Why was it that you pushed Spankie Donovan's buttons? Why was it that you pushed his buttons when you knew him before? Very interesting developments here. Yuck. Fuck off Sigmund fucking Fraud. This was something she didn't need. She had made a bad move the first night she came to him. Even though he summoned her, she could have backed off, could have stopped fucking with his mind. It wasn't necessary. She knew what her job had been, knew what she came in to do, but she didn't do it, did she? She toyed with people, fucked with their emotions, and got herself in a shitload of trouble. It wasn't that she was turning over some new reformed leaf, but goddamn it, it stank to high heaven, and she fucking didn't know what to do. She wasn't some ditzy assed bitch who would fall over in a dead faint when touched by Spankie Frankie. However, she did find that he pushed as many of her buttons as she did his. The solitary time had fucking made her all mushy and shit. She had to get the fuck out of here. She had to find a way.
* * *
Weizmulder sat in the comfort of his Chicago hotel room. He had arrived a few days before his former colleague departed for her 'sabbatical.' Before his plans were interrupted, he had been intent on finishing his cleaning job on Pax, the target, and Frank Donovan. He had no official word to do the deed. It was just something he felt obligated to do. After all, the crazy sons-of-bitches had gotten away without issue one clouding them. It wasn't how this job was supposed to work. Hell, Pax knew this. She had been with the Death Angels a few fucking years. She knew the score. Once an op lost his/her nerve, it was down the tubes for him/her. He often wondered why orders hadn't been sent to eliminate Donovan anyway. Of course, the stoic SOG leader hadn't exactly been an assassin, but there were secrets locked away in Donovan's closet, secrets that should have led him down into a pit. Yet, he had been protected a bit, shielded some how. Weiz never understood. Interestingly enough, he was gazing down at the "Donovan file" that had been unofficially gathered and kept until three or four months ago. It had suddenly become an active and warranted file. Orders had come down, official orders. Frank Donovan, ex-CIA agent, ex-K & R man, had run shit out of luck. His cleaning was eminent. It would prove touchy and difficult, but Weiz wasn't too bad. He was given the option of handing this assignment to one of his subordinates, but he declined. He wanted this job, felt it his duty to take him out. Besides, Donovan might not meet his demise as quickly with someone else. Too many mistakes had been made already, and he couldn't afford any other. Right now, Pax and the former Mrs. Donovan were given a reprieve.
Like Pax, part of Weiz had difficulties with this grisly job, but when agents delved into the AOP world, their minds were sort of brainwashed. They took on the mentality of a combat solider. They never thought of their hits as 'victims,' they were more like 'units.' It was the only way to stay sane. The Angels were above detection and punishment for any deed they had done. Yet, they were also privy to certain information. Weiz knew where Pax was; he knew where she was going, and he liked it that way. If she ever discovered who the next hit was, she'd go to Donovan and help the fucker out. He didn't need that to happen, either. Weiz had been watching Donovan for a while, just outside the realm of discovery. Any slight mistake and the SOG leader would be on him. It was apparent that he and Pax had a 'thing.' He'd seen Donovan coming and going at Pax's hotel quite regularly. The boys on the inside had given him a brief lowdown of their relationship as well. They hadn't exactly provided photos of the coupling, but had given him enough information for him to determine that Pax did have a soft spot for her "Spankie." In fact, all of what was happening to Pax was Donovan's doing. No one really wanted to help out Pax. If an Angel screwed up, he/she was basically shunned. It was a brotherhood kind of thing. If one failed at his/her job, he/she wasn't part of the family anymore. Sorry, you messed up. We can't do anything for you. Bye bye now. Whatever the case, Donovan's name was now on his top ten list of greatest hits [pun intended]. If he could keep Pax out of it, his job would run much more smoothly. As long as she wasn't informed [and he doubted she would be], there would be little interference. He sighed a bit and then chuckled. If Pax hadn't fucked up the Ellis hit, he might have given Donovan to her. That would have gone beautifully, wouldn't it? Stay out of it, Pax. Stay out of it, and let me do this. Don't get up in my face. Just don't.
* * *
Pax lay in the bed that was fashionably covered with mosquito netting. What the fuck was its purpose? Like the fucking bungalow wasn't air-conditioned or some shit and could freeze out the most mutant of bloodsuckers. It was a useless piece of shit attached to aggravate. She hated the fucking thing, hated it so much that she was tempted to rip it down and burn it. However, she couldn't trash this fucked up halfway house. Someone would eventually need it. It was relatively early, probably no later than seven if that. Three more fucking months. Three more goddamn fucking months. She wanted someone to come so she could fucking beg them to take her onward. She didn't need a six-month safe house. She needed to get to Miami, get anywhere but here. Groaning and cursing incoherently, she dragged her body out of bed and got tangled up in the netting. Viciously, she swung at it, pulling and yanking. She didn't manage to pull it down, but she gave it a piece of her fucking mind. Stupid ass shit. Since there were no other people around her, she didn't get in any big hurry to put on her clothes. Even though Angels were discouraged from doing it, she had always slept without benefit of attire. Where are you going to hide your weapon, Weiz had asked. Up your asshole? The only time she had bothered with clothing at all was when she was smack up against Spankie in the jungle. Spankie. Ugh. Gross. Change the mind. Change the pattern. Go somewhere else. She slipped quietly out of the tiny bedroom and moved into the kitchen. Her throat was parched. Had she been having nightmares? She only awoke with a dried out throat if she had been having night terrors and awoke screaming or some shit. No. There was no reason for her to have any night terrors. She opened the refrigerator, the cold push of air hitting her naked body like a fist, and she reached inside for a bottle of juice. She screwed off the cap, turned up the bottle, and drank deeply.
A knock on the door made her choke on her mouthful of juice and she felt it dribbling down her chin, plopping on her chest. What the fuck? She put the juice back in the fridge and approached the front of the house. There was a super spy peephole in the door and she peered out it cautiously. She recognized the man outside easily enough, but she had no idea why he had come to her. She darted back into the bedroom and snagged a tee shirt, throwing it impatiently over her head. She didn't have a fucking weapon, but her fists would do in a pinch. She swung the door open and fixed her eyes coldly on her 'other' lead op. He was the 'legitimate' one, so to speak. He was one of the head honchos who didn't want to help her out without prompting from Donovan. She didn't say a word. She stood back, tense and upset. If he made one move toward her, she'd kick his fucking ass. Pax stepped back carefully, never taking her eyes off the fuck. The last time she saw him, there were dozens of other stone faces lurking about. Now he had returned to her alone. She had never known him to be an Angel, but none of them really knew about the others. They only knew if they were summoned by them or paired with them, and that was very rare. She eyed the man carefully, sizing him up, trying to see if he was packing. He appeared clean, but she didn't trust these fuckers as far as she could throw them. She backed away further, planting her hands on her hips. She stared at her former lead op with a look of distaste on her face.
"So, Dicky, what do you want," Pax demanded suspiciously.
Richard Martin had been with the CIA for almost fifteen years. He had worked with both Pax and Donovan when they were still partners. Back then, he had yet to earn his lead op status. He had known of Pax's double life within the agency, but he hadn't said word one about it. It wasn't his place. Besides, Robert Weizmulder wasn't a man to reckon with. Martin wasn't exactly afraid of the Death Angel leader, but it was always best to keep one's nose out of AOP business. If not, there might be a cleaning ordered. "Pax, I need to talk to you."
She stared at him, never allowing the suspicion to leave her. He was tall, probably taller than Spankie, with steel gray hair and eyes the same disturbing shade. "About what, Dicky? Did you wait until the security was down a bit before you returned to fucking take me out? Did you clean out all the surveillance? Go ahead," she said with her arms outstretched, "I'm totally defenseless, no weapons, no nothing. If you want to shoot me, go for it."
He shook his head. "Pax, I have no desire to shoot you. If I did, I wouldn't have wasted any energy helping Frank set this up for you. However, I should do it. After all, you're a double agent, now aren't you?" He sighed. "Sorry, Pax, my mind is off track here. There are a few things I have dug up about your pal, Weiz."
"Weiz? Where is the fuck? I know he's still with the agency. What's he doing now? Sending in a pack of ops to hunt me down? He probably knows where I am. He can come get me any time."
"No, Pax. Weiz won't come after you now. He won't even come after the original target, but he has new orders. In fact, if the Angels find out I'm here, I'm sure I'll be next on the list. I just needed to make you aware that new orders have been handed down. Weiz has the file, but I'm not sure who he's sending in unless he goes himself."
She gazed up at Dicky incredulously. "Who's the hit?"
He shook his head. "I don't know, I just know that Weiz was delivered a certain type of package. I saw it go out. It was a special FedEx package sealed with that black and yellow bumblebee tape shit. You were an AOP long enough to know what that means."
"Damn it," she spat. "The files. He has gotten a new one." What the fuck? She stared up at Dicky and her incredulous look returned. "Oh fuck me. Frank? Weiz is going after Frank?"
"Can't confirm or deny that, Pax, but you're free to jump to your own conclusions," he said as he crossed his arms over his chest.
"You smug fucking bastard," she spat. "He was one of yours and you can't do anything about it," she cried, enraged. "No, of course not, because inside those pants lurks a pussy. Is he being cleaned because of me? Because of my failure?"
"It was ordered, Pax. It has nothing to do with you." He shook his head. "Correction. It has little to do with you. There are probably a few things here and there, but not completely. I'm guessing this cleaning was probably in the works for a few months. I don't know any more than that and I can't warn Frank, but that doesn't mean you can't."
She let out a sound of disgust. "What the fuck are you talking about, Dicky? How in the fuck can I do shit locked away in this cock sucking safe house? Goddamn why are CIA men so fucking stupid?"
He laughed a little. "Pax, your mind is so revved up that you're not thinking. This is a CIA safe house, not at all affiliated with the FBI. Sure, Frank pulled in the feds, but they don't run this operation. As a lead, I can come in and out completely undetected. All I have to do is ask someone to flip a switch and voila…I'm here UC. Funny thing is, I could also do that for you. You're retired now, Pax, and you can tell Frank anything you wish and come out unscathed. We wiped your slate clean, as much as Frank's was. Do you understand? Perhaps we could become a little…oh I don't know…careless? Damn it, our retiree escaped. The solitary confinement drove her insane and she hightailed it away. You've gone UC before, haven't you? You could go UC again quite easily. If that's something you're interested in, I could arrange it. Just say the word, Pax. You can stay here for another three months, then ship on out to Miami. You can cross on over and live happily ever after. If you choose that road, someone might die. You're right, Pax, Frank was one of mine, but we have little control over the Angels. You should know that up close and personal like. What's your pleasure, Pax? Escape or sacrifice?"
"You're not fucking with me," she asked through a harsh whisper.
"Wish I were."
"Give me two days to prepare," she said.
* * *
Donovan sighed deeply as he reached out to knock on a door. After a few moments, he looked up as Remy opened the door. Of course, she wasn't surprised to see him; she had been expecting him. She stepped back and allowed him to enter the room. Donovan came inside her apartment and looked around. She had finally found her own place and had done a remarkable job decorating it. Although she had lived in the apartment for the better part of two months, he hadn't been over yet. Normally, she brought Stasia to him and picked her up. However, tonight, he asked to come over and she agreed. He was curious to see where she'd settled in and to check out if she had decided to make the residence permanent or temporary. Since their discussion a few months ago, she hadn't mentioned moving away again. He was certain she still had the same idea floating in her head, but she didn't want to mention it for fear of sending him off again. She closed the door behind him and stood near it with her arms crossed in front of her chest. Donovan turned toward her and noticed her stance. It had become one of her favorites.
"It's nice," he said. "Stasia?"
"She's sleeping." She moved away from the door and took a chair. "I'm glad you came to check out the place. I think Renata was happy to get rid of us," she said with a little smile. "She loves her niece but loves her privacy even more."
Donovan remained standing. He walked around the room, looking, pilfering, taking note of the new photos of their daughter displayed on the walls and on various shelves around the room. He felt so suddenly nosy…so suddenly…Pax. Shit. Why did he do this every time? With Pax, he had thought of nothing but Remy. With Remy, he thought of nothing but Pax. "I hope you have copies of these," Donovan said as he picked up one of the framed portraits. "I don't have them."
She nodded. "I do. Those are new. I had them taken a few weeks ago, but haven't had time to get them to you. Frank? Would you…like to stay for dinner?"
Although he wasn't sure what was ego and what wasn't, he thought there was a hidden meaning behind her invitation. This wasn't the first time since they'd divorced that she asked him out. He was once again struck by the image of being pulled in two different directions at once. He meant it when he said he chose not to choose. He simply wouldn't become entangled again just for their daughter's sake. It wasn't fair to any of them. "No, Remy. I can't. I have plans."
She nodded thoughtfully. "Okay," she said. Plans? What kind of plans do you have? She bit her tongue. She wanted to ask, wanted to know, but she didn't. The ground they had broken between them was still shaky. She wanted to push, but if she did, he'd drift further away. "Maybe some other time, then." She stood and moved toward the back of the apartment. He followed quietly behind her.
Their daughter was resting snuggly beneath her favorite blanket, her little hands tucked under her cheek. "I see she's still out," Donovan said with a smile.
"Yeah," she said. "I just put her down a half hour ago. She was cranky and needed sleep. I think she wanted to stay awake for you, but her little body just couldn't take it."
"That's okay," he said as he kissed two fingers and laid them against her cheek. "I can come back tomorrow if that's okay."
"You can come any time you want," she said softly.
Okay. Time to go. He had no intention of getting caught up in the moment, getting swept away by emotion and sex. He loved her, he truly did, but they couldn't simply make love and expect their relationship to go back to normal. If things were that easy, they could have done that months ago. "I should go." He stepped away from the crib and moved toward the small living room. Remy followed behind. Just before he reached for the doorknob, he turned to face his ex-wife. "I'll come back tomorrow to see her."
Her thoughtful little nod returned. "That's fine, Frank. Like I said, you're free to come and go as you please."
Unable to help it, he reached for her, and after a moment, his lips were on hers. The kiss was tentative at first, but grew passionate and deeper after the awkwardness dissipated. Her kiss felt natural and real. It wouldn't take much more for him to take her down to the floor and make mad love to her, but he broke the kiss before it could progress any further. "Good night, Remy," he said, whispering harshly before he made his exit.
Donovan went directly home from Remy's apartment. He had told her a little white lie, of course. He had no plans, but he couldn't stay with her. Releasing a deep sigh, he inserted his key into the lock and pushed the door open. He closed the door and reached for the light switch. Before his hand fell upon it, he was unexpectedly hit from behind. Whoever it was caught him off guard and they both tumbled to the floor. The body on top of his was light in weight, but not stamina. He turned abruptly to his side, throwing his assailant off him and to the floor. He whipped around suddenly, taking his gun into hand. The assailant kicked out, planting a foot in his stomach. He fell back with a startled 'oof.' Goddamn it. When he caught his breath, this fucker was going to be in a world of hurt. He rolled over on his stomach and reached for the leg of the fucker trying to crawl away. He used the fucker's leg as an anchor and he jerked his body up viciously, pouncing on top of the bastard whose last moments would be spent in excruciating pain. As soon as the full weight of his body was on top of the idiot, he heard an all too familiar voice.
"Getoffmeyoufuckingcrazyassedfucker," the voice spat, as if the command was one word.
He rose up just the slightest bit and peered down into the face of a snarling woman. "Pax? What the fuck," he spat.
Before she said a word to him, she caught him with a right hook on the jaw. "That's the fuck," she spat venomously. "Get off me!"