Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Twenty: Collateral Damage
Grr . . . In the second scene of the last chapter, Liam was originally to have followed Zeb and Lyn into the kitchen, but I edited him out of it. Or at least . . . I thought I had. (scowls) He originally had only one line in that scene, so that explains why I took him out of it, however, I must not have edited as thoroughly as I thought because (after posting, of course 9.9;;) I detected several parts where I have Liam listed even though he shouldn't be there. Sorry if I confused anyone. Really, it's not that big a deal, I just happen to notice a lot of little things like this after I post and find it really irksome. I guess that slip up back in chapter nineteen was what "made me snap," so to speak.
Oh yes, one more thing, something that will hopefully explain the title of this chapter. Those of you who have seen and liked the movie 'Collateral' will find this chapter very entertaining.
Or at least . . . I hope you will. ;)
Sunlight warmed her face, turning the inside of her eyelids a reddish orange color and making them burn, but not badly. Actually, it was a rather pleasant feeling. Zebbidy was content to lay on the daybed the rest of the day. As always, however, she knew that wouldn't happen. But for now she could stay there. She was comfortable, after all, and it was still early. She wasn't going to be 'kidnapped' until noontime, anyway.
With a small sigh, she shifted on the large couch, letting her body sink into the cushions beneath her.
What on Earth . . . ? That's . . . not a cushion . . .
Even in her confusion she refused to open her eyes. The thoughts of more sleep were still promising and Zebbidy was hopeful. Instead, she traced her index finger along the unfamiliar material that lay beneath her. It wasn't the daybed; that was made of leather.
Poor cows . . . she thought with sympathetic tiredness.
She continued her search, now drawing small circles as she tried to figure out what the mystery fabric was. It was silk, that she determined, so that ruled the blanket out. The afghan covering her was made of a noticeably rougher material.
Suddenly, something stirred. An arm snaked its way around her torso and rested lightly on her hips. Zebbidy's eyes flew open. The events of the night before washed over her, unclogging her stopped memory.
Oh my gods . . . But . . . we didn't do anything, she assured herself sternly. I would've known if we'd done something, I always do. Every time. Damnit, how much did I drink last night??
One glance at the coffee table and three empty wine bottles told her everything.
Zebbidy started to move, but Sands wasn't about to let that happen. He tightened his hold on her, but not painfully so. It seemed as if his action was merely a reminder that he was still there, in control, and that she could still go back to sleep. That is, until he spoke.
"No, luv, don't be like that . . ." he complained in a worn English accent. His words were strung so tightly together they were nearly unintelligible. Zebbidy blinked. Carefully, she lifted her head off of his chest and attempted to steal a look at him. She was partially successful, managing to catch a glimpse of his free hand. It was waving around wildly, making flippant gestures without stopping once. If he wasn't careful, Zebbidy imagined as she watched his constantly moving hand, he was going to put an eye out.
"It wasn' me yeh saw, honestly. Yeh've got the wrong man, luv."
Wrong man? Confused an more than a little amused, Zebbidy tried to sit up, but Sands, or whoever he was in his dream, would have none of that.
"Listen, darling, I know yeh're angry but yeh've gotta believe me," he practically pleaded before taking a drag on a cigarette that only he could see. "Can this at least wait 'til later? The concert starts in five minutes an' I've no bloody idea where the stage is. This whole godforsaken place is like a maze."
"Um, Sands?" Zebbidy began uncertainly, not sure whether to be concerned or amused. The latter was much more favorable to her. She tried to keep her voice quiet, knowing that his hangover was bound to be as bad as hers, but when the agent didn't respond, she raised her voice a little.
"Sands?"
"I don't know why yeh're so –"
"Sands??" she demanded in a loud whisper.
Sands opened his eyes only to shut them almost immediately to shield them from the harsh sunlight.
Oh, shit . . . what did I do last night . . . ? he thought, eyes practically hissing with pain, which had nothing on the pounding in his head. It was a rare thing for him to suffer from alcohol-induced headaches but the fact that he rarely went out and got totally smashed probably had something to do with that. His eyes fell on the quartet of tall green bottles lined up on the coffee table and he had to fight to suppress a groan.
Everything was spinning horribly, especially his insides. He didn't want to move, that had to make things worse. Maybe if he just laid there and waited for the churning to subside . . .
"Are you all right?" someone asked. Sands could tell they were making sure to keep their voice soft, but even the low tones caused stabs of pain to throb in his head.
Instead of answering, he only nodded but soon stopped. Any kind of motion made his head hurt even more.
Seeing the grim expression on the man's face, Zebbidy was immediately touched with a bout of tenderness that she only received from seeing another in pain. She recognized the agent's symptoms straight away as a hangover – she was surprised she didn't have one herself – but he would recover before the day was up. The headaches and nausea he was undoubtedly feeling were bothersome, but hardly life threatening.
Zebbidy knew she wanted to comfort the man, bring solace to his ailing body, but she also knew that Sands would never accept it. Still, it never hurt to offer advice.
"Here," she said kindly, reaching up and taking his other hand away from his head. "Stay like this. I'm sure you're already aware, but you'll be fine. All you need is sleep."
"Yeah," Sands agreed, his words coming out in taunt gasps. "Yeah, I know . . . just . . . don't move . . . and we'll be peachy."
Smiling sympathetically, Zebbidy released his hand, draping her own arm across his stomach, something Sands found oddly consoling. Without saying a word she laid her head back down on his shoulder, fully intent on going back to sleep. She understood. Thank God. Breathing a sigh of relief, Sands closed his eyes.
Oooh . . . I can't believe y –
Shut up, Sands ordered, dangerously calm as always. Just shut up. Let me sleep for a couple of undisturbed hours and after that you can taunt me all you want.
He could practically see the voice's evil grin as it cackled maliciously, Deal.
The dark glasses hid her face, making her expression even more difficult to read. They also made everything around her a shade darker, but Lynné didn't mind. It was nighttime, and she was wearing her sunglasses. Not the rose pair or the blue pair, the black pair. The ones that were, she sometimes thought, her mask.
It was stupid to be wearing them at night. Lynné knew that. But they gave her a strange air and the title of mystery woman that she secretly relished. A small smirk on her face, she lifted a fork to her lips and sampled a bit of lettuce from her salad.
"Why are you wearing those glasses?"
Taking her dark eyes off of her salad to meet the blue ones of the man in front of her, Lynné felt the corners of her lips twitch very slightly. He had to be quite a few years older than she – mid thirties, perhaps – but at first glance his silvery hair would cause one to assume he was much older.
But his roots are darker gray, she noted, taking in his features.
Oh I'll bet he dyes it.
A man turning his hair gray on purpose? Lynné looked back up at him again, shifting the gun she had hidden below the table slightly. He didn't look dangerous, unlike Sands or herself, but something in his eyes – always the eyes – told her to keep her guard even higher than normal.
"You know Corey Hart?" she queried. She tapped her sunglasses. "Consider these my ode to him."
That, she added calmly, or a warning.
He was only there to do one of three things: Strike a deal, jump her guns, or kill her. Lynné had decided on the third option, which had to be the least appealing but it also fit her so-called dinner partner disturbingly well. Lyn, however, was not disturbed in the least.
And even if he wasn't intending to kill her he still wasn't going to get anything he wanted. However, it was late. She was tired. And killing him now would mean dragging the body out to her car, chucking him in a dumpster or ditch, and that would be messy. Plus, she wouldn't get to finish her salad. So she had settled for pouring a knockout drug issued by the CIA into both of their drinks – Thank God for immune systems. Soon she would be saying au revoir (or perhaps adiós would better fit the scene, this was Mexico after all) once he fell asleep and she'd be outta there. And now, all she had to do was . . . sit back . . . and watch it happen.
"So . . . what do you do for a living?" he asked, acting as though he really did want to know.
Lynné felt her eyebrow go up.
"You abandoned your barstool and what I'm sure was an incredibly intriguing conversation with the bartender to ask me what my job is?"
"No," he corrected calmly, "I asked you what you did for a living. I don't care about your job."
I already know what it is, anyway, he thought, remembering the profile he had of her on his laptop.
Beatrice Lynné SandsAge: 25
Occupation: Government employee
Place of Work: Central Intelligence Agency
Location: Cullican, Mexico
Several notes about the woman, all of which he found intriguing, along with several pictures, had followed this information. Those had to be the most interesting to him. In most pictures she had fine, straight, dark brown hair. But in a few others it was different. There was one where she had short, springy, bright, orange curls that made her look like a Little Orphan Annie who had gone through puberty and come out great. Then there was a photo in which she had on a huge blonde wig; real Dolly Parton-esque.
He gazed at her intently. Despite how much he already knew about her, he did not know one thing: Her eye color. They were brown, he knew that but he had never seen them. In every picture he had they were hidden behind sunglasses. Some red, some purple, some blue, and many black. But he could never see her eyes clearly, not even now when it was late at night. He wanted to know. Were they light? Dull? Flecked with gold? Dark – almost black, even?
Of course, he could always wait until after he killed her to know but by then the light that always lingers within a person's irises would have long since faded. He wouldn't know their true color if he saw them after she was dead. And so he waited. Sitting their, growing more agitated by the second – he wasn't done with his rounds – he waited for her to show him.
Lynné watched as the man across from her blinked rapidly. He looked as though he was trying to focus but couldn't. A small smile spread on Lyn's face. His blue orbs stared at her in confusion. He leaned back in his chair, slumped a little, and closed his eyes.
Lynné took a sip of her iced tea, dismissed her salad – they just couldn't make 'em to fit her tastes in Mexico – and tucked her gun safely inside her tote. She removed her third arm with ease, and, after stowing it inside her purse as well, rose from her seat. After tossing a wad of bills onto the (surprisingly clean) table, she took one last look at her would-be killer and strode out of the restaurant.
Slipping a person a sleeping drug while they weren't looking wasn't nearly as hard as they made it look in the movies. It was really very easy. Amazingly easy.
Oh, thank God for immune systems.
She sleeps with her eyes open. That's convenient.
She was in bed, her back to him, but he had moved around to better see the woman who he was supposed to kill. She had gotten the better of him. He knew she was CIA and he knew she was clever, but now he knew just how tricky she was. So that meant he would have to be more careful.
There was something about her that set him off. She was different from the other women he'd murdered. He'd been a hit man – though he preferred the name 'assassin' – for . . . wow. Almost three years? That wasn't very long, but looking at the number of people he'd killed . . . wow again. There were a lot. Funny how he'd never really stopped and thought about it before.
Oh well. Time to tally up another one . . .
He started to pull out one of his many guns, intent on offing this woman with a bullet to the head and two more to the chest just to make sure she was dead. His trademark, he liked to think.
With a disappointed mental sigh, Lynné withdrew her hand from underneath her pillow and cocked her gun at him. She didn't blink once. Slowly, she eased herself up into a sitting position, making sure to keep the weapon trained on him the entire time. Lyn allowed the thin blankets to slide off of her until they caught at the space between her bent legs and her waist. She cocked her head as if expecting him to explain himself.
"I thought I'd gotten through to you."
"Apparently not," he replied with a grin.
"Does it bother you that you were drugged by a woman? I mean, I know I would be. Especially if she were half my size. It's really gotta be . . . tuggin' on the ol' short and curlies, if ya catch my drift."
"I do, and it isn't," he assured her, still smiling slightly.
"Could you at least tell me why you're killing me?" she sighed looking bored out of her mind.
He looked puzzled.
"You mean you don't know?"
"Ah, no, I can't say that I do," she admitted idly. "Unless . . . you're not here to exact revenge on me, are you? Cuz I've invoked the thirst for vengeance in more people than I can count . . ."
"No," he answered honestly. "Revenge has nothing to do with this. I don't even know you, to be perfectly honest. I was just hired to kill you."
"Oh, oh, wait," Lyn said suddenly, holding up her free hand. "The drug lord sent you, didn't he?"
He shook his head, "No."
Now Lynné looked confused. She scowled up at him.
"Barillo didn't send you?"
"Barillo?" he asked, looking surprised. "I'm supposed to kill him."
"Nooo . . . I'm supposed to kill him. Or at least put a stop to his operations. My people will handle the whole killing process."
"Ahah . . . No they won't."
"Yes they will."
"Doubt that."
"Oh, I assure you," she said, raising the gun to meet his head, "if they don't, I certainly will."
What happened to him?
Even in her own head Lynné could not deny the emotions her thoughts held. What were they? Wondering? Sadness? Hurt?
Why, though? Why was she upset that a man who had been hired to kill her was gone?
You don't know that, her voice tried to assure her. That had been the strangest thing about her assassin: Both she and the voice had liked him.
Well, I had liked him. You on the other hand . . . you loved him.
I'm not gonna deny that since you seemed so keen on him too. But still . . . what the hell happened to him?
After an interesting argument in which she'd somehow wound up on the roof (Lyn thought she had tried to escape that way), her killer had cornered her and they talked. Freaking talked. Chatted the night away like a pair of . . . what? School girls? Teenagers?
A lovely young couple, perhaps? The voice muttered quietly, so quite that Lynné could barely hear it. She, however, chose to ignore whatever it had to say at the moment.
They had talked. For how long, she didn't know. But it was near morning before they had finally stopped. They had found out a lot about each other. He had already known so much – which was no comfort to Lynné but she had seen stranger – yet he had learned more. More about her personality, she imagined. And she had learned just as much about him as he had her, and she already knew a lot from their brief encounter in the restaurant. After the sun had risen, they had as well. They had reentered the house – he had rolled his eyes that she still didn't trust him but obliged and went through the window first.
They had stood in side her bedroom, him leaning up against the door, her against the wall beside the window. And he hadn't killed her. They hadn't killed each other. He had opened the door, told her he'd see her again, but not to put a bullet in her brain.
And then he'd left.
But he was right. You did see him again. You saw him a lot.
They had planned to leave, after the Barillo cartel had been taken care of, of course, but after that they had wanted to get out of Mexico. Combined, they both had enough cash to erase who they were and start anew in some other country.
Far, far away, the voice sighed, That woulda been nice. No more CIA, no more Mexico, no more cartels . . . Too bad you had to go and get YOUR FUCKING LEG CUT OFF!!!
Yeah, well, whaddaya gonna do?
Have sex with another man? it offered and Lynné got the strange feeling that it was 'looking' pointedly at Liam.
Well, she murmured coyly, glancing at the sleeping man next to her, the offer is tempting . . .
Sands' limbs were growing stiff. While sleep had evaded him, it hadn't overlooked his arm and shoulder. He wanted to move, but couldn't for that would mean waking Zebbidy. And he didn't want to do that.
Why not? the voice wondered innocently.
Upon hearing this, Sands let out a weary sigh, You said you'd leave me alone.
Oh, you know I'm never good at keeping promises.
He shifted slightly, not wanting to disturb the sleeping woman at his side, but wanting to relieve himself of the small pinpricks that were coursing through his arm.
As if sensing his dilemma, Zebbidy lowered her body slightly so her head was now resting on his chest instead. At once the pressure in his arm began to subside and Sands finally felt able to fall asleep. The voice, however, had other plans.
My, my, it observed interestedly. Doesn't this look familiar?
What are you getting at now? he groaned tiredly, sick of the voice and its constant riddles.
Her, it hinted, Ajedrez.
Oh Christ . . . Sands muttered. I'm ignoring you and going to bed. Goodbye.
Fine, it said breezily, You'll remember sooner or later.
As if the voice had pushed a button in his brain, a memory flooded his mind. A memory of he and Ajedrez in a bedroom with the cream colored sheets pulled up around them because they were both wearing nothing but their birthday suits.
He was lying in a bed, Ajedrez at his side, both of them in very much the same position as he and Zebbidy were now. One arm was hidden behind his head and the other he had hung around her waist casually. A slight smile spread across her face, Ajedrez calmly traced little circles on his bare chest with her long fingernails. The sensation made his skin tingle as though a million bugs were crawling along his body, but for some reason he said nothing.
She sat up, her smile still in place, and simply gazed down at him. Her drawing had ceased, much to his relief. Ajedrez must have noticed because she stuck out her lower lip, crushed.
"You didn't like it?" she pouted, secretly furious with him.
"Oh, no, babycakes," he assured her, "it was great, I'm just . . . not big on being a canvas for someone's claws."
Her smile widened, now more seductive than ever, and she carelessly began to mark outlines of shapes on his chest, seeming to have ignored everything he had said. Irritated, Sands swung his arm around, gathering both of her wrists in his hands and holding them tightly. With a tight-lipped smirk he warned, "I mean it, honey bunch. Don't do that."
He tossed her hands back to her, grinning coyly when he saw her brow furrow in frustration. Her anger deepening she swooped down on him, so close their faces were only a quarter of an inch apart. She leaned in, as if to kiss him, but instead whispered silkily into his ear,
"I'll do whatever I want."
Slowly, she took his face in her hands, caressing it carelessly and smiling benignly. Sands didn't mind her gentle touch until things got brutal. Fire glowing in her eyes, Ajedrez smiled and sunk her nails into him. Sands gasped involuntarily and moved to throw her off of him but she was too fast. In one swift movement, she had grabbed both of his arms and pinned them to his sides.
He tried to shoot her a furious glare but only managed to narrow his eyes in confusion. Ajedrez's smile was back on as soon as she saw this and she released his hands. Grateful, Sands tried to move but found that he could only flex his fingers. The rest of his body was frozen, as if being held down by unseen restraints.
Suddenly, she attacked. He tried to scream as she ripped and clawed at his face, but his mouth was sealed shut as well. Ajedrez's eyes sparkled as her talons shredded his skin. They were soon coated with flesh and blood but she didn't seem to mind. She would clean them after her job was done. Adrenaline racing through her body, she continued to tear and mangle the agent's visage until only a bloodied mass of scratches remained.
Sitting back to admire her work, Ajedrez listened halfheartedly to Sands' labored breathing. The agent had no idea what was going on, she was sure, and she nearly laughed at his idiocy. She restrained herself, however, when she saw that she wasn't finished yet.
His eyes still remained. Even buried deep within his mangled visage, the dark orbs shown bright with panic and demoralization. That simply would not do. She had to get rid of them.
Absentmindedly wiping her nails on the tainted bed sheets, she stared down at him, the picture of utter fear. Even with all of his cuts and scrapes he was still lovely, she mused. Suddenly livid, Ajedrez flung the blanket back down and launched herself at him, her sharp claws poised and ready.
Seeing what was coming and knowing it would be the last thing he would ever see, Sands felt his eyes widen and suddenly found himself very able to scream.
Sucking in painful gasps of air, Sands' eyes snapped open, terrified at what they had just witnessed.
Oh my God . . . he breathed raggedly, Oh my Christ . . . what the hell . . . was that
Finding himself shaking, he tried desperately to get a hold of himself before Zebbidy woke up. Zebbidy . . . oh shit . . .
Warily, Sands glanced down at Zebbidy's fingernails. Filed into neat points, the inch-long, expertly polished talons winked in the sunlight. Slowly, he lowered his head back down onto the spongy couch cushions, making a mental note to tell her to cut her nails when she woke up.
I miss having long nails. ( I had to cut them recently (stupid hangnails XP) so I think that's what inspired this chapter. Plus I noticed there hadn't been many dream sequences lately, especially ones with Ajedrez, so I wanted to fix that. But, dang it, I wanted Zeb's kidnapping in this one! Once again, however, I liked ending the chapter like that. Oy vey . . . guess that means you guys can tally on another chapter to this story, then, heh. Oh, and in case anybody's wondering (or anybody who's seen 'Collateral,' anyway) about Lynné's flashback, yes, that was who you're thinking about. I couldn't resist. u.u
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:Dawnie-7: lol, the college story was actually semi-based on a true occurrence. Only difference was it didn't happen at a college and it was a guy who put the stuff on his hands. He had been complaining about his hands being chapped so I gave him this free sample of what I thought was lotion. As it turns out . . . it wasn't. XD And, yes, Lynné laughed! O I dunno if that means the world's coming to an end of merely that pig's have learned how to fly. Or maybe it just shows that a little alcohol can be a good thing. Captain Jack is a perfect example. u.u
DragonHunter200: Thank you! Good to know that the scene was funny since I was really bent on making it entertaining. I've never been much of a Cruise fan myself. Actually, I think I've only see two of his movies, one being 'Collateral' and the other being 'Interview with a Vampire,' which I didn't even know he was in until a few days ago. Strange cuz I loved his character (Lestat) so much. Sadly, I got my copy of 'Where the Buffalo Roam' when my library was giving away books to make room for new ones. I'd tried looking for it on the Internet before but couldn't find it, not even on eBay O Sorry I couldn't be of more help. (
Lynx Ryder: Hmm . . . I know what you mean. Zeb doesn't seem to worried about being captured, but remember, she half-thought of the idea. Still, yeah, you'd think she'd be more uptight about it. I think mentally she'd be really worked up about the idea but then, with a little wine in her she'd be fine. And as for Sands not taking care of his eyes . . . (glares pointedly at Sands)
Sands: Doctor Liam's Brother can give me new ones if I fuck these up. u.u
Sidney: (shakes head) Men. It's times like these I wonder if I should become a feminine right's activist.
Sands: u.o Don't. Then I'd have to kill you.
fanfiction fanatic: Hey, nothing good can ever come from someone who condones in brainwashing the youth of America. O.o Oy vey, I'm gonna stop here before I start going on about government conspiracies again. Thanks for reviewing!
morph: lol, obviously she's gonna be nabbed in the one after. Like I said, I wanted to have her kidnapping in this one, but I liked ending this one where I stopped. 9.9;; I'm still working out what's gonna happen while she's at Poisson's. I have many ideas and I'm hoping to fit in all of 'em. )
o