Page 23 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 4

I roll my eyes and nod. “Yeah, well. Viagra doesn’t come with a monthly stipend and tax deductions. C’mon, break time’s over. Don’t need my ass chewed again.”

The man across the courtyard stands with his arms crossed, and when he points at me, my stomach lurches.

“That guy. What’s his name?” I ask, dropping my gaze as I slide off the picnic table.

“It’s um. Dan … no. Dave … ah, shit. It’s D-something. Darren … no Dorian! Dorian Bertrand.”

Dorian Bertrand.

13

Ripley

Present day …

I stroll up to the bench beneath a tree across from the Picasso sculpture where a man sits with his back to me. A quick scan of the surroundings shows a young couple across the Plaza and an older couple walking a Shih Tzu.

Pigeons gather at the man’s feet where I take a seat at the opposite side of the bench and stare off. In my periphery, the man tosses a handful of crumbs onto the ground and the birds flock, snapping them up until there’s nothing left.

“There is a belief held by some that when a person is reincarnated, if they’ve fed pigeons in their previous life, they’ll never know hunger.” His deep voice carries over the cooing and flapping wings of the birds. Even in street clothes, he looks like a priest with his black button-down shirt, long black trench coat and slow, deliberate hand movements, like he’s offering communion to the birds.

“Sounds like someone getting duped out of a loaf of bread.”

The wrinkles in his cheek bunch with his smile. “You either don’t believe in reincarnation, or you think that karma’s a bunch of bullshit.”

“Neither. Everybody’s gotta eat. Even pigeons.” I blow out a breath and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Dorian’s given the order to go after Marchetti. It was Enzo who killed his nephew. Dorian sold the girl.” Rubbing my hands together, I glance over at him and back. “I’ll inform Jörgen. We’ll carry out the orders to kill Marchetti and take out Dorian after.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

I frown at that, unable to conjure a single fucking reason he’d be against it. “He sold the girl. He’s the traitor. He’s the one—”

“The girl’s father has requested that you pull out after Marchetti is eliminated. Your contract will be considered fulfilled. He’s satisfied that you’ve taken care of the men responsible for her death.”

I haven’t, though, and the tingle beneath my skin that tells me shit isn’t lining up right hits the back of my neck. “Why bother taking out Marchetti? Why not end it now?”

“You know better than to ask questions.” He tosses another handful of crumbs to the birds and when he rests his hand on his knee, I can’t help but eye the golden tiger ring. “You’ll be sent to Tamaulipas by week’s end. Contacts with the Zetas are in play, and we’ve found a place for you to stay. On the beach.”

“He’s asked me to kill a woman,” I say, ignoring his comment. “A girl. One of the Black Monarchs.”

The tiger-ringed hand slides across his lap, entwining his other, as he sits quietly, staring down toward the dispersing flock. “What reason does he have for killing the girl?”

I could tell him the truth, that she’s seen too much, but I don’t trust his response. “Enzo bought her. Planned to keep her.”

“She’s expendable then. We don’t need another mishap.” He doesn’t have to say anything more for me to know he’s talking about my sister. The time I went rogue and the Agency came after me. She was tortured in retaliation.

“I could send her off. Eliminate her from the equation.”

“My guess is that if a man like Dorian is looking to eliminate her entirely, she knows something that makes her a threat. Perhaps a threat to the Agency as well.”

“And if she isn’t?”

“Kill her anyway.” He tosses another handful of breadcrumbs to the pigeons that gather once more. “I need not remind you of the consequences if you fail to comply.”

* * *

I tip the bottle of cognac to the mouth of the glass where nothing comes out, and blow out a breath, pushing the glass away. Below me is a picture of my sister and I, standing at the front door of our home where I grew up. My arm is wrapped around her while her head is tipped back on a laugh—a loud, boisterous laugh that I’d always ragged on her about, telling her she’d wake the dead or shatter windows.

A smile stretches across my tired face as I recall that day, last day of summer before I’d go on to high school. Natalie would be at the middle school herself. Mom cried about it while taking this picture, always so worried for my younger sister. I told her all Natalie had to do was laugh and anything within earshot would drop in pain.