Row
“I think you would like to go dancing.”
I sit up and brush a streak of dirt off my face. Looking up at whoever was just talking to me, I am momentarily blinded by the bright sun. I blink the glare out of my eyes and realize, goddamn it – it’s Stavros again. He stands there in a mostly unbuttoned polyester shirt, a gold chain partially hidden by his chest hair.
I would like to go dancing. But not with Stavros. And probably not the kind of dancing he means.
“No thanks, Stavros.” I smile up at him as sweetly as possible. His brow darkens and I cast around for a reason that won’t injure his fragile ego. Sigh. As a five foot nine curvy redhead, sometimes it seems like I have a Ph.D. in navigating fragile male egos. “We have a lot of work to do around here.”
I motion to the dig site and realize that I’m not lying. We do have a ton of work to do. Piles of dirt are mounded all over, flags indicating layers of excavation whip along in the breeze. And rolling out, beyond, is the acre of land that has yet to be excavated. I see the heads of the other four people on the team, my father’s included, bobbing up and down in their separate pits. It’s been a month since we unearthed the single tomb. The tomb of child. We’ve been trying to keep it as quiet as possible, but we believe it to be the tomb of a very important child.
A moment of eager anticipation rises up within me. And for a second I’m so excited I can’t breathe. All of our work, mine and my father’s, might finally be redeemed. If his calculations were right. If this is the right location. But more than redemption is my bone-deep curiosity. It’s what drove me to archaeology in the first place. I glance down at the single wrist bone I’m unearthing beneath me, at the shards of a three-thousand-year-old water urn spraying out beside it. How did that get there? Why did the pot break? What happened here? Questions burn through me. Questions that I can answer if I study the evidence for long enough.
“You’d rather dig in dirt like child than come to dance club and be woman?” Stavros’s question is like a pin in my balloon. “I can show you how to be woman. You only need real man for that. Not these science boys.” He gestures around to the other archaeologists on my team, diligently working and cataloguing their finds.
Ok, so archaeology is admittedly not very sexy. But come on. Show a little respect here. With that, my patience for Stavros has officially dissolved like a whisper in the wind. I plant my hands on my hips and cock my head to one side, wishing I weren’t standing three feet below him in a hole.
“I’m actually not digging in the dirt like a child. Considering that most children don’t hold two doctorate degrees. So actually, I’m digging in the dirt like a trained archaeologist.”
His frown deepens. But I’m not finished.
“And for the last time, Stavros, this is a registered archaeological site, as marked by the permits and all the rope keeping civilians out. And if you’ve stepped on something important with your tacky pleather shoes, then you’re about to see me lose my mortal mind on you.”
Apparently mentioning his shoes was going a little too far. Stavros narrows his eyes at me. “Careful who you threaten, little girl. You may be smart, but not smart enough to know how this town runs.”
He turns on his heel, deliberately kicking over my little stand of tools on his way out. I roll my eyes at his back and pretend it doesn’t bother me to be threatened like that.
“Would dancing have been so bad, Rowena?” My father stands in the dig site next to me, just his head poking out. He’s squirting water over his hands and face to rid them of the dust that is constantly caked on all of us. His question might sound judgmental to the untrained ear, but I know him. He’s genuinely asking me. My father is an archaeological genius, no joke, but he truly does not understand people at all. “You’ve always liked dancing.”
“Sure, Dad. I like the old, romantic Clark Gable kind of dancing. Not letting some guy rub his halfie against my ass in a dark sweaty basement club with a strobe light and dubstep.”
“Oh,” says my dad as he shrugs and looks around the site. I can tell he’s already stopped listening, he’s thinking about our site again. About the child, Iairos, whose remains we’re hoping to be unearthing any day now. He’s thinking about the whole reason we came to Greece.
# # #
Kennedy
I haven’t murdered anybody in years. But this guy doesn’t know that. He trembles in front of me like a little girl. Actually, the image of my little sister, Mara, flashes across my mind. All tough in her softball catcher’s gear, crouching over a plate. I realize that saying that this quivering, pathetic mass in front of me is like a little girl is an insult to Mara.
I’m pissed because this dipshit had me running all over France trying to track him down. And then he had me running all over this apartment complex, ducking and diving through the halls while I chased him down. I finally clotheslined him as he scampered past the laundry room and dragged him in here. Now I’m breathing hard, I’m sweaty, and there’s spilled laundry detergent on my new Jordans. Like I said, I’m pissed.
He must be able to see it in my face because the whiny baby falls to his knees. “I-I know who you are. Y-you’re that h-hit man. Kennedy Squire.”
I pistol whip the guy across the side of his face and he crumples to the cement floor. Two bloody teeth dribble out of his mouth.
“Don’t say my name, you fucking asshole.” There’s nobody around to hear him identify me, but still, how stupid could this guy be?
Stupid enough to skip town on Enrico Esposito, I guess. Which is why I’m currently standing over him, pointing the business end of a Ruger 1911 in his idiot face.
“Please don’t kill me,” he moans, covering his eyes with one hand like he’s a kid playing peek-a-boo.
I reach down and crank his head back so he has to listen to me nice and clearly. “I’m not going to kill you, dickhead.”
His eyes flicker open with something that looks foolishly like hope.
“But I am gonna bring you back to Esposito.”
The hope flickers out like a flashlight with low batteries. Intense fear immediately replaces it. “You can’t. You don’t understand. I had nothing to do with all that. He wants me for the wrong reasons. He’s got me confused with somebody else.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say and smack the guy across his already bruised face. “I’ve heard it all. And you’re starting to really piss me off. Look. You can walk to the car, or I can drag you. But either way you’re coming.”
I roll my eyes as the guy starts flailing in my arms, kicking and scratching to get away from me. These motherfuckers do the same thing every time. They all think they can get away. I slam my foot down on the guy’s chest, effectively pinning him to the floor. Reaching into my back pocket I pull out a syringe. His eyes dilate with panic as he watches me squirt a little of the liquid out.
“No! Don’t. I’ll pay you. I’ll-“
His voice fades into nothing as the medicine I just jammed into his thigh immediately starts to work. It really is the good shit. I sigh as I hoist his dead weight onto my shoulder.
I lug the guy out of the apartment complex. I don’t even care if there are witnesses. I’m a ghost. Esposito makes sure that I’m a ghost. This whole thing only works if I can breeze in and out of whatever countries he needs me to.
He hired me to be his tracer a few years ago. I used to be a hit man, and a damned good one, for a mobster named Greco. He was pretty much evil personified. He taught me everything I knew when I was just a kid. And then when I grew a conscience he started blackmailing me with my mother and my sister as collateral. He knew I would never do anything that would potentially harm them. So I took people out for years at his command.
When he was finally dead. When I finally got out of there, I vowed I would never kill again. But then, I also had about zero marketable skills. What the fuck was I gonna do? Intern somewhere? Shit, I didn’t even have a Facebook.
When Esposito tracked me down and asked me to be his skip tracer, it didn’t take long to accept. Tracking people down used to be the only good part of being a hit man. It’s like a game. A puzzle. The longer I stare at the pieces the clearer the information becomes.
I know that Esposito is no better than Greco. That the only reason he wants me to bring these people back alive is so that he can handle the dirty parts himself. Sick fuck. But as long as I get paid, and I don’t have to garrote anybody anymore, then I’m good.
Even though I’m grateful that I don’t have to murder people for a living anymore, I’m still champing at the bit to get this skip off my hands. I’ve been off on a long run. Skip after skip for damn near three weeks. At this point I’m champing at the bit to go back to New York to see my mother and my sister. My dad died a long time ago, so I try to get home once a month and change the light bulbs, make sure there aren’t boys sniffing around Mara yet. And who knows, if I have the time, maybe I’ll head back to Ireland for a week or two. Spend a little time with the woman I love. Trying not to drown myself over the fact that she’s happily married to my best friend. Anyways. Old news.
I use the burst of adrenaline that comes from thinking about her as I shove the guy into the trunk space of my SUV. I handcuff him to the back of one of the seats. Just in case he wakes up and decides to get cute.
As soon as I’m on the highway, racing toward the airport, I key in the number to my burner phone. Normally it’s just a voicemail that I get, no name, no number, just a beep. I leave a code that no one else knows on the voicemail and hang up. That way Esposito knows that it’s me and that the job is done. I can almost taste the freedom. I’m about to be off the job.
This time though, I’m surprised when a voice answers. Esposito himself. Heavy Brooklyn accent and all.
“Squire.”
“I’ve got him,” I say.
“Fine. Pull to the side of the highway now.”
How the fuck he knew I was driving on a lonely highway, I have no idea. But I don’t ask. I follow directions.
“Get out of the car,” his deep voice says in my ear.
I slide out of the car as a dude on a junker motorcycle pulls up behind me. My hand instantly goes to my Ruger, but Esposito speaks again in my ear.
“Stand down, Squire.”
The guy on the motorcycle pulls his helmet off, shaking his dark hair back. I don’t recognize him, but at the same time, I do. I’d know that expression anywhere. It was the same one I had on my face for years. Part dead, part unsurprised, part ready for anything. He must be a hit man.
“Mikhail will take the skip from here,” Esposito tells me.
I shrug. No skin off my teeth if Esposito wants to change the plan. I reach back into the SUV and pull out my small bag. Tossing the keys over to Mikhail, he does the same with the motorcycle keys and the helmet.
“Bike sticks in fourth gear,” Mikhail says to me in a thick Slavic accent before he slams into the SUV and tears away. And then it’s just me and the junker bike on the side of a lonely French highway.
“You have a new skip,” Esposito says to me as I walk a circle around the bike, trying to figure out if I even trust it enough to throw a leg over it. My heart plummets. I was really looking forward to seeing my sister. Slitting my wrists over a woman I can’t have. Then again, maybe work is a good thing.
I grunt to let Esposito know that I’ve heard him.
“You’ll find the information in the storage compartment of the bike. This one is important, Squire. I want it done, and I want it done cleanly. No loose ends. I want both of them back here in my compound in a week.”
Both? I’m rarely ever responsible for bringing back two skips at once. But I don’t question him. I just grunt again by way of an answer.
Esposito chuckles. “You’re a cold fucking fish, Squire. That’s why I’ve always liked you.”
The line goes dead, and I immediately crush the phone under my foot, kicking its pieces in about twelve different directions. Don’t need anybody tracing it. But maybe there’s a little bit of temper in there as I grind the last little piece of it into dust.
Another fucking job.
I take a deep breath and let the temper slide slickly out of me. What does it really matter in the long run?
I flick open the small storage compartment on the back of the bike and pull out one small piece of paper and a passport with my face on it, the name Dwight Jones stamped under it. This time I’m Canadian.
I scan my eyes down the paper. Looks like I’m headed to Greece.