J. Redmerski: Behind The Hands That Kill

“It is not my job either,” I came back, and then spit blood onto the floor because my mouth was filling up with it.

“Not even to save your own life?” he asked, cocking his head to the other side.

“If that was what this was about,” I said, “then yes, Artemis would be dead already.” It was a lie.

“ Artemis ,” he echoed, as if satisfied hearing me call her by her name. His smile deepened; a sinister light danced in his eyes.

It was in this moment that I began to realize what was going on, but all of the pieces were not coming to me fast enough. I was too disoriented by the blows to my head to figure it all out as quickly as I normally would. But what I did figure out was that this man wanted me to kill Artemis because he—or someone—thought I had developed feelings for her. Yes, I was being tested by The Order. Yet, there were still holes in my theory. Who the hell was Osiris? As far as I knew he was not part of The Order.

“I cannot kill the girl,” I said.

“Why not?” Osiris came back; he looked at me with the gaze of a man who enjoyed being right. “Is it difficult for you to take a bitch out, Victor Faust? Or is it just difficult for you to take this particular bitch out?” He smirked.

“No,” I answered without hesitation, and I felt Artemis stir again at my feet. “I cannot and will not kill her, or anyone else, because you tell me to.”

“But it’s to save your life,” he tried to explain, and I saw his confidence begin to waver.

“No,” I continued, “you are not here to kill me, whether I kill Artemis or not. You have made it very clear that this is a test. You can’t kill me”—(I was pulling at strings; I was not sure if any of this was true, but I could not let Osiris know my doubts)—“or you would have done it already.”

Osiris stood and shoved his gun into the back of his pants; his black leather jacket concealed it.

“So,” he said, coming toward me, “you’re saying that if someone above you, from The Order, was to walk in here and tell you to put that bitch out of her misery—”

“Your use of expletives,” I cut in, blood dripping from my bottom lip, “makes it difficult to take you seriously.”

Osiris’s left brow rose higher than the other.

“How so?” he said, quietly offended.

Casually I answered, “Because, quite frankly, I feel as though I am dealing with someone of, shall I say, inadequate education.” (Osiris’s nostrils flared.) “Or do you just have something against women?”

I glimpsed Osiris’s fist amid the spots before my eyes, and then the world blinked out.

Ice. Victor said he was going to get some ice. And he did come back with a bucket of ice from the vending area. The issue I have with it was that it took him fifteen minutes—the machine is at the end of the hall—and when he came back into our hotel room and set the bucket on the table, he left again. Said he had to run to the store. Bullshit.

Victor is a good liar—he kinda has to be doing what he does. But when it comes to me I’ve noticed over the time we’ve been together, the man can’t lie for shit anymore. And it’s hilarious.

The only question now is: Where the hell did he really go, and what exactly is it that he’s doing? We’re supposed to be on vacation. We’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves, setting aside the whole killing thing for one week. I should’ve known it was too good to be true, that a real vacation like normal everyday people have, wasn’t at all realistic. He’s probably in the hotel somewhere—probably has a whole setup in another room on another floor—checking his emails, phone messages, things like that in which have absolutely no place on a vacation. Maybe I’ll follow him next time he leaves the room. I’d love to catch him in the act. The I’m-sorry-sex would be awesome.

The door to our room opens and in walks the love of my life, tall and groomed with severe features that make him look both sexy and dangerous, kindhearted and merciless. He’s wearing a pair of loose-fitting khaki pants and a black Polo shirt. And flip-flops. Flip-flops! I never thought I’d see something like that—better chance seeing a nun in a bikini.

“Where have you been?” I step away from the wide open sliding glass door that leads onto the balcony, and I go back into the room.

“I had to take care of something,” he says, walking toward me with some kind of purpose. He grabs me by the arms and pulls me toward him, presses his lips against mine—oh, that kind of purpose. His kiss is long and rough; I can feel his big hands tightening around my arms, his fingertips pressing into my skin. Then he lifts me into his arms, my bare legs wrapped around his waist, my butt in his hands, and he carries me over to the bed, throws me down against it.

“What’s gotten into you?” I ask, coiling my fingers around fistfuls of his shirt as he crawls on top of me.

Victor dips his head, kisses me harder, pulls my bottom lip with his teeth. Damn…

“Nothing,” he says, and a second before he kisses me again, he pauses and looks down into my eyes with curiosity. “Do you want me to stop?”

Hell no…

With his shirt still clenched in my hands, I pull him down on top of me, covering his mouth with mine; I wrap my legs around his sculpted waist. Feverishly he kisses me, the way he knows I like it: aggressive and dominant. His hands explore my body, searching the barrier of my bikini bottoms, and while I’m getting lost in Victor, wanting him in every way imaginable, something occurs to me and I stop, my hands wound within his short hair, I grip tight enough to get his attention, and pull his head away.

He looks down at me with confusion.

I look up at him with accusation.

“What is wrong?” he asks.

Inhaling deeply, I take his scent in one more time, just to be sure.

“Izabel, what is it?”

Pressing the palms of my hands against his chest, I start to push him away, needing to get out from underneath him, but he won’t let me.

“I smell it on you,” I say, and sigh with disappointment.

With his hands pressed into the mattress on both sides of me, holding up his weight, Victor glances at his shirt, sniffs lightly, then looks back at me, still with a look of question. “You smell what on me?”

“You know exactly what I smell.” I manage to worm my way out from underneath him.

He sits upright on the edge of the bed; I can feel his eyes on me from behind as I step into my skirt.

“Izabel,” he says, “I’m sorry, but I do not know what you are talking about.”

I turn around to face him. “Oh come on, Victor,” I say, “don’t make it worse by lying to me—that’ll piss me off more than what you did.”

“What did I do ?” He seems genuinely confused. But I know better. “Tell me—”

“You killed someone,” I say, slipping my arms into my shirt. “I can smell the gun smoke, or nitroglycerin, or whatever it’s called on your clothes.”

His shoulders rise and fall along with his act.

Shaking my head, I say, “That’s why we came here, isn’t it?” He doesn’t respond—and he doesn’t have to—so I go on. “I wondered why you picked Venezuela, of all places, to take our vacation. Nothing against Venezuela, but I can think of a few places I’d rather go—that’s why you shot down The Bahamas.” Stepping into my flip-flops, I turn to him and ask, “So who was it? How much was this job worth?”

“Fifty-five thousand,” he answers.

My eyebrows crumple under wrinkles of confusion. Fifty-five thousand? That can’t be right; Victor never takes a job under one hundred thousand anymore.