Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Seven: A Crack in the Door
I know I've mentioned how Liam acts like everyone's favorite constable before, but lately I've been thinking about someone Sands and Lynné might act like. And then it came to me: Dr. Hannibal Lecter. For anyone who's ever read the books or seen the movies (The Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal, Red Dragon), you may be able to see the resemblance. Hannibal usually kills his victims in a rather gruesome manner, unlike Sands and Lyn who mostly shoot people. But either way, all three of them can just walk away after committing a crime feeling no remorse whatsoever. And while they're doing the murdering, they're all very calm and placid as they go about it. It's eerie. o.o'
"You can come out now, sugar, the big bad Mafia man is long gone."
Sands sighed angrily when he didn't get an answer. Leaning casually against the wall next to the bathroom door, he crossed his arms over his chest, gun still in hand. Sudden footsteps from out in the hallway told him that his fellow agents' sleep had been interrupted by the sudden shootout.
He assumed his sister of the silent footsteps was probably out there as well. If someone was kneed in the crotch four floors down and they let out a cry of pain, then Lyn would hear them. Therefore, she must have heard the shots he had fired. And Zeb had to have heard them as well. He wondered vaguely what she was doing while she was taking her grand old time in the bathroom.
'Probably PMSing for all I know.'
And you know a lot about that sort of thing, if you catch my meaning.
Sands' eyes flashed dangerously. Unwillingly, his mind took him back to places he would rather not visit. Hell, he would've chosen to stay blind if it meant he would never have to see that country, that town, or that woman again. But the memories came flooding back to him, wanting to force him to remember. Try as he might, Sands was helpless not to.
He stood outside the bathroom in almost the exact same position but in a different hotel room on the other side of the world. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and waiting for someone to come out of the bathroom with growing impatience.
"Y'know," he had said, "I DO have other clients, all of whom are going to be turning down my offers and saying 'up yours, I'm outta here, fucker,' if I keep them waiting."
"Usted debería acostumbrarse a ello, entonces!" (You had better get used to it then!) yelled the voice of a woman. Her tone was slightly muffled due to the three or four inches of door between the two of them, yet the fury in her words let her anger be known.
"You're making too much of a big deal out of this, querida," Sands told her calmly, inspecting his fingernails.
"Es porque esto es un trato grande, ano!" (That's because it is a big deal, asshole!) she had shouted from her hideout.
Sands rolled his eyes, wishing she would stop with the Spanish. He had had to listen to the language all day every day since he had arrived in Mexico. From the gibbering peons in town to just about every one of his contacts, he had been forced to listen to them ramble on in Spanish and it was starting to grate on his nerves.
What he wanted to know was why everyone automatically assumed that he didn't speak the lingo. He could. Fluently, in fact. He just liked the feeling of satisfaction he got whenever he knew someone was going out of their way to use English while talking to him. He liked to keep them in the dark, so to speak, and lure them into thinking that he was just some stuck-up CIA agent from the good ol' US of A who hadn't a clue as to what they were saying.
"¿¡Por qué diablos le hizo la dejan entrar sobre nuestro plan!?" (Why the hell did you let her in on our plan!?) his female companion had demanded suddenly, breaking through his thoughts.
Glaring at the rough wooden door, as if trying to see through it, Sands inquired, "'Our plan?' Here I was thinking that the little scheme was all mine. Silly me."
There was silence on the other side of the door.
'Gosh, I don't know, honey. Maybe I let Lynné in on everything because the whole idea is to get her out of this godforsaken country. And even if that wasn't my main motive, I'd still tell her about it.'
Ah, don't fret about it. You know she doesn't like Lyn, plus she's on her peri --
'I'm aware, I'm aware,' Sands loudly told his mind. He sighed, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. 'That was a little obvious but thanks for the hint. I really needed it.'
Only trying to help, the voice had replied innocently.
". . . no puede creer que usted le dijo después de que ella pegó un tiro a mí!!" (. . . can't believe you told her after she shot me!!) his lady 'friend' had been saying when she unknowingly brought him out of his thoughts again.
"ATTEMPTED. She ATTEMPTED to shoot you," he reminded her calmly. "And, as I already told you, that's . . . Lyn's way of saying 'hi.' She's like that with everyone, I assure you."
Another pause.
"No confío en ella." (I don't trust her.)
"Nobody does," Sands had replied plainly. "Now that we've gotten that confirmed, why don't you come out of there and . . . maybe . . . we could have a quick one before I have to leave."
The door had swung open. Sands grinned, raising his eyebrows suggestively at the woman who stood before him with her dark eyes narrowed. Before any words could be exchanged, her hand lashed out. The next thing Sands knew, he was seeing stars and massaging the side of his face where a rush of fire had just grazed him. By the time his vision had cleared, Ajedrez had left the room, slamming the door behind her.
Sands ground his teeth together as the memory faded away, melting into the jumble of thoughts that was his mind. Why? WHY was this still happening? Despite his best efforts, he could not prevent those memories from unearthing themselves and forcing him to relive them. He wanted them gone, dead and buried, but the images of Mexico and Ajedrez and the Day of the Dead refused to let that happen. They were haunting them, and they weren't going to stop.
Unless . . . the voice ventured.
'Unless . . . ?' Sands echoed suspiciously.
You DO something about it.
'I've already TRIED doing something about it. No dice.'
I meant do something MORE. This is what happens when you don't talk this over with anyone. You need to consult someone 'else things are never gonna leave you alone.
The door to the bathroom moved before Sands could respond to his voice's suggestion. It was open just a crack, exposing half of a thin nose, several wisps of auburn hair, and a single green eye stretched with fear. Sands felt his eyebrows raise a fraction as he stared at Zebbidy's eclipsed face.
"Are you all right?" he asked finally, failing to sound concerned.
Zebbidy could only gaze up at him. She had never felt so afraid in her life, and that wasn't an exaggeration. What she didn't understand was why she felt like this now. She couldn't remember being this terror-stricken when she had been attacked in the elevator earlier that day. Actually, after that fiasco she had merely been annoyed and a little let down. But now she was truly scared and hiding behind three inches of cheap artificial wood, stiff and petrified.
A harsh sigh on the brink of annoyance brought her back to reality. Eyelashes fluttering nervously, she turned her attention to the impatient man just outside her "hideout." He was irritated, piqued at her lack of answer. Answer . . . had he asked a question?
Yes, Zebbidy decided, he must have. But what was it . . . ?
'Are you all right?'
If that was it, it would make sense . . . in a way. Sands didn't come off as the sort of person who would ask a question like that, however his voice had sounded so callous and uncaring. The man himself was so cold he was on the edge of freezing.
'Can't say he isn't attractive,' she admitted to herself and herself alone. 'Damnit, why do the pretty ones always turn out to be unfeeling bastards . . . ?
'That's unfair,' Zebbidy told herself, though she wasn't sure she believed half of it. 'I don't know him well; I only THINK I do. Though I can't remember the last time I was off about a person's entity . . .'
She blinked, now unable to keep herself from watching the agent who was now observing something off in the other direction. Never one to care for long hair on men, Zebbidy found herself approving of the way Sands managed to pull it off.
'So well, too,' she mused charitably.
Brushing the remark aside as a simple truth, Zebbidy continued to study the agent. After all, they were her thoughts, emphasis on 'HER.' She thought them up herself and unless she chose to voice them, they were kept private for all eternity.
'Yeah, right . . . and then you find out that practically everyone around you is psychic and the word "private" no longer has a meaning.'
Zebbidy let out an undetectable sigh. This really wasn't fair. Sands was captivating in more ways than one. She was sure most women ('And some men' she couldn't help but add) went for his looks first, but Zebbidy now found herself taking in his form, or rather his stance. He was only wearing a pair of loose fitting, black, flannel pants with . . . were those smiley faces? Goddamn him. She wondered mildly if he had chosen his outfit on purpose, but quickly shove the idea away with the label: 'paranoia.'
Sands' strange (if not slightly amusing) sleeping attire did allow her to view him more closely, however. The agent was of about average height, only a head taller than herself, she imagined. He was slightly muscular, but more on the slim side. In fact . . . if Zebbidy didn't know any better she'd swear he'd gotten thinner since the day they met.
'Stress, maybe?'
Taking a closer look at the agent's face, she noticed how strained he looked. Dark circles were painted just below each eye and he was leaning against the wall, but maybe that was just for comfort's sake. Other than the shadows, Sands seemed alert and ready, prepared to dive into action at a moment's notice. Zebbidy squinted, trying to get a better view from the pathetic hidey-hole that was the bathroom.
"What color are they? Your eyes," she found herself asking. She was surprised at how her voice had sounded. Her words had come out rough and haggard, much unlike the calm, silky way they usually were.
Sands didn't look at her, he only uttered one word in a low, voice that was almost a growl: "Why?"
Pushing the door the whole way open, Zebbidy entered the hallway, walking past him into the living room.
"No reason. Just . . . never mind."
As Zebbidy walked past the coffee table she spied several of Sands' own hand-rolled cigars lying on top of it. Letting one hand trail across the table with ease, she slipped one between her fingers and then sank down onto the couch, closing her eyes as she did so. Sands strode over to her, taking a seat in one of the armchairs on the other side of the coffee table. Cocking an eyebrow, he inquired:
"Light?"
"Please."
Sands retrieved a lighter from his pants' pocket, flipped it open, and in a matter of seconds a small flame had erupted from its end. Zebbidy didn't bother to wonder why he was carrying a cigarette lighter around in his pajamas aside from the thought that he was a bigger chain smoker than she was.
'Or maybe he smokes when he's got something on his mind . . .'
Sure enough, when she tossed the lighter back to him, Sands wasted no time in igniting a cigarette of his own. Zebbidy had no idea he had so many tattoos etched onto his body. She had noticed the ones on his hands: The three rectangles on one of his fingers and, oddly enough, a number three carved right between his thumb and index finger. But Sands' now bare chest gave her a clear view of the ones she had missed.
She was about to ask why he had gotten the one just above his heart, but the door that let out into the hallway suddenly flew open, smacking into the wall with a 'BANG!' that echoed throughout the suite. Zebbidy had to stop herself from letting out a scream of fright, bolting into the safety of Sands' bedroom, and locking the door behind her. It was only Lynné carrying a suitcase in one hand and a knapsack in the other. Sands looked at his sister questioningly.
"Are you finally leaving me or are you just sick of this hotel?" he asked.
Lynn's face pulled into a thin smile that was cold and mirthless.
"The latter. That and the fact that there are bound to be more of Poisson's goons lurking about, so unless we hightail it outta here –" she swung the knapsack up over her shoulder "– our ass is grass."
"Well, since I have no desire to have my ass turned into a lawn, I guess I'm going with you."
"Knew I wouldn't be able to get rid of you." Lyn shook her head in mock defeat. "All right, get your things together. You too, Miss Samhain."
"Are the others getting the equipment together?" Sands asked, starting to rise from the armchair.
Lyn snorted. "Those incompetents? Not here."
"Not here?" Sands repeated. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning . . . that their miserable little beings are no longer at this hotel. Probably dead, judging by the way my luck runs." She let out a small sigh with a shrug to go with it. "Oh well. Nothing lost."
Catching the expression on her face, she added reassuringly, "Don't be like that, you know it's true.
Sauntering over to her brother, she snatched the cigarette from between his fingers, put it in her own mouth, and, inhaling with deep relief, turned to leave.
"I'll be in the car."
Because he had taken his contacts out before he went to bed and since he flat-out refused to wear his glasses unless it was absolutely required, Sands goaded Liam into driving while he sat in the back with Lynné and Zebbidy. Both women sat on either side of him, the latter on his right and the former on his left. Zebbidy had her head pressed against the cool glass of the window as summer rain spattered against it.
"If those other agents are missing . . . shouldn't you be calling your boss . . . employers . . . whatever-the-hell-ya-call-'ems?" she murmured, her green eyes still focused on the rain outside.
"That's what I was debating over," Lyn told her, rubbing the bit of skin between her two dark eyebrows.
"Debating?" Zebbidy turned her head to the other woman, eyeing her with confusion.
"She usually debates before doing anything," Liam explained while Lynné mimed shooting an invisible person (undoubtedly some random CIA worker) in the head. He didn't think his partner would adapt well to having some half-a-stranger know how much she distrusted the CIA. If Zebbidy knew that (about Lyn or Sands) it would lead to questions, which would lead to explanations, which would lead to many, many uncomfortable events.
"So," Zebbidy said shortly, "how big are my chances of being assassinated again?"
"Well, not very if we find the right place to move you to," Sands told her, taking a cigarette from his pocket.
"To where exactly? Venice?"
"No," he replied, cigarette dangling from his mouth, "that's what the Poissons would expect. So you're staying in Paris."
"Oh."
'I'm never gonna get to go to Italy again . . .'
"We're just relocating you," Sands was saying while he lit up.
Looking even more dejected, Zebbidy sighed, "Another hotel . . ."
Sands shook his head, abandoning his search.
"Hopefully not."
"Oh," Zebbidy murmured again, appearing mildly stunned. "So . . . where are you sending me?"
"That's what I was wondering," Sands murmured, glancing sideways at Lynné, who let out an annoyed breath.
"Well . . . Dad's got that "friend of the family" with the small flat just outside of Paris, doesn't he? It's their summerhouse. I'm thinking that if we call them up and tell 'em who it is, that they'll be willing to give us a hand and hopefully without question."
"What if they do?" Liam asked from the driver's seat.
Lyn sighed, rolling her intense brown eyes in disdain.
"They won't if we tell them that we just arrived in Paris, can't find a hotel, and were wondering if we could use their place for the night."
Liam appeared a little stunned, though he supposed he shouldn't have been. After spending close to four years around Lynné, he thought he would have been used to the way she could whip up such believable lies on the spot.
He squinted, trying to see through the rain that was cluttering on the windshield. It was coming down harder now, falling in sheets and obstructing his vision, making it difficult to drive. But perhaps that was a good thing: If HE could barely see, then no one else could be fairing any better. And if they were being followed by more of Poisson's men, then the summer storm should be looked upon as a good thing.
"Hello, Mrs. Demio?" Lyn said into her cell phone. "This is Lynné Sands. I – yes, yes, the very same. Sorry I ruined your petunias but, I was ten at the time, so -- well, actually I'm not in the US at the moment. I'm in France, Paris, actually. . . . . Oh, it's just a vacation."
Covering the mouthpiece of the phone, Lyn muttered, "Nosey old bitch . . ." before returning to her conversation.
"What was that, Mrs. Demio? . . . . . Oh, well, actually we couldn't find a place to stay. . . . yeah, had a room booked at the Saint James, but when we got there, they'd given our rooms away to some celebrity, I forget who . . . . Oh, no, it probably wasn't him. I read somewhere that he's got his own place in Paris. A couple of places, actually. Anyway," Lyn pressed on, rolling her eyes yet managing to remain polite and completely civil towards her father's friend. "It's late, and no matter where we go, everywhere is booked – yes, that's EXACTLY what I was wondering. I hope I'm not being too imposing if I ask . . ."
Sands shook his head at her. His eyes wandered to his watch: 4:38 AM. Christ, no wonder his eyes were burning. Take too much time with the contacts in, combine it with sleep deprivation, add a dash of cigarette smoke in an enclosed space (like Fusco's SUV, for example), and he may as well have just set the bastards on fire.
If Lyn DID manage to cajole aging Mrs. Demio into lending them her place in Paris, then the first thing he was going to do was sleep. He didn't care if he only got through the front door and then conked out, he was going to sleep, damnit. Besides, if he didn't sooner or later, Lyn would start getting concerned and MAKE him go to bed. As much as he hated to admit it, his sister was one person he found not amusement in worrying.
"So it's all set?" Lyn was confirming, "You're sure it's not too much trouble? . . . . All right, Mrs. Demio, if you're sure. Thanks. Oh, and . . . I am sorry about the petunias. Deeply."
She hung up and smirked.
"I just had to mention that again."
Poor Sands (I seem to be saying that a lot lately). He's probably not going to have as nice a sleep as he wants, but he will eventually. I just have to keep giving him nightmares because of reasons I cannot explain now unless I want to risk giving a few things away. I'm also trying to put a few flashbacks dealing with Sands and Lynn's childhood in this story as well, but it's a lot harder than you'd think. In the first story, they'd made sense, but in this one they sort of don't. But, like I said, I'll try to find a way to throw some in somewhere. )
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
Dawnie-7: lol, my sister's done the same thing on various occasions. She always seems to be under the impression that I took something of hers, which I didn't. .O; Darn those siblings and their unfounded accusations.
DragonHunter200: Hah, well, I'm sure Sands had fun offing the guy, anyway. Yay! I made somebody nauseous! Lol, sorry, but that really was the effect I was going for, so to know I succeeded is an extreme ego-boost. Good to know Zeb's becoming a little more tolerable, too. She's really all right, once you get to know her.
Sands: (feigning disappointment) No one's ever said that about me . . .
Sidney: (dryly) Wonder why. -.9
vanillafluffy: That's probably the only way you'd get Sands to listen to reason, too. (snicker) Whack him with his third arm . . . knew that thing would come in handy one of these days. I think he does worry about his eyes, he probably just thinks that wearing his glasses would make him seem less dangerous and foreboding, the stubborn bastard. .o;; And as for personal experience . . . (looks thoughtful) Hmm . . .
Oh, and just in case anybody noticed, when Lynné was saying that some celebrity had taken her hotel room and how she didn't think it was 'him,' I give props to anyone who has an idea of who she was talking about. ;-)
o