******
march
She flips her hair over her shoulder, the wet sticky strands cool against her shoulder, dampening her flimsy pajama top. Black, this time. She reaches for the wide paddle brush on the bed beside her, looking at the broken-off hairs running through it, brown and red and chestnut and black. She squeezes her eyes shut and pulls it through her hair, pulling harder when it meets a tangle, welcoming the mild pain that tugs at her scalp.
The illusion must be its best today. Perfect.
She matches the black hair to the black skirt (silk, and knee-length) and beaded black top (tasteful). She slips on black heels (tall, with laces) and pulls her still-damp hair into a knot. She works with it, strand by strand, wrapping and curling and twisting into an elaborate design atop her head. Kohl for her eyes, and simple gloss on her lips. Mascara, almost too much.
The clothes are a size smaller than she used to wear, but she's rebounding from last year. A part of her hates that, hates any notion she could learn to thrive in her new life (if she could choose to call it that). But she puts these thoughts aside, smoothing her skirt and adjusting her top, careful to cover the scar snaking up her chest.
She tries it in the mirror, the smile, the flirtatious laugh. They feel strange on her lips, for a moment she thinks she's inheriting her father's stone face. But she tosses her head and squares her shoulders and tries again, the expressions coming more naturally now. She knows she could fake them, she could just think of him, but she will not. She cannot lose focus tonight.
The air outside is cool and humid and holds a smell she can only describe as Madrid-in-early-spring. She makes her way down the uneven sidewalk and arrives at the gates of the house, music and laughter and light spilling through. She's ushered by a maid into the center courtyard, hung with lanterns and lights and already full of more people than it can hold. A long table lines one side, full of tapas of every kind, and on the other side three men chop fruit and pop corks and make a large production of the sangria.
She sees her target near the center fountain, surrounded by several businessmen and two women with large eyes and (fake) breasts. She moves through the crowd quickly, unobtrusively, and by the time he looks up she's almost at his side.
His lips part and his hands shake, the greatest look of shock she's ever seen from him. She smiles, sidling up to him, one hand on his bare forearm and another against his back.
"It's good to see you again, Senor."
He sucks in breath, eyes darting toward the exits as he searches for a reply. She addresses herself to his companions.
"May I borrow my colleague for a moment?" The men step aside to give them a path; the bimbos glare. She smiles and at the men, swishing her hips as they pass. She does not speak to her companion until they are outside. She takes him out the back entrance, into the narrow alley. Only then does she transfer the knife at his back to his throat.
"I was informed you were dead," Sark says.
"You were informed wrong."
"What is it you want?"
"The location of Sloane's warehouse."
"You're sadly misinformed. Mr. Sloane and I are no longer associates."
"Which is why you know the location."
"And you think I would give it up so easily?" She sees him about to move, and drives the point of her heel into his foot.
"I'm willing to resort to other means." Her dark eyes glint; she knows the look in them is not the same as it used to be.
******
april
Traveling with a prisoner proved to be even harder than she expected. He argued and cajoled and kept up his superior airs for nine days, until something snapped, perhaps it was her, perhaps it was his vision of her. Either way, he talked, spilling out the directions in cryptic phrases, and she was creative in thinking of threats should the information prove false.
She assured him he was going with her to the warehouse; he would risk his own deception. She worried, at nights, what she would do with him when she was done. She was dead, and had to stay that way, and he would certainly make the most of that information.
She was relieved of her worry on early on a Tuesday morning, when he thought he heard her crying out in a nightmare and went for the gun. Too slow, and too late.
She left him where he fell, slumped over the flimsy fake-wood chair, silver knife still glinting where it protruded from his chest.
******
may
This left her to risk the warehouse alone, with no assurance his intel meant anything. She dresses in black pants and turtleneck (a rough approximation of BDUs) with heavy boots laced on her feet. Her heart pounds and her hands shake, and she has to stop in an alley three blocks away to catch her breath. She leans against the wall, the brick rough against her cheek and still warm from the scorching sun.
She closes her eyes and pictures his face, smiling, the warm green eyes looking into hers. The brick is suddenly cooler, damp against her cheek, and she pulls away, drawing her arm across her eyes.
She is a dead woman, and this is not a life. So what if the intel proves false? There's nothing more they can do to her. She draws her breath and begins moving, keeping low to the ground, rounding the corner.
She can see three guards, and one sniper across the street. She goes for the sniper first. She enters the building through the fire exit, moving silently up the stairs. She reaches his door and peers through the narrow crack; he has not stirred. He must be bored; glass soda bottles litter the floor, along with greasy food wrappers and what must be a week's supply of porn. He has one magazine propped just below the window, and she doubts his eyes are on the warehouse. She clenches her jaw. She could have taken him out from the street.
She brings up her gun with one hand and flings open the door with another. He slumps over his rifle; never suspected a thing.
She shoves him aside, his body falls off the plastic milk crate and onto the floor, pool of blood growing beneath him. She kneels down to the rifle; it's a far better weapon than hers. A couple adjustments and the first guard is in her sights, she squeezes the trigger twice. His cry alerts the second guard, who begins running for cover and is much harder to target. She needs three shots to bring him down.
Sloane got his guards too cheap. The third, guarding the rear alley, hears the shots and rounds the corner, gun drawn, never anticipating they might come from above. He's the easiest one yet.
She's out the door and back down the stairs, two at a time, not caring who hears. She'll have a better chance of survival if she gets out of this building.
Back on the street, she crouches behind a dumpster, ignoring the smell of greasy animal fat from within. She watches the warehouse for ten minutes, fifteen, and nothing happens. Crouching low, she crosses the street, gun drawn.
Sloane should have hired better security. She stops in front of the corrugated metal door, protected by a cheap combination lock. This isn't right. She searches more closely, careful to touch nothing, and she sees it. A tiny bubble of glass at the base of the concrete, an invisible trip line certain to be deadly. She steps back, crouching low, and begins to walk around the perimeter of the building.
She discovers the key at the first corner, a place attractive for anyone who might try to cut through the wall. Another bubble, another glass eye. This one different -- a tiny piece of transmitter, a wire too short to signal far. She smiles; this might be exactly what she's looking for. She continues her search around the perimeter, and in the rear alley she finds it. A faint rectangle on the outer concrete, extending back under the building: the sign of a basement walled in.
She pulls a small package from her belt and goes to work. She spent most of her money on it, some if the finest explosive on the black market. She places one small cube at each of the building's four corners (a few inches away from the trip lines), attaches the coordinating microchips, and runs. She runs for five blocks before she slows down, crossing into a residential area, attracting attention from men on breaks and children on bikes and women hanging laundry out the windows. She runs for almost a mile (that's the limit) then stops as quickly as she'd begun. She reaches into the pocket on her belt, and presses the button.
The explosion forces everyone on the street to stop and look around, but it's not nearly as satisfying as what happens next -- four seconds after the initial blast, there's a second, one that shudders like an earthquake and makes the first detonation feel like a firecracker. The noise is deafening and windows rattle, and amidst the cries and the screams and the rushing of people to get back indoors, Sydney smiles.
Underground explosives -- so much like Sloane. If he can't hold on to his possessions, he'd rather no one have them at all.