Page 6 of Taming Achilles

It was all my fault. From one decision made more than twenty years ago was a path of regret and pain that I wasn’t sure I could stomach anymore.

The private elevator took me right to my foyer. Everything was opened with a key or code. I suppose I could choose to take the stairs, so that my legs could get a workout, but why bother? I wanted nothing more than to get into something that I could tangentially call a home and then get whopping drunk. Congratulations Callum and Lea on your union!

The elevator opened to my living room. A panorama view of the valley was framed by floor to ceiling windows in every direction. Metal and concrete was the decor of the day. Industrial chic, it was called, with white minimalism in all the leather furniture, square lamps and grey walls. Nothing but the best for a forward-thinking woman in today’s fashion scene.

My heels slipped on the concrete. It was a wonder how I hadn’t broken an ankle by now.

Fresh flowers, a bouquet of golden lilies, sat in the middle of the art déco table at the centre of the foyer. I dropped my keys and Yves St. Laurent purse by the vase, and laid a palm flat on the surface to support myself as I slipped off my heels.

I plucked the small white envelope among the stems.

“Spot on, Lady. Great women dress to the 9s.”

It was a convoluted message indeed. Ignore everything that wasn’t capitalised, and you got the letters S L G 9. Secure Line, G, to indicate the GMT time zone, and the number 9, to denote a time.

Through some quick maths in my head, I calculated that 9AM GMT would be 2AM in Los Angeles. I looked down at the blue face of my Rolex and pursed my lips. That gave me ten minutes.

I stepped into my closet, to the back where the longest clothes hung on velvet hangers. Evening gowns by Oscar De Larenta, the costume where I dressed as a swan princess for the Met Gala, and the custom red Valentina dress I had worn when my fiancé unceremoniously dumped me all hung in lovingly folded translucent bags. I slipped between them to the wall, found the latch near the corner and it opened inward, just enough for me to slip through.

I flipped the switch in the darkened space, and a haunting red glow lit the small cavern. It was barely the size of a coffin, but had enough room for a computer desk, a large monitor, and a safe underneath for my passports and cash.

I sat on the stool and powered everything up, and slipped into the secure server.

Jason Rhodes, Alex Baas’s security guard, had slipped the net. He had been working with one of the biggest corporate criminals that no one would ever know about. A man who cultivated the image of saving the world through medical innovation, but was really starting wars so that he could profit. And now, Rhodes was my task. To kill or capture, though my handler preferred I do the former, rather than the latter. Killing is actually less complicated.

Rhodes was a simple, lonely man. American. A member of their elite Delta Forces until some indiscretion had him drummed out. It was possibly related to a charge of domestic violence filed, then later rescinded, with the Fayetteville Police Department out of North Carolina.

His former girlfriend accused him of being obsessed. Of trying to impregnate her against her will and stalking her, and anyone she went on a date with. It seems that fixation that made him an adept killer for the American government made him an obsessed lover. Much like his obsession with his enemies, the attention was not wanted.

He flitted from contracting job to contracting job. Moving from this war zone to that, until he found his way into Alex Baas’ security detail. Then, as they often did, things continued to unravel.

Right on the dot, a scrambled voice of my handler, Victor, came through. “The window is closed for your cover.”

“Yes,” I answered, though it wasn’t necessary. He meant that I’d lost my opening to rise in titles, opening myself up into the peerage and to a higher echelon of British society. That’s why I had even gone to Callum, Baron of Strathlachlan, with our marriage arrangement. With tears in my eyes, I wept about loneliness, and how he and I could be friends, and maybe grow to love each other. Wasn’t that what marriage was? After all, it was more than what our parents had. They were a business arrangement, to mutually support each other’s rise in society. At least Callum and I liked each other.

Well, we used to.

“How will you complete your missions, Pegasus?” His voice was irritated, even with the scrambler.

I shook my head, thankful this wasn’t a video call. I still hated that code name.

He was questioning my usefulness to the organisation. To the Circus, our slang for MI6, the British secret service, and our particular department affectionately termed the Sideshow. We were a special wing of deep cover assets.

How could I continue to gather information, and be more of an asset than a liability to my masters who sat behind a desk in Vauxhall Cross? I wasn’t sure.

And if I was more of a liability, then I would be eliminated. There was no termination of employment for people like me. Liabilities were removed from existence. That was the deal.

Any hint of help, or maybe even concern, would have been appreciated from Victor, but no. That wasn’t the Vauxhall way. And it definitely wasn’t Victor’s way. They provide the problems, you provide the solutions.

“With the utmost due diligence.” Be British, Pip. Casual. British. Assured. Stiff upper lip. Don’t let them know you’re sweating.

“See that you do so.” I could imagine him scowling on the other end. That familiar, aged face and grey hair looking like a vampire in his leather desk chair, among his tapestries and hardbound books.

I sniffed, knowing one thing that could placate him. One quote that would get him off my back.

“Where the willingness is great,” I said, quoting his idol, Niccolo Machiavelli. “The challenges cannot be great.”

“Difficulties.” The voice on the other end responded.

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