Chapter 3

State of Play

The evening was filled with the sounds of at least a dozen car alarms, set off by the shock of the explosions. The nearby cars' flaring and fading lights provided a source of intermittent illumination for the horrific tableau. She barely registered the screeching cars at the roundabout behind her, or the car horns sounding as drivers suddenly braked or tried to pull away.

Drawing herself upright, Mireille slowly walked around from behind the Aston Martin. She hesitantly walked towards the wreckage, staring wide-eyed at the destruction. She winced with the sound of gunfire, but it was becoming less frequent.

Looking over at other cars parked on the traffic island, she saw nearly all of them had suffered broken windscreens and headlight covers. Many bore some other form of shrapnel damage: dents, scratches, gouges, cracks. The trees on the traffic island were likewise scarred by flying shrapnel. Amongst the debris on the street were the twisted but recognisable shapes of rifles or submachine guns that had been flung from the truck.

Some bodies had been thrown away from the truck in the explosion. To her right, she saw Morgan lying unmoving on his back, his right shoulder impaled by a piece of the box compartment from the truck. Blood soaked the entire front of his shirt. Another body could be seen further up, near the Audi.

All Mireille could do was stare. In spite of her training, her time spent under the tutelage of a competent assassin, she suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of vulnerability, of defencelessness.

She was alone. Alone, and afraid. She was in a situation she had not anticipated and could not control, with no-one to help or guide her. Dumbstruck, she couldn't recall if any of Claude's training scenarios had anything like this. Maybe they did, and she just couldn't remember...

She saw a figure lying on the pavement nearby. Mireille found herself drawn to the figure, walking slowly and steadily towards it. It was if her legs were moving of their own accord; she didn't want to go there, fearing what she would see, but still she walked. She tried to turn away, but her head remained fixed, looking at the body on the ground as she approached.

The dark-clad figure lay on its chest, the jacket and pants torn, limbs askew. Mireille bent over, crouched, and turned the figure over.

Half of the man's face was soaked in blood, oozing from a massive gash on his right temple. His eyes were closed. Blood trickled from his ears and the corner of his mouth.

His eyes flew open. The whites of his eyes were red.

Mireille jumped back, startled. She wanted to turn away, but her head was fixed. His eyes seemed to bore into her. She found herself frozen, fixed to the spot, unable to move.

He looked at her for a second, and finally said in a strained voice, "You did this."

Mireille's eyes flew open as she awoke abruptly. She sat up and turned her head, looking about frantically, her heart pounding, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

Everything was as it was before. She was sleeping on the floor of her apartment in Paris, in a sleeping bag. The furniture and walls were still riddled with bullet holes, and several windows were still shattered. A short distance away was the sound of traffic on the streets. Closer was her own breathing, and that of Kirika, who was lying in the bed.

The next time Mireille awoke, it was morning. The sky outside was blue. The traffic was louder, consistent with rush hour. She pulled herself up to prepare breakfast.

While the porridge simmered on the stove, Mireille looked around the apartment. Her gaze finally settled on her Walther P99, lying on the pool table in its leather shoulder holster. Frowning to herself, she walked over to it and pulled it out.

Ejecting the magazine, she pulled back the slide. No round in the chamber.

She found herself studying her weapon, turning it over in her hands, looking at it from different angles. Treating it as a tool, she had nearly forgotten what it actually was – a memento. A reminder of her first failure, it was the same make and model as that carried by a man she had unwittingly killed as a result of her impatience. A man who had unwittingly reminded her that her real goal was revenge, and had unintentionally showed her where a path of revenge went.

She had ultimately ignored him, continuing to kill as she searched for her answers. While she took little pleasure in killing, and constantly denied to herself that revenge was a motivation or consideration, she quickly realised that the man had been right: he had pointed out that it was about her and a desire for revenge that she had been denied. Once she realised that, she had never forgiven herself for it, but it was too late; although she still possessed a desire to not harm an innocent, she was fast becoming jaded. This was the path she had chosen for herself, and she would now walk it as best she could.

Kirika twitched, the blanket rustling. Remembering the porridge, Mireille set the pistol on the pool table and rushed back to the kitchen.

At least it was a path she no longer had to walk alone.

Seated at the edge of the bed, Mireille gently applied the dressing. Beside her, Kirika twitched as the new bandage was pressed to her still-sensitive abdomen. With the new bandage in place, Mireille secured it with the adhesive tape before leaning back, nodding and smiling. Her work finished, Kirika offered a faint smile.

It had been just under a week since that confrontation at the Manor. With Altena and a good number of her followers dead, the faction of the Soldats that had sought to hunt them down and subject them to trials for the purpose of raising a pair of Noir agents was in disarray, if not stopped dead in its tracks. Not that they escaped unscathed; both of them bore various cuts, lacerations, scrapes and bruises, and Kirika suffered a gunshot wound to her abdomen. Fortunately for Kirika, Mireille knew a doctor in Paris who was familiar with her and her line of work, as well as several other assassins and mercenaries based in France, and treated Kirika with no questions asked.

Kirika was recovering nicely; the wound was almost closed, but she still needed something to grip when pulling herself up from a lying or prone position, which she did slowly and painfully. The doctor had recommended bed rest for another two weeks at least, with no strenuous activity for another two weeks after that.

Thus far, they had been left alone. Fortunately for them, the Soldats' High Council had been disinterested in simply killing them that evening at the Manor; maybe it was a form of gratitude for eliminating Altena.

Mireille sighed before she stood up from the bed, looking out the window. From their travels and findings, the Soldats had a substantial influence on society from the shadows, at least in Europe and possibly in other Western countries as well. It was possible high-ranking military officials, directors of companies, and even politicians were either Soldats themselves or under the influence, overt or otherwise, of Soldats. That sort of influence, if true, made them a significant threat.

Mireille had made no secret of the fact that she considered the Soldats as a whole her enemy. It was entirely possible, therefore, that they were being watched right now; it would, she reflected, be foolish to allow a pair of assassins with knowledge of the Soldats, especially knowledge as deep and detailed as that which they possessed, to go about unchecked.

Given what they knew, Mireille had come to two assumptions regarding their current position with the Soldats: either they were willing to simply observe and not interfere, or they were waiting for an opportunity to quickly and quietly kill them. In the latter case, which she suspected was more likely, it was simply a question of who would make the first move. However, Mireille did not want to endanger Kirika while she was still injured, so any acts of aggression against the Soldats – should she choose to take such action – would have to wait. For now.

In the meantime, however, Kirika needed more bandages. Mireille got up and smiled warmly at Kirika. "It's time for me to go and get those bandages now. I've been putting it off for two days, and we need groceries as well. We've practically run out of milk, amongst other things."

Kirika nodded. "Okay."