Jacqueline studied the thin file in her hands. She never got to see the thicker ones. The real ones. This one had so much blacked out that she wondered why they'd even bothered. The name 'Jules' cropped up again and again, along with highly sanitized versions of atrocities committed.
"I don't understand. This is a star center. Why call me off the bench to do them?" There wasn't even a photograph. How the hell was she supposed to find and kill this person?
"We're not," her handler replied. Jacqueline looked up at him, confused. "We're sending Killian." Killian had once been a star center. Then that botched job last summer had left him circling the drain and praying for a second chance, while the powers that be decided what to do with him.
"We have to assume Killian's cover is blown, after the clusterfuck in August. He's going in, but we don't expect him to come back. This 'Jules' will likely peg him immediately and dispose of him. Once he or she thinks the threat is over, that's where you come in. Use any of these, and the target will be dead within thirty seconds," he said, dumping several items on the desk. They looked like the contents of any woman's purse: a cheap, retractable click pen, lipstick, Tic-Tacs, Ice Breakers gum, a Bic lighter. Jacqueline picked up the lipstick, a question in her eyes.
"It's for you, not them. You're immune to that toxin." She nodded and picked up a tampon, both brows raised.
"For them. We don't know if Jules is male or female, remember. There's an Amtrak ticket there, cash, a burner phone that doesn't look like a burner phone. You have a sleeper car; the trip takes two days' time. We prefer you use the toxins, as they'll replicate a death by more natural causes, but do what you have to do. You've been trained. Just get the job done, Jack. Don't be a Killian."
***
Three days later, Jacqueline sat in the club car, sipping a glass of Chablis and massaging the sides of her nose where her reading glasses had pinched. Violet eyes were her only nod to beauty, and were typically hid behind brown contact lenses. Today was an exception; she'd torn her last left one this morning. She'd still seen Killian half a dozen times out of the corner of her eye, over the past several hours. And then, about a half hour ago, he'd gone to the restroom and never returned. With a heavy sigh, Jacqueline assumed he was now so much ground-up meat on the train tracks about a mile back. Picking her book back up off the tabletop, she turned sideways, leaned her back against the window, and propped her outstretched, crossed legs across the bench seat next to her, making sure no one sat down there. She had two days to find Jules, and wasn't in any hurry.
"Mind if I sit here? I'm quite done with that little shite kicking the back of my seat over there," said a baritone voice with a hint of Irish in it. Jacqueline looked up into a face that had fallen out of the pretty tree and smacked every branch on the way down.
"Heh, sure. Not sure why they let the little monsters into the club car anyway," she said, sipping from her glass once more just for the opportunity to steal another look at him. Why did this have to be a work trip? A heave of a regretful breath, and then she was lifting her book again.
"Vonnegut? He's one of my favorite American authors. Tells it how it is...at least how he sees it. The one you've got there is indeed good, but if you can get your hands on one of his less-popular ones, you'd be in for a treat. It's called 'Slap-"
"...-stick'. That's my favorite book! No one I know has read it, because it's so-"
"...damned depressing?" His laugh tickled her spine. "Aye. That's what makes it so wonderful."
Jacqueline smiled and offered her hand. "Jack." Something flashed in his eyes, and her smile widened. "It's short for Jacqueline." There was never a need to lie about her identity when it came up; the reason for her success wasn't because she was so good at killing, no. It was because she was a ghost. No family, few friends, no social media. She rarely left the house at all.
The man across from her returned the smile, his warm hand enveloping hers. "A pleasure. I'm Julian. Although, if we're going with nicknames, I suppose you should call me 'Jules'." Jacqueline's hand squeezed his in a reaction that she hoped was perceived as friendly or flirtatious rather than one of surprise. This was her target? Her stomach did a slow roll. She'd killed a dozen people so far, and a couple had even been attractive, but this was different. He was different. Interesting. She wanted to talk to him and get to know him, not poison, stab, or end him. Her chest squeezed down on her lungs and she forced a large breath, picked up her glass, and finished off her wine.
"Pleasure is mine, Jules. If you'll excuse me? I need to visit the little girls' room," she said, standing. Purse strapped onto her shoulder, she moved down the aisle, looking back once as she slid the door between cars closed. He was watching her, and something about the look on his face reminded her of the feeling in her chest.
Once inside the restroom, she fished around inside of her purse and found the lipstick. It was a brown she wouldn't normally wear, but it only served to make more noticeable the purplish coloring of her irises. She applied it, then studied herself in the mirror for several long minutes.
If nothing else, she would get to kiss him.
Moments later, she was returning to her seat. She couldn't do this in public. Lure him back to her sleeper car? She began calculating in her head how far she could get before their lips had to touch. Something about this Jules had her wanting as much time as she could have with him before the deed was done.
"I could use more wine. How about you, Jules? You a drinker?" She smiled at him. It would go so much easier if he drank. Hell, she'd have to drink more just to be able to do the job. Ten more, if she had to also deal with the little shit now running up and down the aisle.
"Now, aren't you just being polite? What gave it away? Course, could use a drink," Jules replied. "Figure there are much better places to wet our beaks. Ones without so many distractions. Could have a bottle brought back to my sleeper. Wait a tick. You don't mind a red do ya?" His hand landed on her knee then, a physical question mark asking her about more than just her drink of choice. She glanced down at it as her pulse quickened. Killing someone never sped her heart rate, but this man's hand on her did. Why did she have to put on the damn lipstick so fast?
"Lest 'course you'd rather listen to wee terrorists," he said, indicating the heathen now singing off-key as he thumped the backs of the seats each time he passed. Jack couldn't get up fast enough. She missed the hand on her knee, and reached for his fingers instead.
"Lead the way," she said as the porter approached with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Jules grinned and did as requested, heading through the club car and down the narrow hallways to his sleeper. The porter uncorked the bottle, set two glasses down, poured for them, then left with the generous tip that Jules offered. Jack stared at the wine a moment, then looked back up at Jules.
"I…" so very much don't want to do this. "I suppose you know I'm not here for the wine," she said, stepping closer. Her fingers tightened on his as she leaned even closer, her lips now an inch away. On an exhale of her breath, Jules' pupils dilated and she felt something cold and hard against her neck, followed by a sting that only the sharpest of blades could produce.
He had her.
Regret had her fingers finally dropping from his other hand, but she couldn't resist the temptation of dragging the back of her hand down his upper thigh as she lowered it. Jules flinched, the blade pressing harder into her throat before he regained his composure.
"Aconite? Effective, sure, but it smells, you know. Bit amateurish, Jack."
"Another five minutes and you'd be calling me something quite the opposite, Julian," she said, leaning into the blade even harder. If his face was the last thing she'd ever see, she fully intended to drown in it.
"I don't understand. This is a star center. Why call me off the bench to do them?" There wasn't even a photograph. How the hell was she supposed to find and kill this person?
"We're not," her handler replied. Jacqueline looked up at him, confused. "We're sending Killian." Killian had once been a star center. Then that botched job last summer had left him circling the drain and praying for a second chance, while the powers that be decided what to do with him.
"We have to assume Killian's cover is blown, after the clusterfuck in August. He's going in, but we don't expect him to come back. This 'Jules' will likely peg him immediately and dispose of him. Once he or she thinks the threat is over, that's where you come in. Use any of these, and the target will be dead within thirty seconds," he said, dumping several items on the desk. They looked like the contents of any woman's purse: a cheap, retractable click pen, lipstick, Tic-Tacs, Ice Breakers gum, a Bic lighter. Jacqueline picked up the lipstick, a question in her eyes.
"It's for you, not them. You're immune to that toxin." She nodded and picked up a tampon, both brows raised.
"For them. We don't know if Jules is male or female, remember. There's an Amtrak ticket there, cash, a burner phone that doesn't look like a burner phone. You have a sleeper car; the trip takes two days' time. We prefer you use the toxins, as they'll replicate a death by more natural causes, but do what you have to do. You've been trained. Just get the job done, Jack. Don't be a Killian."
***
Three days later, Jacqueline sat in the club car, sipping a glass of Chablis and massaging the sides of her nose where her reading glasses had pinched. Violet eyes were her only nod to beauty, and were typically hid behind brown contact lenses. Today was an exception; she'd torn her last left one this morning. She'd still seen Killian half a dozen times out of the corner of her eye, over the past several hours. And then, about a half hour ago, he'd gone to the restroom and never returned. With a heavy sigh, Jacqueline assumed he was now so much ground-up meat on the train tracks about a mile back. Picking her book back up off the tabletop, she turned sideways, leaned her back against the window, and propped her outstretched, crossed legs across the bench seat next to her, making sure no one sat down there. She had two days to find Jules, and wasn't in any hurry.
"Mind if I sit here? I'm quite done with that little shite kicking the back of my seat over there," said a baritone voice with a hint of Irish in it. Jacqueline looked up into a face that had fallen out of the pretty tree and smacked every branch on the way down.
"Heh, sure. Not sure why they let the little monsters into the club car anyway," she said, sipping from her glass once more just for the opportunity to steal another look at him. Why did this have to be a work trip? A heave of a regretful breath, and then she was lifting her book again.
"Vonnegut? He's one of my favorite American authors. Tells it how it is...at least how he sees it. The one you've got there is indeed good, but if you can get your hands on one of his less-popular ones, you'd be in for a treat. It's called 'Slap-"
"...-stick'. That's my favorite book! No one I know has read it, because it's so-"
"...damned depressing?" His laugh tickled her spine. "Aye. That's what makes it so wonderful."
Jacqueline smiled and offered her hand. "Jack." Something flashed in his eyes, and her smile widened. "It's short for Jacqueline." There was never a need to lie about her identity when it came up; the reason for her success wasn't because she was so good at killing, no. It was because she was a ghost. No family, few friends, no social media. She rarely left the house at all.
The man across from her returned the smile, his warm hand enveloping hers. "A pleasure. I'm Julian. Although, if we're going with nicknames, I suppose you should call me 'Jules'." Jacqueline's hand squeezed his in a reaction that she hoped was perceived as friendly or flirtatious rather than one of surprise. This was her target? Her stomach did a slow roll. She'd killed a dozen people so far, and a couple had even been attractive, but this was different. He was different. Interesting. She wanted to talk to him and get to know him, not poison, stab, or end him. Her chest squeezed down on her lungs and she forced a large breath, picked up her glass, and finished off her wine.
"Pleasure is mine, Jules. If you'll excuse me? I need to visit the little girls' room," she said, standing. Purse strapped onto her shoulder, she moved down the aisle, looking back once as she slid the door between cars closed. He was watching her, and something about the look on his face reminded her of the feeling in her chest.
Once inside the restroom, she fished around inside of her purse and found the lipstick. It was a brown she wouldn't normally wear, but it only served to make more noticeable the purplish coloring of her irises. She applied it, then studied herself in the mirror for several long minutes.
If nothing else, she would get to kiss him.
Moments later, she was returning to her seat. She couldn't do this in public. Lure him back to her sleeper car? She began calculating in her head how far she could get before their lips had to touch. Something about this Jules had her wanting as much time as she could have with him before the deed was done.
"I could use more wine. How about you, Jules? You a drinker?" She smiled at him. It would go so much easier if he drank. Hell, she'd have to drink more just to be able to do the job. Ten more, if she had to also deal with the little shit now running up and down the aisle.
"Now, aren't you just being polite? What gave it away? Course, could use a drink," Jules replied. "Figure there are much better places to wet our beaks. Ones without so many distractions. Could have a bottle brought back to my sleeper. Wait a tick. You don't mind a red do ya?" His hand landed on her knee then, a physical question mark asking her about more than just her drink of choice. She glanced down at it as her pulse quickened. Killing someone never sped her heart rate, but this man's hand on her did. Why did she have to put on the damn lipstick so fast?
"Lest 'course you'd rather listen to wee terrorists," he said, indicating the heathen now singing off-key as he thumped the backs of the seats each time he passed. Jack couldn't get up fast enough. She missed the hand on her knee, and reached for his fingers instead.
"Lead the way," she said as the porter approached with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Jules grinned and did as requested, heading through the club car and down the narrow hallways to his sleeper. The porter uncorked the bottle, set two glasses down, poured for them, then left with the generous tip that Jules offered. Jack stared at the wine a moment, then looked back up at Jules.
"I…" so very much don't want to do this. "I suppose you know I'm not here for the wine," she said, stepping closer. Her fingers tightened on his as she leaned even closer, her lips now an inch away. On an exhale of her breath, Jules' pupils dilated and she felt something cold and hard against her neck, followed by a sting that only the sharpest of blades could produce.
He had her.
Regret had her fingers finally dropping from his other hand, but she couldn't resist the temptation of dragging the back of her hand down his upper thigh as she lowered it. Jules flinched, the blade pressing harder into her throat before he regained his composure.
"Aconite? Effective, sure, but it smells, you know. Bit amateurish, Jack."
"Another five minutes and you'd be calling me something quite the opposite, Julian," she said, leaning into the blade even harder. If his face was the last thing she'd ever see, she fully intended to drown in it.