《Turn Back TIme》


 Chapter one: Like a little prayer

    Kennedy Klein¡¯s sexuality was an open secret among the organised crime world. He did genuinely love his wife, that was for sure. She¡¯s been incredibly loyal in the 80s and they¡¯d had quite a fiery love affair, But whispers of him and his security guard rattled the crime world. Acknowledging it was reserved for a select group of poker underground gamblers, people with strange accents and stranger job titles.


    ¡°Aces¡± the blonde woman in the eyepatch said, flashing her cards to her audience and their staff. Ken pondered her dress sense, quietly sure that a woman like her could almost definitely get the surgery she needed on the eye if she stopped fluttering it around for a week or two. Maybe she liked being considered imposing. Mysterious.


    A slick, black man in a warm-tone suit laid his cards down reluctantly and pushed his chips away from himself slowly. He had kind eyes, but a golden set of fang teeth that made him look a little like a sabre tooth tiger.


    Ken moved the chips in, before getting a warning look from his wife. She was a card shark in her own right, and incredibly sharp. Short fiery red hair and a matching lipstick shade. He tossed a few chips back into his hand at that secret language of glances they¡¯d created between them. She was almost definitely a better card player than he was. He followed suit and winced at the next few card reveals.


    He gave away 4 blue chips. Favour chips these days, they never played with anything as pedestrian as money. Blue were favours, red were sexual, green were murder, and yellow were secrets. Secrets were always the most valuable. With the right password, the right informant, even the right little bit of blackmail gossip, many an arm could be twisted. Many a door could be unlocked.


    This particular double date seemed to be stacked towards favours. How interesting Irene thought privately. Klein gave a flittering glance at his wife, knowing she could practically read his mind. The blonde lady with the eyepatch raked her chips in with a devilish grin. She wrote her request on the chip in permanent marker, and popped it in the bucket. ¡°I need to borrow your little boyfriend.¡± She huffed at Klein, ¡°3 o clock tonight. One of my clients isn¡¯t paying up yet and I need a big strong man to put him in his place¡± she flirted, cuddling up to the bodyguard and brushing his mount Everest high cheekbones.


    ¡°He¡¯d better wear something machine washable. Something tells me this won¡¯t be a clean meet n greet¡± the wife chuckled shuffling the deck. It was decided that because of her background in casinos, it was probably be best for her to host and not play. Had they worked out the glance system yet? The secret languages of old married couples? Maybe they were aware of some light trickery, but didn¡¯t want play with fire. Especially given his wife Irene¡¯s track record with fire.


    The cards were shuffled again, and the black guy - an old friend from Budapest ¨C picked up a red chip. He bit the plastic leaving a small, metal-fang puncture through it and then sharpied in his best handwriting what Klein assumed would be a delightfully devilish act, and placed it with the writing faced down. Unreadable.


    Ted the security guard offered a glance swiftly. Trying to maintain his poker face. A Korean mobster with all the tattoos to prove it tucked neatly under his turtle-neck jumper. Irene also perked up. ¡°you know that chip could land on anyone, right?¡± she warned, her cleavage stumbling strategically out of her dress. He chuckled coyly, running his tongue against his metallic teeth. ¡°I¡¯m always ready to play baby.¡±


    He slipped his cards across the table. A silence swept across the room. His fiance ¨C the blonde - also sat up. ¡°If those are the games we¡¯re playing¡± she purred, scribbling her own red chip with the most tantalising three letter word she knew. Her icy blue eyes meeting her vampiric dining companion¡¯s.


    Irene was just looking forward to the show. She got them to pick their choices, poured herself a new glass of wine, and discovered where the chips would lie.


    The chips were revealed with baited breath. The golden vampire had written 20 minutes against the poker table. his fiance the blonde had written peg. Dangerous indeed. Especially with her particular toy box. The vampire¡¯s hand met the blonde¡¯s thigh as the big reveal occurred.


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    Klein wasn¡¯t used to attention to this degree. Older men like him weren¡¯t supposed to be getting this kind of attention. His wife raised her eyebrows challengingly. Game On.


    He lifted his cards, and saw he¡¯d won.


    The rules were that if you won with your own red chip, you got to choose your participant. If you lost with the red chip, the winner got to decide your fate. Many a world leader had lost in these chairs and paid the price, if nothing else than for bragging rights. There was of course a bail option, but it would require something juicier, a henchman perhaps¡­ or a secret. Ken had many secrets left to share. Tonight was not a secret night.


    The golden Vampire fished an ice cube from his drink, sucking whisky off his fingers and tracing gently against the crack of the mobsters neck, and then down his chest. One button came off at a time. The record in the background glitched onto a Madonna song, and the first metallic bite came down to ¡°like a prayer¡±.


    When you call my name its like a little prayer, down on my knees I want to take you there.


    * * *


    The next morning, Irene woke a slightly sore, mildly bruised Ken from the poker table. Somehow his hangover was rougher than his nether-regions. She wore purple lipstick this morning, and a corseted black summer dress with big high drama sunglasses. ¡°I¡¯ve asked Ted to put on breakfast.¡± she purred, offering a sip from a freshly made summer drink that was no doubt spiked with enough liquor to put a small horse out of commission. ¡°Hair of the dog?¡± she offered.


    Beside the wreckage of cards and poker chips, lay a large sex toy with the word THANK YOU across the member. He shook off the flashbacks and checked his neck for the trademark punctures those two were known to leave. Nothing too severe. Light hickeys, but no blood. No arteries. His wife pulled him up gently, ¡°I remember when we used to play like that ¡­ albeit less ¡­ bitey¡± she recalled, gnashing her teeth together for theatrical emphasis.


    He pulled himself up with grace and took stock at the favours still left in his particular chip bucket.


    1) Tanya the Tigress wanted to borrow Ted for an intimidation trick at 3am, maybe some light physical violence. Evidently she¡¯s never shied away from playing rough.


    2) Trevor, The golden vampire, wanted territory marking, experimental sex. Well Check, he¡¯s got that one.


    Sober he could see it clear as day. This wasn¡¯t a sincere flirt, it was marking his territory. He wanted to publicly advertise which side his bread was buttered, in case one day he¡¯s found in the courts. Even the icing of the neck made sense now. A little something to make sure his personal calling card would leave a mark but not a corpse, they¡¯d only just finished paying off his last lawyer.


    Poor Ted stumbled in, dripping in blood, platter of bacon sandwiches in hand. ¡°If I may have permission to speak ¨C You¡¯ve got to stop pimping me out to them¡± he muttered, flicking his gloves free of blood. ¡°Bad choice of phrase ¨C poor Kenny here has had a bit of a rough night¡± Irene cooed, dabbing a napkin of liquor onto the mark on his neck.


    ¡°Ken¡¯s got to shower off the hangover in a minute ¨C if you¡¯re quick you can join him. A bit of gladiator play always gets the heart racing.¡± she mentioned, biting her lip. ¡°unless you¡¯re looking for a more delicate touch¡± she offered.


    Ted declined. Ken was going to be sore for a good few hours before anything like that could occur. He left the room, trying not to drip blood across the designer carpet. When she was sure he¡¯d gone, Irene pulled Ken aside and out of earshot. ¡°While you were having an adventurous evening in, Tanya slipped this into my cleavage¡± She whispered.


    A yellow chip. Red writing. It read Danger. Ted¡¯s been found.


    FUCK.


    They gave each other a glance that spoke volumes. They¡¯d only just moved country. They didn¡¯t have enough time to do that all over again. Irene looked at her husband without flinching, and held up an emergency phone, filled with everyone who ever owed them a favour.


    Irene dialled her emergency phone, a red nokia flip-phone she kept in a box by the landing. ¡°We¡¯ve been compromised. For anyone who can provide us shelter, there will be a promise of unrestricted interviewing¡± she said.


    Six journalists, three cops, and at least two different brothel owners bit onto the promise of a good story. Finally someone responded with a bunker. The bunker won the bidding war.

 chapter two: heart of glass

    A hot shower and a long yet comfortable car journey later they arrived at the bunker. Irene fussing with her earrings as the boys began to unpack the weekend bags. It wasn¡¯t much, and it was the middle of the desert, but it was home.


    Glaring, recording device in hand, sat a journalist with a soured look on her face. ¡°Thank you for this favour¡± Irene glowed, kissing the cheeks of the woman continentally.


    ¡°you promise no one knows we¡¯re here?¡± Klein crowed cautiously.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be safe provided you do your half of the bargain¡± she confessed, clicking the industrial metal seal on this military adjacent bunker with a hefty motion.


    ***


    ¡°Weapons in the bin, coffee in the pot. Recorder on.¡± the journalist ordered matter of factly as the others followed her down an antique metal ladder to the bowels of the bunker.


    It was a military build, Lots of heavy metal surfaces and stencilled paint symbols. It was bordering on soviet levels of blunt and style-less. Irene guessed she¡¯d have to compromise on the industrial combination of metal and concrete, The smell of sweat and steel, The lifeless cold of the place.


    The coffee was poured black, and between them, the Klein''s spotted at least 4 recording devices, despite the promise of only one being present. They¡¯d have to be savvy about which crimes they¡¯d confess to, but first, Irene had her own questions.


    ¡°What is this place?¡± she asked, knocking on the metal to see how thick it was.


    ¡°Secret bunker. Whenever a very rich man goes missing with very angry enemies, they typically don¡¯t list their secret bases on official documents. I simply forgot to publish about this one in the paper.¡± the interviewer told them, smirking like the cat who ate the canary.


    The Kleins looked at each other and mouthed the words forgot to publish with a sharpened look of caution, but reluctantly put at least a few of their main weapons in the bin, next to what they imagined was a very specific person¡¯s tools.


    ¡°I won¡¯t do you the disservice of telling you which person it belonged to, but rest assured he won¡¯t want it back for at least 30 years¡± the journalist shrugged.


    The ¡®official¡¯ recorder was clicked on with a robust noise, and Ted the guard began to pour the coffee slowly, watching his employers with a puzzled expression. ¡°Now¡± the interviewer added, fishing a yellow poker chip out of her purse and tapping it on the table to break through the chatter.


    ¡°For this to make sense, we¡¯re gonna have to go back to the 80s¡± The couple began.


    BERLIN. 1986. TWO YEARS BEFORE THE FIRE


    It was a rough decade the 80s. Lots of glamour, but lots of gore. Irene was still going by her civilian name, Ashley. 22.


    Her hair had been back combed and dyed, her shoulder pads could cut glass, and she was on the prowl for whatever thrills she could get her hands on.


    At the time she was doing favours for the mob. Nothing exciting, nothing dangerous. Just a little bit of fraud here and there, and carrying drugs of course. It was the 80s, everyone was carrying drugs, Cocaine fuelled most major cities!


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    Today she was on a business trip, and she had to admit international travel suited her. She took a deep breath of her cigarette in the airport lounge and finished scribbling through the last of her paperwork. Today is the day she¡¯d go clubbing.


    All she had to do was drop off a parcel at a nightclub, and ask for Kenny, no big deal. She¡¯d be back home in London at no time. It was before 9/11 happened, Airport security was a polite couple of bag searches. No one searched her hair, her boots, her underwear, or her shoulder pads. She had essentially been wearing cocaine body armour at this point.


    She was under strict orders to dress goth. No one questioned if a goth was covered in white powder. It was considered edgy, or passed off as makeup. She did have to admit though, she was enjoying the hair ¨C it would later be altered later from atomic oranges and blues back to something more moderate. Auburn or a subtle ginger perhaps.


    She met Kenny at the bar, he was tall, American, and equally ridiculously dressed, but almost pulling it off. His piercings and smoldering glance seemed to sell it even when his body language screamed rigor mortis. They flirted, half performatively, and as he got handsier she began to wonder if it was actually about the 99 red luftballoons of cocaine stashed on her person at all. But, they were young, and they were drunk, in the most precarious city in the world at that time, ready for life to change on a whim.


    ¡°You¡¯re gorgeous¡± Klein confessed over the music. His nose nuzzling her cheeks as she smelt his beer breath. She knew she shouldn¡¯t go with him, her brassy northern mother would have a fit. She¡¯d need a romantic alibi when people asked how her trip went, No amount of studs on the leather jacket would justify all this.


    ¡°You¡¯re really handsome! Quite the stud¡± she gulped. She almost couldn¡¯t believe she was saying it.


    ¡°Lets go back to the hotel¡± he offered, brushing a hand through his Mohawk.


    The next few hours were described in more incriminating, sweaty detail than Irene was comfortable with back at the bunker. But needless to say when the drug smuggler¡¯s bodice came off in 1986 and the drugs were revealed, Kennedy Klein was eager to show his appreciation.


    Three times, in three different positions, to Madonna and Blondie and Prince. He was rough. He was soft. He was everything a 22 year old wanted on her first trip out the country.


    ***


    She drowsed awake to see him sliding on his jeans and stuffing the power sachets into a backpack. She wasn¡¯t sure what this emotion was catching up with her. She hopped out of bed and scrambled back into her dress and heels, holding onto him before he could motor off on his sexy little motorbike.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you forgetting something?¡± she asked him.


    He scrounged through his coat, and tossed out the 1980s equivalent of a few hundred pounds.


    ¡°And the rest sweet cheeks, I¡¯ve seen the books, I¡¯ve cooked the books¡± she reminded him.


    He fished out another dozen notes and shoved her aside.


    ¡°Compliments to the chef¡± he barked, just barely resisting the temptation to flash her, or flip her off as he left.


    As she watched him storm off into the busy streets, next to punks and communists and dangerous socialites alike, she realised he¡¯d left some of his stuff here. Most of it was worthless, dirty magazines and old cassette tapes. Blondie, Madonna, Prince. But one thing caught her eye, a notebook by his bedside. Some of the scribbles she recognised from her accounting days, others were clearly going to be a problem.


    She stashed the book away and copied anything important into her own notes, the margins of her novels. Her dad¡¯s pulp fiction classics filled with sex, violence and rebellion. The one she was reading now had a dashing young pirate on it. In thick black biro she made a note of every date and time and phone number she recognised.


    Would she name drop him? Was Kenny even his real name? What difference would some smokey eyeliner drug mule do in the grand scheme of things anyway?


    At the bunker, the much older Irene would admit how immature and dangerous this was, but how she¡¯d never trade it in at all.


    Her 22 year old self put out the cigarette. Inside smoking was still in vogue. Not that voguing had quite become popular yet.


    She¡¯d planned to make three important phone calls as soon as she was safe and alone.


    One to a journalist. One to a killer. And one to a man who smelt of liquor and cigarettes, who¡¯d left his notebook on the bedside table. She¡¯d never know how much trouble she¡¯d cause in doing so, She pushed her coins into a payphone and began to dial.

 Chapter Three: Luftballoons.

    Irene sat in the bunker swilling her coffee around. The Journalist scribbling desperately to describe any details she could get her hands on. As she went on to speak, gesturing with a stick of shortbread, she heard a loud knock.


    THUD THUD.


    She instinctively glanced at Ken and Ted, the journalist waved a hand. ¡°Its a timer based lock. We have 48 hours. There¡¯s no password to guess and nothing is getting through reinforced steel like that¡± she glanced. ¡°Could we at least do something about the noise? That sounds like a battering ram¡± Irene gasped. Ken turned up the radio and picked up a pistol, heading into the other room.


    Irene used this opportunity, leaning forward while her husband and their bodyguard went off to silence the intruder. Girl-to-girl. ¡°So the phonecalls¡­¡±


    BERLIN AIRPORT. 1986. That afternoon.


    Irene was becoming sheepish. She was 22 and realising she was in above her head. The phone book had startled her into action, she¡¯d seen known killers in that book. Proper killers. Killers for fun, disgusting people with wanted posters and hate crimes on their roster. It was the 80s, but she wasn¡¯t naive.


    ¡°Officer Richards. I have some evidence for you. I believe the mob are working in Berlin¡± she told the ghost down the phone. The voice was static and scrambled, Even on a payphone in a big city. The voice confirmed they would be there as soon as possible. She¡¯d have to shower. She¡¯d have to deep clean the cocaine and the Jack Daniel¡¯s from her pores. It was the only way forward.


    Officer Richards was an old friend. He¡¯d be understanding, right? He knew her parents. He could keep a secret. She mopped her brow with a flannel. She mopped her arms and her chest and her neck. She felt unclean, lady Macbeth style unclean. She was so stupid. GOD SHE WAS SO STUPID. An idealistic teenager promised she was on the right side of history. She scrubbed her skin and she mopped her pores, and she fidgeted. 22. Twenty two years old.


    ¡°You know, the best way to clean that stuff from your system is with rubbing alcohol, right?¡± proffered a voice from behind her at the payphone. Cold flashes ran down her spine. Oh Dear. FUCK. It was the bar guy. She squinted at him trying to remember his name fully. Ken? Keith? Karl? She¡¯d only known him for a few hours.


    He put the cigarette out against the wall the phone was tethered to. ¡°I¡¯m not scared of you, you know¡± she lied. First rule of bullies, never let them know they¡¯re winning. Second rule of bullies, Aim for the throat. ¡°You have my notebook¡± he grizzled at her. ¡°I do, Ask nicely.¡± she taunted. He leaned forward, half power play, half flirt. She felt a hand enter her jacket pocket as he got closer.


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    She had one option, she kissed him. Just enough to take him off guard and snatch back his notebook. If he got violent she could bite his tongue off. He pulled back and grimaced. ¡°Nice try sweet cheeks¡± he responded, plucking his thin leather notebook out of her grip and knocking her back gently. ¡°Next time I¡¯ll play rough¡± He warned. Now if there¡¯s one thing she couldn¡¯t resist, Its a challenge.


    She played possum until he left into the airport. Once he was out of range she restyled her hair a little, zshushing it up with a fingerless gloved hand and scuttling over to the security guard. ¡°I think. I think. I think...¡± she stuttered, hyperventilating. ¡°¡­ that man with the motorbike is working for the communists. He had a load of drugs and I think he was armed. He arrived on a red Honda motorbike¡± she faux-grimaced in pain.


    Method acting an injury was easier when your tights were already ripped and your hair was already messy from an ounce of hairspray.


    What Kennedy Klein didn¡¯t notice, was the addition of one more punctured red luftballoon on his person. This man was now a walking cocaine powersuit, but this was the 80s, people didn¡¯t check a person¡¯s outfit unless given good reason, Irene just gave them good reason to search him. His jacket pocket was now pissing out a trail of drugs onto the cold concrete. By the time he got to to security he¡¯d be wearing more powder than Marie Antoinette.


    Back in the bunker, Ted and Kennedy had just finished cleaning up.


    Irene put her finger on her lips about that last bit, ¡°Between us girls¡± she whispered coyly. The publisher nodded, aware that the secrets of a mobsteress could be quite costly in the wrong hands.


    ¡°Having fun?¡± the wife proffered, watched her husband and their employee/side-piece brush gunpowder off their blazers with the reluctance of an unscheduled zoom call. ¡°They have weapons hatches ¨C one way¡± Ted breathed. ¡°Call it a warning shot¡± Ken chimed in, disarming and disassembling his pistol in the living room like it was lego. He was a mobster, but he certainly wasn¡¯t rude.


    A big rule of organized crime etiquette, only be as armed as the weakest person in the room, unless a murder is on the cards. Anything more would be impolite and unfair, people get jumpy and suddenly the butler is missing an ear, or an ounce of brain matter. On a particularly bad day, both.


    The interviewer pivoted in her chair towards the boys. She craved nicotine, but she needed the story more. She tapped the yellow chip on the table habitually, trying to knock any bad mojo from it before she continued her thorough investigation.


    ¡°Now Mr Klein¡± she pivoted. Her underpainted black lips barely moving as she spoke. She tapped at the table with the chip rhythmically. ¡°How did you end up in Berlin? You already worked in the field when you met Ms Klein, right?¡± the interviewer prompted.


    He chuckled a hearty laugh. ¡°Okay, I¡¯ll play¡± he submitted. ¡°But you might not want to be here when I tell it¡± he said to his wife.


    Ted took the hint, and Irene¡¯s hand. ¡°This way, When we were snooping I found you an absolute treat¡± Ted ushered, leading her to the basement. She¡¯d spend the next hour pawing through documents of accusations, conspiracies, affairs and security passwords sprayed out across pinboards and filing cabinets. The paranoid scribbles of a man mad were always as entertaining as they were useful.


    ***


    Back in the interview lounge, Ken had helped himself to a set of military ration desserts, and was ready to start his case. ¡°Berlin you say? Is that what she told you?¡± he squared up. The interviewer didn¡¯t flinch. He¡¯d have to play fair, he chewed onto the inside of his cheek and looked at the iron fortress he was perched in. ¡°My story doesn¡¯t start in Berlin. It starts in a ruin bar in Budapest. About five or six years earlier¡± he promised.

 Chapter Four: Night Fever

    Budapest. 1981-ish. The ruins of an old church.


    Disco had just died, and yet in the fringes they were still trying to peddle its lifeless flair-clad corpse to make a quick buck. Time moved slower in eastern Europe, of course eastern Europe was communist at this time. Western music was taboo, dangerous even, but that made it deliciously sweeter.


    Kennedy had everything a man would need in the 70s. Guns, booze, Disco, and a roster of gorgeous eastern block lovers with the kind of accent only owned by a villain in a James Bond movie. His personal favourite disco viper was of course Tanya, but she was different back then. Her accent was still Hungarian, her eye was in-tact, and she was kinder then. He quietly knew she wasn¡¯t who she said she was, but for a certain level of glamour he could turn a blind eye. She¡¯d sell weapons to whoever was buying, it was none of his business which side of history purchased, so long as they ended up with enough money for a tipple and a new record player.


    ¡°Can I get a shot?¡± she grunted out in fractured English. ¡°Not the kind of shots you¡¯re selling babe¡± he told her, flicking the shotgun shell she was trying to barter with off the table. ¡°I only accept cash, denim, and rock n roll¡± he half joked.


    She pulled out a pen knife from her boot.


    ¡°All this for alcohol?¡± he said surrendering a bottle of jack, she lowered her knife.


    ¡°I like you, you don¡¯t mess around¡± she said, manoeuvring herself toward the bottle and attacking the lid with her razor.


    ¡°Any sign of stroganoff?¡± she asked, filing her nails with her blade and using its reflective surface to fix her makeup.


    ¡°Victor? He¡¯s one of the 3 Ds, Dead, Defected, or in Danger¡± Klein said, tippling liquor onto his fur coat as he gesticulated.


    Tanya sighed reluctantly, kicking a flared white trouser leg up as she squirmed onto the bar. The table was an old church alter, clearly a finer wood than what was meant for this rag tag mismatched bar.


    She carved the knife into the antique desk and glanced up at him, her drink dangling in her other hand almost passively. ¡°You realise if Victor¡¯s missing, that probably means we¡¯re in trouble, right?¡± she posited, calculating over her liquor.


    ¡°I mean, we can¡¯t be certain until we find his head in a shoebox somewhere¡± Klein chuckled.


    Tanya leaned in, tying her hair into a ponytail and skewering it in place with the knife as a hairpin.


    ¡°So, I heard a secret from dear Britannia. Trouble in paradise and a 400 kilo drug smuggling operation left to some English tart with no field training¡± Tanya taunted.


    ¡°They always send some daft English rose, easier to frame if it goes wrong¡± Klein huffed reluctantly.


    ¡°It¡¯d buy an awful lot of denim and record disks¡± She pointed out, ¡°and we both know this place is has ten years at most before the political kettle boils over¡± she added, wincing at the fiery liquid in her glass.


    ¡°Boat or plane?¡± Ken considered.


    ¡°Both. Any. All.¡± she informed him, ¡°wouldn¡¯t be hard to intercept.¡±


    He stared at her for a second. He would have to admit profits were dwindling, even in a city where the supply for parties infamously didn¡¯t scratch the surface of demand. Politics were getting in the way.


    Victor was supposed to be the canary in the coal mine, some athlete boy they said was supposed to demonstrate the successes of communism, as if a 19 year old running off steroids and cheap booze was going to best the Olympics. He was a child, he was an idiot, and on a bad day, a rent boy for any out of town tourist willing to fiddle the ration supply with a few more bits of meat, bread, and sugar.


    More importantly, he¡¯d been double dipping. Telling the Americans all the little red secrets and vice versa. A lad without values is an easy puppet.


    Berlin 1986


    The next half decade was used practising, Between Tanya and Ken they¡¯d started quite a racket, just intercepting drug deals and money laundering trades in different countries. They looked the part, they dressed the part, and before the great almighty internet was popular, there was no formal way to double check when someone had been played.


    They did Peru, Tokyo, Texas, Vegas, Portugal, London, Liverpool and a few international waters ships that didn¡¯t see it coming. Their tiny empire had racked up a small fortune, enough for a little passenger plane and a set of cars.


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    They both had their favourites, of course they did. Needless to say Klein favoured anything with an engine that would get him into tight leather. Tanya on the other hand favoured modesty, no one double checked the middle aged mum cars, and when the cops came searching She¡¯d pretend to be a cool aunt or fun cousin from out of town.


    This grift was perfect, the sexy bad boy from the dirty magazines here to help you get into the glamourous side of organised crime. His overgrown rough-around-the-edges charm naturally helped, and if things got rough or the jig was up, he¡¯d send in Tanya as a jealous out-of-town girlfriend, or a furious ex to sort out any tensions. Everything was flawless up until Berlin, where the English Rose tourist had a thorn.


    He had to admit, she had the nerve, and her little party trick cost them considerably. He was arrested at the airport and was detained twice, until 3 weeks later when Tanya posted bail. It was written on a foreign post card in typewriter letters.


    Consider that my side of the bargain. I sold the sports car and took the helicopter. If your English rose ends up in my garden I¡¯ll pluck her at the root.


    T xx


    In all honesty, Ken couldn¡¯t blame her.


    ***


    The interview was interrupted by a gunshot. The smell of gunpowder was recognisable at 30 paces. ¡°Is there another way in?¡± a voice shouted from the other room. The metallic military walls warping the sound like a fun-house mirror. Ken toddled down the halls, his muscles atrophied and his weapon half cocked.


    Ted perched there, the industrial safe open and bloodied money leaking out the hatch. Irene recoiling in concern as a stranger whimpering in the corner. He was shocked, starved and weedy. Not the body you¡¯d expect a killer to have. His revolver shook in his hand but thankfully his warning shot hadn¡¯t hit anyone.


    ¡°DROP IT¡± Ted ordered, not fully sure how he was meant to proceed with this surprise assailant. He didn¡¯t seem to have the heart of a killer but you could never be sure what a desperate man would do. The man cried meekly and raised the gun upwards at his new companions.


    Irene gave Ted a look, half concern half mockery. ¡°I thought you said the bunker¡¯s owner was in jail¡± she scoffed.


    The interviewer joined them a few paces late, ¡°he is. You don¡¯t get charged with what he was charged with and don¡¯t go to prison¡± She blustered, her eyes bulging at the man among the money.


    ¡°You¡¯re Theodore Zhang, son of the Ya-¡± before the terrified servant could finish the sentence, he found himself getting well acquainted with a scolding hot jug of freshly brewed coffee and the underside of a military grade workman¡¯s boot. Safely disarmed, Ted slammed the bank vault again.


    Irene picked through the staff documents, ¡°The previous owner talked in his notes about taking one of his staff hostage, a whistleblower undercover as a manservant, Joshua Timber?¡± she uttered, tossing a file about him in the air reluctantly. ¡°Made sure to lock him away with the bunker ration supplies and the blood money ¨C easier to frame him that way¡±


    Ted looked at the notes uncomfortably. ¡°I thought blood money was an expression in America, Back at home it¡¯d be really rude to give this kind of money away. You¡¯d get more respect filling a vault with live cobras¡± he frosted.


    ¡°When he¡¯s out of prison, I¡¯ll pitch it to him¡± Ken deadpanned.


    Did Ted expect them to literally launder the blood off the cash? Ken knew idioms didn¡¯t typically translate as cleanly as expected, but seriously? The lad could speak 3 languages, kill a man with a credit card, but god forbid he show bad manners.


    ¡°We were just looking through the paranoid scribbles left across the wall. New world orders, secret conspiracies, moon landing nonsense, but alongside the crazy is some incredibly accurate military secrets and organised crime tip-offs¡± Ted said sceptically. ¡°I guess it pays to be crazy¡± Irene sighed.


    She shook apart a concerningly sticky data file filled with dubiously obtained information on at least half a dozen sex workers in his area, varying from screenshots of their intimate websites to conspicuously detailed government data. Who in their right mind needed to know the height, shoe size, and national insurance number of a hooker? The nature of the screenshots made her really hope that it was blood binding the cardboard file together and nothing else.


    The idea of him sitting there alone with these documents on a random Thursday night made her skin crawl. She had half a mind to ¡°accidentally¡± spill hot coffee over the file, saving these women a lifetime of control and manipulation.


    ¡°So, what do we do? We have a nerd in the safe, two corpses on the roof, and according to the GPS tracker two police or military vehicles heading our way¡± Ted asked, a tad too earnestly.


    ¡°We trust the 3 inch galvanised steel, you finish your confession tapes, and when the reality blows over and the heat is off I send you back out to the desert, I¡¯ll say you overpowered me and I was a brave journalist risking life and limb in a terrible place¡± the investigator rationalised, perhaps a tad too rehearsed.


    ¡°Speaking of which, you¡¯re the only one who hasn¡¯t been under the knife yet¡± she gesticulated, pointing a ballpoint pen at Ted.


    ¡°I¡¯m an open book, but my story is a tad later than the lovebirds.¡± he admitted.


    She arched an eyebrow at him. He had to be 30 at most. Easily young enough to be the son of the crime duo.


    He watched the interviewer do the maths, looking at him like he was a playboy bunny next to a fossilised Hugh Hefner. She had to admit, they chose well, even when he dressed down his muscles seemed to burgeon out of his turtle-neck jumper, and he spoke with a precise, educated voice. Easily the voice of a man who¡¯d studied internationally, Cambridge, or an Ivy league, maybe one of Asia''s wealthier universities.


    Yet behind the eyes was a smile that didn¡¯t belong on his face, a look of careless ego. He¡¯d get sloppy in a year or two, or piss off the wrong joker. As a true crime journalist she¡¯d seen it all before in triplicate, she could almost predict the articles she wrote before they even happened.


    He sat at the desk, trying to adjust his hair gel. He seemed oblivious to the work his employers had to put in to keep his head off the chopping block. She was already counting the years until his detailed tattoos would end up as some rich collector¡¯s brand new novelty leather notebook, like a stuffed tiger on display.


    Her pen ticked across the page mechanically as she noted his appearance and anything else that caught her eye. His tiny details, his miniscule glances and the biting of his lips. A nervous tick perhaps?


    He poured himself a water, fed up with the jumpiness and the bitter taste of gone-off coffee, and began his story to the click of the recorder. ¡°It began in Vegas. I¡¯d just escaped some previous employers that¡¯d gone badly, and wanted to get a fresh start, so I went into self employment¡± he said clearing his throat.

 Chapter Five. Rumour Has It.

    LAS VEGAS. Somewhere in the 2010s.


    Self employment was a fresh start, but as all small businesspeople know, its never easy in the first year. You have to get your name out there, and drum up clients. He did whatever he had to in order to make ends meet.


    He robbed casinos and big jackpot winners, he slept with rich heirs and heiresses to the tune of a few grand, and during his downtime he¡¯d go diving, any excuse to show off the full body tattoos.


    Americans would assume the best, thinking he was part of a circus act, a strong man or an exciting new boyfriend to some passing celebrity. Only those in the know would recognise it. So he made the most of sitting by the pool in as little as possible, polishing his tattoos with soaps and lotions while tanning in the sun.


    It was fabulous advertising for any wannabe criminal with a hobby that required a broken wrist. For a solid 3 years in the 2010s he could count on one hand the number of weeks he wore clothes with sleeves. It¡¯d become a uniform of speedos and fitness clothes, better for business that way.


    At this point in his career however, he was reluctantly dressed in a bow tie and a waistcoat. He was the guard to the head of the hotel chain, a much older woman who¡¯d inherited the empire a while back and had bold plans for the casino.


    His role was (thankfully) non-sexual, he growled at business partners who didn¡¯t capitulate, broke the arms of any angry guests willing to take their bad life choices out on his mistress, and shook down anyone who reneged on their end of the deal.


    The Casino was generous with loans, and it turned a blind eye to any crimes that were below the $1000 threshold. The shows were cheap, but the performers were fairly talented, and the old woman who ran the place was clearly more interested in keeping out of trouble than chasing profits.


    Perhaps it was her retirement package? Staying in a luxury hotel surrounded by nothing but the most glamorous people and living out some kind of fantasy.


    In extreme cases, she¡¯d even take pity on the poor folks who¡¯d really crashed their lives at the gambling machines. Granted not financial pity, but she¡¯d offer them board, lodge, and employment until the debt was paid.


    His luck however would change, when he noticed a woman with short auburn hair and a suspicious winning streak on one of the regular player¡¯s tables. She had a code of some kind, that Ted had not fully cracked, tapping certain colour poker chips at certain times without saying a word. She even seemed to incorporate her jewellery into it a little, adjusting her rings and her necklaces at certain buzzwords.


    ¡°Quite the lucky streak you¡¯ve got going on there¡± Ted noticed aloud, pulling her concentration away from whichever mental arithmetic she was using to keep the ten of diamonds from being overthrown on the board.


    She turned warmly, ¡°thank you, I¡¯ve got my husband¡¯s lucky ring on, never let me down before¡± she bleated, feigning ignorance and nativity. If she could just make him believe it was beginners luck, she could walk out and switch casinos later in the afternoon when it wasn¡¯t conspicuous.


    ¡°I¡¯ve noticed you reach for it whenever you have an ace, also your little tap you do on the desk when you have a set of 3 high cards¡± Ted blunted at her, not wanting to slip from the casual conversational tone he was using to call her out. He didn¡¯t want a scene.


    She raised her hands upwards slowly, in a motion that said well you¡¯ve caught me. ¡°Okay, I may have fiddled the cards a bit in the last round, but you can¡¯t arrest a woman for a nervous tick¡± she justified, beginning to grow aware that the grace the casino had given her was starting to run out.


    ¡°I¡¯m happy to give the chips back if you don¡¯t tell security, I don¡¯t want to get in trouble¡± she resigned.


    ¡°I am security¡± Ted responded.


    ¡°In that case, I¡¯d be happy to go in handcuffs¡± she flirted.


    ¡°I thought you had a husband¡± he replied.


    ¡°This is Vegas, and he loves to share¡± she began.


    He sincerely considered the offer. Maybe another time. But in the meantime he¡¯d escort her out the building quietly. Save everyone the hassle of an official document.


    * * *


    Later that evening, Ted received an email to his evening freelancer account. Some bouncer pissed off my wife, send him a warning shot. $2000. It read. Signed K Klein.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    If he were brighter he¡¯d have worked it out, the interviewer certainly did. But alas, Ted bumbled into an unused office space to meet with a mobster and his redhead wife, looking to startle, threaten and potentially break the arm of a 6ft Asian man. It took until cocktail number two to realize the mix up.


    Ted would swear in interviews later on that he didn¡¯t recall the conversation, that a mixture of cocktails and concussions would erase the talking points from his brain. But he could remember clear as day the punch that started the fight. It was sharp, and quick, but without enough power to do real damage, the kind of punch someone used to back alley brawls would throw. It lacked technique but it certainly left a mark.


    He stood there conflicted, he didn¡¯t want to hurt any potential employers, but he also would not stand for someone causing trouble. Most importantly he had to keep his looks for his new career, He couldn¡¯t go back to his boss bloodied and bruised. He served a kick and two jabs that sent the strange blonde man staggered.


    There was a blunt object swung in his direction in retaliation, something chrome and heavy, he could¡¯ve sworn it was a lamp but truth be told it¡¯d been a long time.


    The lamp was ducked under before the impact against the opposite wall shattered the light bulb and cracked its ugly lavender lampshade. His blood raced, it was the first time in a while he¡¯d had a real fight, usually hired combat was so one sided.


    He stumbled back and hopped across the island counter into the kitchenette, raiding the cupboards for a weapon that wouldn¡¯t kill the poor bastard. Ted threw a knife towards his rival, who slipped away from it, leaving only a small flesh-wound and a tatter in his designer button up. Ted grabbed a frying pan and lunged for him, swinging it down from over his head like an axe. Klein parried with a metal chair from IKEA''s pricier range.


    Ted remained suspended there, catching his breath, his blunt weapon about 2 inches from the skull of Kennedy Klein. His blood pumped and his muscles bulged against the restraint of the bar stool.


    Ken huffed and breathed, gasping for air.


    He was an older man in the 2000s, a middle aged dad who should¡¯ve been in offices and restaurant bars. He gave the barstool one short, sharp push to distribute the force held in their stalemate.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got some moves¡± Ken remarked, ¡°what¡¯s she paying you?¡± Ted looked quizzically at the sweating man.


    ¡°50 grand a year¡± he admitted.


    ¡°I¡¯ll double it.¡±


    Ted considered his options, his waistcoat skewered by the chair legs, his weapon blocked by a robust barrier of uncomfortable titanium. He had only one option left. He breathed deep, ripped off the buttons of his waistcoat, and dipped down to evade the deadlock he was caught in.


    He stood there, topless. In a stalemate with the mature man. The adrenaline was still fizzling through their bodies, and Ted began to feel Ken¡¯s eyes over him.


    He considered what his audience was seeing, and the adrenaline and the heat of the hotel. But right when he thought he¡¯d worked out why Ken had stopped approaching, the next sentence blindsided him. ¡°Will you sleep with my wife?¡± he asked candidly, ¡°I think she¡¯d like that.¡±


    Ted blinked in the silence, not quite sure what the right answer was. Was this a test? She certainly was an attractive woman. Would you sleep with a mobster¡¯s wife if you were asked? He dabbed his bloodied nose with a flannel and noticed a thimble of hair had been torn from his scalp in the altercation. He¡¯d need to give himself a buzz cut before dawn, or at least a comb over.


    ¡°Where is your wife?¡± Ted asked, aware that the delicate redhead in the plunging velvet neckline had wandered off to avoid the scrap. A pacifist perhaps?


    ¡°She went back to the hotel¡± Ken responded, lighting a cigarette despite the no smoking sign.


    A lamp had been shattered across the table, furniture had been knocked over in the tussle, and at least 3 generic soulless mugs had been kicked over in the fight. Ted looked at the broken glass and nodded.


    ¡°Tell her I¡¯ll be there at midnight. I have to clean up¡± He ordered, before adding ¡°and Mr Klein ¡­ I expect you to watch.¡±


    * * *


    back in the bunker


    The interviewer stopped writing, glaring up at her companion. ¡°Do they solve all their problems through sex?¡± she glared.


    ¡°That or a knife fight¡± Ted deadpanned.


    ¡°Its his way of keeping everyone at arms length, if they sleep together they¡¯re disposable¡± he postured, unsure of how to proceed. ¡°Its like how the Romans used to get intimate before battle to make sure they fought harder for each other¡± he suggested, perhaps a smidge too earnestly.


    ¡°You could write a bestselling novel on those two if you tried, ask them about the fire¡± Ted said without going into details.


    The interviewer held the silence for a second, and decided to probe further.


    ¡°The fire?¡± she asked, matching his gaze.


    ¡°Before my time, but they discuss it often, on quiet nights of the soul. Absinthe confessions generally, They¡¯re full of secrets those two. The sex, the drugs, the violence, that¡¯s all a smoke screen¡± Ted admitted.


    She analyzed his face, she¡¯d talked to killers before, She¡¯s talk to politicians before too. But his admission felt more like politics than anything said behind bars. He was calm, he was deflecting.


    Lying by omission perhaps? She knew she shouldn¡¯t take the bait when talking to a politician. You make the right noises, grunt about rivals, but you don¡¯t take the bait.


    ¡°Which fire?¡± asked the journalist, aware that she shouldn¡¯t. She mustn¡¯t.


    ¡°New York. They talk about it all the time ¡­ or rather, they talk around it.¡± He said, a tad more honestly than he expected.


    The journalist adjusted her notes quietly. So far she¡¯d gotten background information, things the newspapers picked up years ago. They¡¯d go great on the documentary, but nothing groundbreaking. But a secret the mob won¡¯t mention would get her funded for years, no more morbid articles for yoga mums fed up of suburban life. No more teenage campfire horror stories told into podcast microphones in stale back alley recording rooms.


    ¡°What do you hear them saying?¡± she asked, trying not to give the game away.


    Ted arched a manicured eyebrow at her, and didn¡¯t say anything for a long time.


    ¡°They pass guilt back and forth. Blame each other for whatever happened that night¡± He shrugged.


    ¡°I think they lost someone? Or maybe something? And I¡¯m the latest in a long list of distractions¡± he admitted.


    He seemed to break from his bravado for a second when he said it, a moment of vulnerability that the interviewer almost felt guilty for.


    ¡°I know its not real, any of it.¡± he sighed, ¡°I¡¯m another Thursday night tryst because there¡¯s nothing else on the TV.¡± He stood up a little too quickly.


    Did he not know why they were hiding down here? Or that they were willing to surrender decades old crime family secrets just to keep him safe?


    He huffed, causing background noise that didn¡¯t pick up well on the recording. ¡°I¡¯m not sure recording this is a good idea¡± he gestured, trying to act aloof and regain his composure.


    ¡°Pretend I never said anything.¡±

 Chapter Six: The reason I drink

    The interviewer watched as tensions in the room began to bubble up for the three. She decided to take a break from interviewing until the atmosphere was a tad looser. They watched through the pile of untouched video tapes, one by one, getting fed up with the rationed food and the four Grey and white walls, speckled with warning signs stenciled on from a bigone era.


    There were warnings against Communists, and the Taliban, and even the Koreans. Ted swore you could go on a tour of the times this bunker was used based on the paint colour alone. It was almost more eerie at night, with the silence looming over them and the corpses of various hit men being surprisingly effective scarecrows.


    Unfortunately, while the warnings on the wall were shockingly contemporary, the entertainment systems seem to have crystalised at classic 80s movies and obscure 90s comedies.


    At some point, rummaging in the back of the supply cupboard to the background music of a Robin Williams movie, someone found a bottle vintage liquor.


    In articles and magazines, ten years from publishing, they¡¯d all give conflicting answers on who suggested it, and where the drinks came from, but they¡¯d all agree it was the right time to get shitfaced.


    Whether it was an alcohol that ages well, or became worse over the years was irrelevant. A whiff from the bottle was enough to verify that it certainly wasn¡¯t to be drank slowly, and it would need a mixer from the wall of tins and highly sugared artificial drinks determined to be ageless.


    Between the four of them, they patched together a cocktail via the sickly syrups of the tinned fruit and the more transparent liquors stashed away. It might not have been the most chemically stable beverage, but when your life is on the line you tend to be less picky.


    Besides, vodka was a sterilizer, right?


    Irene braced herself, throwing back a tumbler of stale fruit syrups, water and vodka. It was barely a drink. She shuddered from the swill, popping her lips instinctively like she¡¯d slurped a whole lemon, her eyes bulging and blinking.


    In that instant she could understand why some liquors were used as cures in the Victorian era alongside the leeches and the random herbal soups. She certainly felt like her humours had been rebalanced and her ¡°womanly hysteria¡± had fully disappeared.


    ¡°yowza that¡¯s sweet! Bloody hell!¡± she said, chasing it with a glass of overfiltered lukewarm tap water. They¡¯d tried to fix the atmosphere through strategic lighting, but all the sparkling lights and static fizzed screens in the world could never warm up the industrial, lifeless greys.


    ¡°Haven¡¯t done that since I was a student¡± she barbled.


    They went around the circle, everyone¡¯s reaction worse than the last, the most extreme being the interviewer. You¡¯d think a woman whose living was made walking in war zones recording the bloodshed would have a stronger stomach. ¡°So¡± she said, spitting vodka from her syrup stained teeth as she tried to steer the conversation back. She¡¯d made a big show of turning off the recorder hours earlier, but the dummy recorders in the corner were still scraping away getting every single detail. She¡¯d have to edit aggressively if the audio was used for anything.


    ¡°So what¡¯s the deal with that fella with the golden teeth? Rumour has it he eats people¡± the interviewer asked, her drunken idiocy half for show.


    Irene and Ken gave each other a glance. ¡°he¡¯s not a cannibal no, the teeth are more for ¡­ recreational purposes¡± he answered, watching the interviewer¡¯s eyes latch onto the dainty puncture wounds peaking out of his shirt¡¯s top button. She was doing the maths, but petty sexual squabbles tended to be brushed to the wayside at a certain tax bracket.


    The interviewer slurped up the last two fingers of mystery liquid like it was mouthwash. ¡°So he¡¯s sleeping with all his murder victims?¡± she asked candidly.


    Irene tilted her head, holding back from giving the reaction she wanted. She burped a little, a demure hand in place to stop any breeches in dignity. This however, would be the last bit of dignity she¡¯d manage before the booze and the sugars caught up to her.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°You-mean-fukkin¡¯-Trevor?¡± she hickupped, the words crashing into each other like a water streams at the Trevi fountain.


    ¡°Fuckin¡¯ IT fraud Trevor? Cyber crime Trevor? The blackmail king of Brooklyn heights?¡± she ranted, becoming gradually lucid that she shouldn¡¯t be saying all this.


    ¡°That fucker¡¯s no killer. He¡¯s a keyboard warrior. Bit of a man-slag sure¡± She lulled back and forth. ¡°But all his violence is done by sending emails to the cops letting them know he found someone with kiddie porn, or like threatening to tell a politician¡¯s wife about his mistress¡± she gargled.


    ¡°Babe, he¡¯s called the golden vampire because of a computer software. There¡¯s a part in the code where the repeated Gs look like teeth¡± She ushered trying to sit up.


    Ken began his husbandly duties, making sure his drunk wife was okay, and that she wouldn¡¯t say anything stupid or dangerous. He ushered her back to the creaking military bunk beds and left her to sleep, glass of water by the bedside and a pack of ibuprofen that was still in date, What this place lacked in charm, it made up for in medical supplies.


    He slumped back in the chair, watching the glow of the TV static, before turning it to a pixelated and pale impersonation of a fireplace roaring. ¡°She¡¯s not wrong though¡± he said, ¡°Those corpses aren¡¯t his doing,¡± He glanced over to the half awake investigator, as she sorted through her notes in the far end of the room.


    ¡°He¡¯s like 26, he¡¯s not a killer. He¡¯s a kid who hacked a few bank accounts.¡± Ken justified.


    If he could get the poor sod off the hook he¡¯d have made this trip worth while. Naturally he neglected to mention Tanya, who was in fact bloodsoaked and far older than her plastic surgery body looked.


    ¡°I mean think about it, why would he off someone he slept with?¡± Ken baited.


    ¡°Maybe they know too much¡± the interviewer responded.


    ¡°They don¡¯t, they¡¯re local floozies. Someone shot them to send a message to him,¡± Ken proffered.


    ¡°You mean he hacked the wrong bank account and pissed off the wrong bully? That¡¯s still getting them killed even if he didn¡¯t press the trigger¡± she taunted, knowing in this state he¡¯d be far closer to taking the bait.


    ¡°Its still a mile away from ¡®Harlem man eats local prostitutes¡¯ though, and I¡¯ve only ever seen him take care of his girls, and his fellas¡± Ken abridged. Biting down the temptation to feed her more details.


    ¡°Are all crime families this ¡­ open to their options?¡± she asked, picking at him verbally.


    He didn¡¯t dignify that with a response, so she tried again to chide him, beginning to realize her childish games and dirty tricks weren¡¯t getting the answers she was hoping they would.


    ¡°So where have you been hiding all these years? You seem to have a habit of making noise when you can. Retirement? Or maybe you just don¡¯t have the spark anymore?¡± she needled, keeping her voice flat so as to not wake the lighter sleepers.


    Irene may have plastered herself into a coma but Ted seemed to have been trying to keep his palette clean. She could half empathize with that, better to keep your wits about you, even if she tended towards liquid courage herself on more than one occasion of her documentary career. It¡¯d become a running joke among her crew, she¡¯d overheard them once talking about her trusty flask and how her hands shook with the microphone.


    He groaned at her, not rising to the bait. ¡°Back in ¡®99 I¡¯d have someone threaten a family pet for that kind of accusation¡± he told her. ¡°You¡¯re lucky we need you.¡±


    She blinked, ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m just tired¡± she half-apologized.


    ¡°I¡¯m not used to hospitality from my participants ¨C my subjects are usually already dead, or wild animals¡± she acknowledged.


    There was a dither where she went to add something, and stopped herself, instead opting for a softer approach. ¡°I did look you up before the project though, There was a tip off that day at the airport¡± she told him.


    He turned to her, trying to get a read for how real that comment was. ¡°It was back in my radio days, I was working a little segment on killers, crooks, and criminals back in the day¡± she admitted.


    ¡°nothing detailed, just puff pieces, whispers around the docks, planes not arriving. That kind of thing, I¡¯m pretty sure at one point we did a week on monster sightings. It was all very Scooby Doo¡± she chuckled, not quite fizzling out the tension as well as she¡¯d hoped.


    Ken groaned as he got up from his chair, his once devilish mature charms becoming sour from the attention. He may as well be a tiger at the zoo, the public gawking at him like that, he looked at her before he began to leave, not impressed by her at all.


    ¡°If you¡¯ve been publishing all this for decades, why don¡¯t I recognize you?¡± he asked, getting one last question in.


    It was her turn to be put in the spotlight. She closed her file and began to get off the floor slowly,


    ¡°maybe you¡¯re not a big newspaper reader¡± she deflected, like a highschooler pointing blame.


    He glowered at her, ¡°I¡¯ve been arrested twice, once in 2002, once in the 80s. I got to know the crowds very well, learned to say whatever they needed me to¡± he remarked. ¡°If you were writing about me, I¡¯d know about it.¡±


    She didn¡¯t know how to respond to that. It wasn¡¯t aggressive, it wasn¡¯t a confession, it was a statement of fact, as flatly delivered as a funeral invitation. After a second, she didn¡¯t need to. He got up from his armchair and joined his wife in the opposite bed.

 Chapter Seven: That don鈥檛 impress me much.

    The next morning the three of them crawled out of the rooms like a dead pharaoh from a tomb in a budget horror movie. ¡°never again. I¡¯ve drank alcohol in ten countries, I¡¯ve been poisoned twice, somehow bunker brew has beaten the lot¡± Irene scolded, gripping her skull like it was full of angry hornets.


    Ted grumbled forward, apparently he¡¯d slept in his underwear and was now walking around in a set of spare military scrubs that didn¡¯t quite fit.


    They weren¡¯t a soldiers uniform per say, but they definitely weren¡¯t casual wear either ¨C some kind of bastardised budget militia gear perhaps? It was almost like a jumpsuit, but it didn¡¯t quite fit properly.


    He¡¯d compromised with the tactile itchy fabric by tying the sleeves into a makeshift belt that turned the jumpsuit into a pair of avante-garde baggy trousers. The look was completed with a jumper that should¡¯ve been too big for him in theory, but clung to him regardless.


    Ken and Irene followed suit, commandeering a military style jacket and a little European sailor hat that seemed more Paris fashion week than Dunkirk trenches. They looked better than they¡¯d like to admit, and it was enough to keep the alcohol sweats from permeating the steel deathtrap bunker. The lock timer read 24 hours. 24 hours left until the door would let you open it again.


    The interviewer sat there, steely and severe. Mangled croissant in one hand, notes in the other. She looked up at them until they withered into their chairs. After some niceties she parked some breakfast in front of them ¨C boiled porridge and a plastic pack of bulk purchased croissants she¡¯d brought for the occasion - and scowled at them some more.


    ¡°You want a scoop, I¡¯ve got a scoop for you¡± Ted sat down, re-energised with a mischief in his eyes. ¡°Where were we? Vegas!¡±


    Vegas, mid 2010s Six months into working for the Klein family.


    Ted stumbled back to the hotel room they¡¯d been living in. He was coated in a thick layer of blood, most of it not his own. It was drying and sticky and the taste of copper seemed to coat his mouth and nose. He was injured and out of practice.


    Klein sat on the boxy hotel furniture, his smile dropping when what was supposed to be a quick intimidation run manifested at the door. Designer suit ruined, intricate tattoos damaged, hair buzzed short. Wordlessly, Klein shuffled off the bed and grabbed the medical toolbox.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. Its not mine, its fine¡± Ted rebuffed. ¡°I just need a hot shower.¡±


    He limped towards the hotel shower, it was a modern hotel room, not the same one he¡¯d been staying at before. While that one was full of thin walls and generic pictures of the cityscape, this one was full of glass and mirrors, clearly built for a couple with no privacy. Ted shed his bloodstained shirt off and his business trousers, kicking off leather shoes with an absolute disregard for whichever designer brand he¡¯d been made to wear.


    Ken stood there in the doorway, watching the splatters on his neck and his back dissolve in the water, ruining a perfectly good flannel. ¡°Need a hand with that?¡± he asked, the guilt eating him up inside. He had to do something, anything, to make it better. There was a wordless nod in response, the poor bastard didn¡¯t have enough strength to stand, let alone reply.


    A warm, slightly leathered hand met the man¡¯s back, grasping at a fabric loofer and the thinnest of pretenses. Ted slowly, steadily raised his arms up to wash the blood that was congealing into his hair, a red mist meeting the soap and washing down his face. The shampoo danced down his arms, pooling into scars and divots.


    Ken assessed his wounds, his shirt now sopping wet as he tended to the dashes of red cut across Ted¡¯s legs and his chest. There was something that looked like an arrow spike had been torn out. He ran his hand through the freshly trimmed buzz-cut, you could time the fights by Ted¡¯s hair. He¡¯d managed to grow it out to forehead length before tonight, the kind of hair that quiffs up into a rhino horn style spike at the front.


    Ted found himself turning around to reach for something, and Ken switched from playing nurse-maid to admiration. ¡°See, I¡¯m fine, only a few scratches¡± Ted justified, showing off a new scar-to-be across his leg, and a splinter sized scratch on his forehead. Klein felt his arms moving without his control, it was automatic almost. Ted had played a part in their sexcapades before, but nothing like this. It was flirty texts, and naughty images of the man with his wife, her body laid across the bed like a ruben painting. This was new territory.


    The warm cloth in Ken¡¯s hand tended to the forehead, and then behind the ear, gradually aware of the eye contact. Should he dare? He risked it before the steam became opaque and locked lips with the assassin. The wafer of silk tailoring doing nothing to protect against the friction of the man¡¯s bare chest.


    ***


    After the hot, steaming shower session, Ted found himself in a hotel bed with makeshift bandages on, trying hard not to bleed onto the white linens. The millionaire mobster laying there in his arms not quite sure what to do with himself.


    ¡°Last time I stayed the night in a man¡¯s arms Margret Thatcher had just finished being prime minister¡± chuckled Ken, clearly not used to the affection.


    Ted gave him a playful look ¡°oh yeah?¡±


    ¡°yeah, poor sod was a biker, it was for an art project with my wife¡¯s favorite mistress¡± Klein replied, now sedate and lapsing into that half state between sleep and wake. Ted tried to lean up and get a better view at the older man, his arm giving way as he perched and causing him to stumble back down a bit.


    ¡°Are you still in touch?¡± he pondered.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    ¡°not unless you have a ouija board¡± Ken sighed, bracing himself for the next question, the one he knew was coming.


    ¡°What happened?¡± Ted asked.


    ¡°My wife, she didn¡¯t mean to. I know she didn¡¯t mean to.¡± Ken replied, considering clamming up if any more questions arose.


    Instead all Ted responded with, was a simple reply of ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± and a kiss on the forehead.


    ***


    Back in the bunker, Ken was trying to keep a straight face, or as straight as you can when an old anecdote about a sexual fling came up unexpectedly.


    ¡°He didn¡¯t tell me anything else.¡± Ted justified openly, noticing Irene¡¯s mouth agape.


    The interviewer didn¡¯t know how to smoothly pivot on that one. She wanted to ask more, but she knew that emotions were running high. If she held the quiet long enough Irene would say something, she was sure.


    Irene didn¡¯t blink. She was British. She kept calm and carried on, not wanting to have the obvious argument in front of guests.


    ¡°I can appreciate that, but if you hadn¡¯t ¡­¡± she protested, before withdrawing from her sentence. The sound of the plastic poker chip against a metal table seemed to cut through the conversation.


    ¡°You say this friend was lost during the Thatcher administration? Was this linked to the fire of 88?¡± the interviewer asked to no one in particular, waiting for someone to answer.


    After a few seconds Baltic silence, the interviewer leaned forward and said ¡°I¡¯ve already got evidence tying the Klein crime family to the building in New York, it¡¯ll be smoother if you just told me¡±.


    Irene finally stepped up.


    ¡°She was one of few mistresses I actually liked¡± she began.


    * * *


    1987. New York.


    Irene and Ken had lived in New York for a solid year now. They ran a bar in time square. Time square was different back then, it wasn¡¯t a tourist retreat. It was a back alley, full of people of all walks of life having sex in the piss stained phone booths.


    The bar was a fixer upper, but it was mostly for money laundering purposes, there was never a shortage of customers for alcohol sales, they sold the booze cheap and the drugs expensive. It was called Versailles, a misnomer referencing the french revolution. Especially fitting giving the questionable queens trotting around town offering their wares for the oldest profession. Today, however, was the day they¡¯d meet their Madam De Pompadour.


    Madam De Pompadour, was the mistress to the king of France, known for her wit, education and cultural wisdom. She was one of few historical mistresses that even had the queen of France on side ¨C though Irene imagined part of that was the much loved reprieve she provided when the queen ¡®faked a headache.¡¯


    The madam de pompadour of 1980s New York, was an art gallery owner from downtown. She wore heavy, bold jewelry and an eccentric set of wigs that laid on a disco bedazzled mannequin head when not in use. She styled herself in flapperish 1920s art nuevo circles of makeup, her lips pointed into a bee sting of sharp red.


    While the other girls were in shocking electric blues dragged across their faces to a point, she was a full stop of a woman. A short, sharp, attention catching bullet of a girl.


    She dragged her hoopskirt into the bar with a great scratch of chicken wire against the concrete floor, barely scraping past the door frame and into the bar where a redhead in a robust corset was sat, sorting through money and watching the crowd like a David Attenborough documentary.


    ¡°I need a drink, I¡¯ve just come from a John Waters screening in an abandoned subway station and I need something to wash the smell of urine away from my senses. What drink can you legally only serve once?¡± she told the barkeeper.


    Irene nodded behind the bar, producing a pale green liquid and watched the woman closely. ¡°For you dear, I¡¯ll serve it twice¡± she said with a wink, predicting an easy mark.


    Getting art people drunk was always a fun social experiment, they¡¯d froth about Andy Warhol or Keith Harring, or Neo expressionism until they were satisfied people knew they were superior, waving some heavily weighted, be-ringed hands into the air as they ranted.


    They were always an easy target because they wanted to believe their own hype. You could sell them a bag of flour and call it ¡®elite neo-marxist hypercocaine¡¯ and they¡¯d shill out twice the price, just to pad their own ego.


    To her credit, she played the role well. ¡°Lily Fisher¡± she introduced, with a flourish and a lipstick stained kiss next to her silhouette on her business card. It read curator and host in stylized writing, potentially done the old fashioned way, with a custom stamp and ink blotter to save money on printing.


    ¡°I heard there¡¯s an art piece from an undiscovered artist somewhere in town late this week¡± Irene baited, ¡°Between you and me he was drunk in here babbling about investment opportunities.¡± In saying this she lent forward, eye contact and a bite of the lips. Two absinthe shots down and rich enough to have a multi thousand dollar impulse purchase, Lily arched a drawn on eyebrow. ¡°Keep talking¡± she rattled.


    Irene and Ken had pulled this routine off 4 times before, getting some cheap street art from a local university student and passing it off as a big deal. It wasn¡¯t technically a scam, some of these kids could be big deals ¡­ most of them didn¡¯t pick up a brush again after graduation. She fished behind the scenes for a piece that matched this woman¡¯s vibe, and plucked a painting of a technicolour flower, seemingly bleeding paint in splatters from the petals off onto the stalks. It was passable for technical skills, but more importantly it was 50 dollars.


    ¡°He was very rich, he went by the name of ¡­¡± Irene thought of their locals and which ones would be willing to help out for a small cut ¡°Fred Carlings?¡±


    ¡°Carlings? Like the beer?¡± Lily challenged gently.


    ¡°He¡¯s a motorbike enthusiast, one of those ¡­¡± Irene began, before using a word that she¡¯d rather not include in a modern news report. It was a rough bar in the 80s after all, people used unpleasant words for all sorts of folks outside of the norm, but as long as there was a large enough financial incentive she¡¯d work with them.


    By this point in her career ¨C especially in New York ¨C she¡¯d managed to work with (and against) all sorts of people. Everyone from drag queens to rabbis, the paper dollar didn¡¯t discriminate, and neither did she.


    Lily laughed a little. ¡°Fred Carlings. Motorbike Fred ¡­¡± she said toying with the idea of this man.


    ¡°you can meet him if you like¡± Irene suggested, ready to pen a quick post-it note for her boyfriend the second she was out of eye contact. Wear something TIGHT and SKINNY it would read.


    Lily looked over the dripping absinthe contraption that¡¯d been scrapped together in front of her, considering how to break the news. ¡°I know Fred Carlings ¨C he¡¯s on my payroll¡± she let Irene know. ¡°And that¡¯s not his work.¡±


    Irene winced a tad.


    ¡°he¡¯s going through an experimental phase¡± she justified.


    ¡°Those flowers are meant as an intersectional take on the female genitalia, hence the splatter effect of bloods and oozes to represent the pains of birthing. Definitely an experimental phase for a man who specializes in charcoal landscapes¡­ ¡­ ¡­ and is gay¡± Lily pointed out. ¡°But you already knew about that.¡±


    Irene backed off, not able to talk her way out of this one.


    ¡°Meet me on Friday, at the gallery. Don¡¯t ask too many questions, and wear something light¡± Lily told her bartender, firmly putting a business card with an address into her hand.

 Chapter Eight: Killer Queen.

    1987 New York, approximately a week after the first meeting of Lily Fisher.


    Irene stole her way past her husband, explaining to him that she was going for a long con. Something about befriending a gullible artist in a tower block art gallery. She dressed down, as instructed. A Black, flowing dress and a pair of cute ankle boots with tassles on them, complete with a kicky black leather jacket that made the look pop.


    She arrived at a concrete marble building. Monochrome walls, whites and sharp black contrasts. A desk sat there at the front, complete with a peroxide blonde lady in business casual wear serving canapes and gulpfuls of what was allegedly champagne, but didn¡¯t quite hold up to scrutiny. The champagne glasses contained only 3 sips worth, but you can¡¯t complain about free drinks.


    Irene looked at the business card with scrutiny, checking for a room number, or a specific exhibit she wanted to meet at. 2<sup>nd</sup> floor, office 12. red door.


    Irene rattled up the stairs, the metallic zips and belts of her jacket shaking like a bell around a cat¡¯s neck. She turned the bend of the staircase and was met with a striking statuesque presence. Staggering heels and rounded makeup, a pale, almost ghostly visage.


    Her severe bob now replaced with a towering set of pastel pink victory rolls, and a lavender tipped horse riding whip. She wore a jet black trench coat this time, and a set of robust red-pink riding boots that blended in with the strawberries and cream configuration she was trying to produce.


    ¡°Hello my darling¡± she announced, her body moving like a phantom around the city. She took Irene by the hand, she could feel the allure of this woman becoming a deep, barely lucid, trance. Without protest, she followed the art mistress to her office, taking note of the robust, soundproof fire door. You notice these things in Irene¡¯s line of work.


    ¡°What are we doing here?¡± Irene questioned, now getting slightly concerned of why an independently wealthy new yorker would want a door with three locks.


    ¡°Performance art my dear, you trust me right?¡± Lily purred, nuzzling the woman¡¯s ear as she whispered the words.


    ¡°I just need your signature here, and we¡¯ll be ready to begin.¡± Irene signed the contract, too baffled to register the words she skim-read. She¡¯d had to learn to be adventurous in the last few years. A long way from desk jobs and petty fraud.


    Before the ink even had time to dry, the trench coat was on the floor, and a perfect hourglass figure was revealed. Corset, waist trainer, and bra trying to tame the surprisingly ample bosoms of the previously very slender and quite flat chested academic. Irene watched her breasts, trying to pretend it was a strictly scientific intrigue, that she was only trying to work out how the illusion was created. Were they stuffed somehow? She¡¯d need a closer look.


    Before she proceeded, she noticed the blinking red light on the shelf, almost hidden by porcelain tribal mask. The penny dropped. Blackmail. She decided to investigate closer, besides her husband wasn¡¯t exactly monogamous either, its fair game.


    They kissed, a slow, softer kiss. Hands taking off her leather jacket and twisting up her skirt against her dolphin smooth shaven legs. The hands drifted until they reached her thighs, and then around to her bum. The lace underwear was quickly revealed, and the dress didn¡¯t stand a chance. Irene found herself bent across the desk, purple lipstick staining her mouth, cheek and neck. Her skirt hoisted up to her hips and braced for the impact of the paddle.


    Leather struck her arse, leaving a pucker of red against her soft lily-white skin. Afterwards she heard the scratch of a pen against paper. Was she tallying? The second whip hit against her, causing her to shudder forward on the office table.


    ¡°Did you really think you could use my friend¡¯s name to scam me?¡± she asked, aiming the crop for another lash.


    Irene nodded. ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡± she said, gagging through the words as though any wrong choices might end with her in worse trouble. There was a fourth lash. Then a fifth.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry WHAT?¡± she barked.


    ¡°Mistress?¡± Irene guessed.


    There was another whip. ¡°INCORRECT.¡±


    Irene tried again.


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry Lily¡± she exclaimed.


    ¡°Like you mean it¡± Lily pushed, another few whips going down.


    She tried to say it again, but her throat was drying up. She didn¡¯t know how anymore.


    ¡°Like you mean it you uncultured two-dollar powder pusher¡± Lily Barked with a strike that echoed through the room.


    Irene felt the adrenaline hit her at that. Being under bondage and domination was one thing. She was even used to being underestimated, but insulting the quality of her work was too far. She worked hard for only the finest Columbian Marching Powder. She sold her life for this, she sold her prospects and her country and even her morals for this.


    She pulled herself up from the desk and faced the art mistress. The birdlike woman tried to set her back down on the table, but it wasn¡¯t working. Irene shoved her aside, her mojo well and truly back.


    ¡°You pretentious wonderbread TART!¡± Irene announced, shoving aside the woman and her 3 inch heels with her weight.


    ¡°I thought you were an easy mark, because you have all the trimmings of an artist nepotism princess¡± she barked back at the Jam Donut Dominatrix in her pinks and purples.


    ¡°Your fancy office and your plastic Art Deco knockoffs Don¡¯t intimidate me¡± Irene said, snatching the crop from the woman¡¯s hand and slashing it against the delicate clay mask replica on the bookshelf.


    ¡°That¡¯s worth thousands¡± Lily gasped. Irene didn¡¯t care.


    She slashed at the camera and tore through the wires.


    ¡°You thought entrapment would work? I have been pushed around since I traded in that accountancy internship in a damp little Brighton office with mold on the walls.¡± She breathed.


    ¡°I worked my arse off for this. The world was not fair, but don¡¯t you dare talk to me about culture and quality.¡±


    Lily felt the first lash. She tried to shelter away from it, but it seemed she couldn¡¯t take what she dished out.


    She winced. ¡°TRUCE?¡± she begged, catching Irene, whip in hand hovering in a golf swing motion.


    Irene stood there quietly. ¡°I¡¯m listening.¡± she arched, letting the dominatrix scramble back onto her heels and cover away the marks that were beginning to manifest across her back and shoulders.


    Lily thought to herself. ¡°Your artist friends were talented. I can sell them.¡± she announced. ¡°I¡¯d have to take certain creative liberties with the backstories, but I think I¡¯d be able to make it work ¡­ for a percentage¡± Lily suggested.


    Irene lowered the crop away from the striking pose, considering the offer. ¡°I expect it in writing¡± she proposed, ¡°by Thursday next week.¡±


    Irene got dressed to leave, but before she reached for the door, a voice chimed over her shoulder. ¡°And darling?¡± Lily interjected. ¡°You make a fabulous muse.¡±


    ***


    Back in the bunker, Irene was unsure how to feel. She discovered the journalist had records kept of everyone¡¯s mishaps. It turns out, the exhibit had taken on a life of its own.


    Woman with Whip ¨C a study in power and control was the title of the clip. It was Irene in her early 20s, crop in hand, a looping clip of her stealing it from the purple BDSM mistress and taking over with a surprising amount of gusto. She didn¡¯t know whether she was proud or ashamed, but she did have to admit, she was still in shape back in those days.


    The exhibit itself ¨C as the interviewer explained ¨C had become a party piece for many collectors over the years, and was especially popular in the more vice riddled parts of Europe. It was found in Amsterdam¡¯s sex museum, playing with a track of custom music looped behind it. Something electric and sexy with a lot of synth.


    Irene was especially shocked to find out how much these museums had bought it for, the Tate modern in Cornwall spent upwards of Ten Grand on it back in 2014, for a collection entitled rage from the 80s that lasted three summers.


    She took a nervous glance at her husband, Ken. He didn¡¯t quite know what to do with his face. To him Lily was an old friend, but also a bitter rival at times, both for Irene¡¯s affection and for the attention in the room. She had a power over him, to revert him back to being a jealous teenager.


    Ted was the first to break the silence, he also didn¡¯t quite know how to react. He¡¯d never witnessed his employers spellbound before.


    ¡°So you knew her well then?¡± he interrupted.


    ¡°Seems like it¡± Ken coughed out.


    The interviewer watched them closely at the tensions boiled over. ¡°I¡¯m going to get another pot of coffee ¨C I¡¯ll leave you to process all that¡± she permitted, ducking out from the table and allowing the decades old rage and grief to sit there unprocessed for ten minutes.


    Ted broke the silence first. ¡°You said you just snapped, that you were worn down by compromise?¡± he asked.


    Irene nodded.


    ¡°What compromises? How did you go from outsmarting a drug runner to being the powder queen of Europe?¡± Ted asked.


    He¡¯d never asked intimate questions like this before. It was a big faux-pas in his line of business. If his employers wanted to share something with him, that was their choice, but it was not his place to ask questions unless they directly impacted the mission. Those rules had gotten blurry before, but in the sober light of day there were very strict boundaries.


    Irene looked at Ken, seemingly out of emotional energy to give. ¡°You tell it better darling¡± she said, leaving a lot unsaid.


    She didn¡¯t say, I trust you. She didn¡¯t say you¡¯ll get the nuances right. She didn¡¯t even need to say I¡¯m tired of the scrutiny of this industrial recording death trap we¡¯re in. She didn¡¯t need to. Sometimes a spouse just knows.

 Chapter Nine. Under pressure.

    Paris. 1986. a few months after the Berlin deal.


    Irene was living with the consequences of her phone calls. One to a journalist. One to a killer. She was about to make phone call number three, to a man who smelt like liquor and cigarettes, who¡¯d left his notebook on the bedside table.


    Her journalist phone call was the easiest. She¡¯d sold the story to a radio company. They¡¯d promised her protection, and a few thousand pounds if she could prove her story. She¡¯d spent the last few months gathering evidence. Phone call recordings and paper letters she¡¯d received, clips of CCTV camera footage from the airport that came in big jiffy bags and heavy duty tape recordings. Detecting suited her, she got to wear trench coats and be nosy. Two of her favorite hobbies.


    She¡¯d send detailed letters and diagrams to three radio stations after her phone call. One in Berlin, one in London, and one in Paris. Her french wasn¡¯t always excellent, it was cobbled together using guide books and tourist information that wasn¡¯t built for the job. At least twice she mixed up the word for ¡°stabbing¡± and the word for ¡°to penetrate sexually¡±, but the radio hosts seemed to be able to read around her misinterpretations.


    She was living in a hotel these days, her hair now a discreet shade of dark auburn, and her dress sense was something far less attention grabbing. Her goal was to blend in. Especially after phone call number two.


    Phone call number two was to her boss, the killer. He didn¡¯t take too kindly when she told him she was retiring. He took it less well when he discovered the agent she was meant to meet was in a reservoir somewhere between Berlin and Copenhagen. She didn¡¯t even know about that until weeks after the fact. She was about to get a stern reminder.


    There was a knock at the hotel room door. The drug money she was using was running out, she couldn¡¯t afford to change hotels again. The hotels were non refundable.


    It was a male voice shouting through the door, and she looked through the keyhole to see a hulking figure and the outline of a gun against his jacket. She decided not to open the door. She held her breath, she couldn¡¯t move. Her body froze up. Fight or Flight¡¯s more useless cousin, the Freeze response.


    Her blocky analogue TV fizzled in the background. The air was growing thin. The knocking was getting louder. She heard a key scrape against the lock. Did this hotel have spare keys? FUCK. She looked at her options. She could climb under the bed ¡­ no too obvious.


    She could arm herself with something heavy? ¡­ no, he¡¯s got the advantage even if she ambushed him. She saw the window.


    She was in the chambre de Bonne, a maid¡¯s living quarters that had been done up into a hotel room by the B & B owners on the Top floor, a Long way down ¡­ but it walks out onto the flat roof. If she could just shimmy the pigeon spikes off the windowsill, she could probably hop over onto the roof.


    The door¡¯s lock wouldn¡¯t last too long. The handle was giving away, as the hand on the other side of the door jabbed and twisted and jerked at it. She thanked god for her door lock. There was a push at the barbed wire pigeon barricade, it jerked away and there was a klang when it hit the ground. She heaved herself through the window and didn¡¯t look back when the door finally gave way. Her feet pressed and slipped against the copper roof tiles. The green rusted tinge making them damp and difficult to get a firm foothold on. She tried to steady her breath, taking hold of one of the sign letters they¡¯d put on the roof of the hotel. The rusted scaffolding crunched uncomfortably under her hand. She had to close her eyes, and breathe, and trust the process.


    There was a 50% chance she¡¯d fall to her death on the roof, and an 80% chance of death by mysterious gun wielding henchman.


    She heard him swear in french from the window. Her fingers locked onto the scaffolding of the hotel welcome sign, despite the damp and the rust and the feeling of particles getting under her nails and into her skin. He took his head out the window, giving a look down at the ground. Don¡¯t move. Don¡¯t breathe. Don¡¯t draw any attention whatsoever.


    The metal groaned under her grip. Her spare hand going for the cables plugging the sign¡¯s many tacky light bulbs in and vandalized the city skyline. If she fell, a handful of wires wouldn¡¯t keep her there suspended, however they would buy her enough time to readjust herself.


    The rusted metal pole finally shuddered. She slipped slightly. Her vice-grip on the wires getting strong enough to cause a mark in the plastic coating. Her now spare hand grabbed desperately at the middle of the O in ¡®hotel¡¯. It was bolted on with 3 inch rivets. There was no way this bastard was slipping. By now though, a crowd of tired and grumpy Frenchmen were beginning to notice the British bird hanging from the roof in her pajamas.


    When the coast was finally clear, or as clear as it was going to get, Irene pulled herself fully onto the roof, and took the staff roof hatch back down to the hotel¡¯s top floor landing. Returned to her room, she took a close hold at the novella that had become her lifeline the last few months, and started to dial the number on page 38.


    ¡°Ken?¡± she asked down the landline.


    A grunt happened over the other side of the phone.


    ¡°Ken you screwed me over. There are strange Frenchmen with guns after me. I¡¯m almost out of money¡­¡± she begged down the telephone.


    There was a dial tone. He hung up.


    Unacceptable.


    She dialed again, like her life depended on it.


    ¡°KEN! Love. Honey. Baby. I took a few notes before I gave you back the notepad, and I¡¯ve got good contacts in the publishing industry and enough stamps for next day delivery. You are NOT shelving me¡± she told the silence on the other end of the phone.


    The silence lingered, but there was breathing. He¡¯d not hung up yet. ¡°Either you provide me immunity, or I find someone who will¡± she told him unflinchingly.


    She had to say it like she meant it, even though she¡¯d ran out of moves 3 phone calls ago. If they felt she was bluffing, she wouldn¡¯t so much as get a post card. She¡¯d tried moving country, she¡¯d tried moving jobs. She¡¯d even tried the police. None of it seemed to work for long.


    ¡°I have a friend in Montpellier¡± said the voice on phone. She couldn¡¯t quite make out who was on the other side. Was that what Ken sounded like?


    ¡°Meet me there at midnight, and bring wine.¡±


    * * *


    Montpollier, the compromise. St Peter¡¯s Cathedral.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    The cold midnight chill bit at the necks of the intruders. Ken on one side of the church, laid dramatically across a pew like a rock star on an album cover, hand flopped out like the Sistine chapel painting of Adam and god. Irene stood there in the stone archway. She held a file in her left arm and a video tape in her right hand, feeling like she brought a knife to a gun fight.


    ¡°Where are the others?¡± she asked to the marble hallways, wondering how many figures in the dark were statues and how many were people. Ken startled to his feet without a whisp of grace. ¡°I¡¯m a man of my word, just me¡± he said.


    She watched him closely with new eyes. No gun shaped outlines on his hips, but a knife in a sheath on his left. If he tried anything she¡¯d need to be aware of that. To his surprise he reached down and she braced for gunshots, instead being met with a bottle of red wine, and a pack of cards.


    ¡°You brought a picnic?¡± she asked, watching him pour the drink into two golden goblets. He chewed his cheek a little, squinting at her. ¡°Communion wine, but I did bring playing cards¡± he said with a gesture. She pulled up a chair and began to perch on it carefully. Neither of them were particularly catholic, but a holy building needed at least some respect.


    ¡°And so you know there are not tricks ...¡± he considered, aware of her analytical mind. He poured a little wine from one glass into the other, and vice versa. Mutually assured destruction, if anyone was poisoned the poison was now in both cups. He shuffled the cards to himself, hearing them slap against each other and echo across the room. The silence was deafening, but it provided excellent insurance. It¡¯s hard to sneak up on someone when you¡¯re in a room with acoustics built to magnify sound.


    ¡°What¡¯s your poison?¡± he asked her, taking a sip from the wine. ¡°Blackjack. I¡¯m not good at poker¡± she justified. He put down a handful of poker chips on the table, four red and four black tokens. ¡°Usually we play a bigger game, but I thought I¡¯d keep it simple for now¡± he justified.


    She quickly learned how the barter system worked, this was a low stakes version. Two choices, two colours. Information or favors. Truth or dare. The colour system was sorted quickly. Red for favors, Black for information.


    She watched him shuffle with eagle eyes, looking for any trickery. Her mother used to cheat at card games back in the day, nothing serious but enough that you¡¯d learn the tells. Keeping an eye on the sleeves of Ken¡¯s button up shirt. Irene wasn¡¯t a cheat, but she knew how they worked. It wasn¡¯t until the early 90s that she¡¯d master card counting. At this stage she thought it cheap, no honor in rigging a game of chance. Her opinion would drift in the next year or two.


    Her mother¡¯s cheating at games became less charming after the divorce. Her weekly flutter with the girls from work going from a vehicle for a social gathering, to a heated chase after the winnings.


    It used to be so civilized, her and a set of working mothers, taking a night off from doing it all to remember the 60s. To gossip about whether the butcher was sleeping with the baker¡¯s wife, or if the Vicar¡¯s ¡°Traveling companion¡± knew more than he was letting on. The mother¡¯s never judged, they just knew. They had to know. Knowing is the only thing you could do in a small northern town.


    Irene had made a vow to never chase anything as much as her mother chased gossip, and to quit cards altogether if she ever caught herself chasing after the feeling of winning like her mother did.


    ¡°Stick or twist?¡± Ken asked, cutting through the brain-fog.


    Irene considered her cards carefully. ¡°are aces high?¡± she asked, fully aware she had no aces. She knew the answer, but if she was to play well, she¡¯d have to play people as well as she played cards.


    Ken considered his answer. ¡°they¡¯re both¡± he confirmed.


    ¡°Twist¡± she said.


    A card was slapped onto the table, and picked up.


    ¡°Again!¡± she demanded.


    Another card.


    ¡°Stop!¡± she confirmed, holding up a hand like she was thanking a driver that let her walk through traffic. Ken observed her closely, wondering what her tells might be.


    ¡°I¡¯ll pick up two cards¡± he said, sliding two cards from the deck on the table. ¡°Before we reveal, what are we betting on?¡± he asked, stone cold.


    ¡°If you win, I want immunity from you specifically¡± she told him.


    ¡°My darling, if I wanted you dead, you wouldn¡¯t be playing cards¡± he replied, fanning himself with the deck.


    ¡°Okay then¡± she said putting a black chip on the table. ¡°I want to know who the gunman coming after me is.¡±


    Klein nodded. His face unreadable. ¡°okay, if we¡¯re playing for information¡± he began, ¡°then why did you pull that stunt with the notebook?¡± he asked.


    She revealed her cards. 7 of diamonds. 6 of hearts. 2 of hearts.


    Klein won by 4 points.


    ¡°I work with a lot of powerful people. I¡¯m rarely powerful myself. I need whatever insurance I can get¡± she said.


    ¡°Not that stunt¡± he said, with the calm confidence of a shark.


    ¡°Well you¡¯ll have to bet your next chip on it then¡± she responded, reshuffling the cards. She put the cards down when she was satisfied and without showing her fear, she couldn¡¯t be in any more trouble.


    ¡°Same question¡± she told him, dealing out the cards.


    He took three up this time. ¡°Okay I have a question to bet on. What were you going to do with that footage? Where was that tape going?¡±


    She picked up the deck, staring down her rival. She dished out her cards slowly, not flinching, making a show of the honesty she was playing with.


    This time she won. Barely. Three points difference.


    Kennedy cocked his head cautiously. ¡°He¡¯s a killer, not one of mine¡± he replied, again chewing his cheek. It was becoming a nervous habit. Irene gestured for him to expand.


    ¡°Did you say he was french? Like with the accent?¡± he asked.


    She nodded. ¡°Big guy, he was all shoulders.¡±


    ¡°If he¡¯s the guy I think he is, he¡¯s a freelancer. Not hired by one particular group.¡± Ken corrected.


    ¡°But if he¡¯s after you then that means you may have burnt your bridges in London.¡±


    Irene reshuffled. Her hands going cold and slipping the cards involuntarily.


    ¡°You wanted a favor?¡± he asked. ¡°Ask for it.¡±


    She shuffled again, as best she could. Then she broke her one rule. She pocketed a playing card. Just for a second. A little slight of hand. When she served up the cards, she made sure to rig herself a hot hand. It was unfair, she knew that. But it was a life and death situation.


    ¡°I want security. Maximum security. Keep me safe Ken¡± she told him.


    He looked her in the eyes, taking in the girl in front of him. roughly twenty three. Desperate. Kind. ¡°Okay. But if I win¡± he began. He hadn¡¯t considered what would happen if it got this far.


    He didn¡¯t want to ask her for sex. She didn¡¯t have money. She didn¡¯t have contacts. She had her dignity and a set of videos.


    ¡°If I win, you have to burn those tapes¡± he told her. He didn¡¯t know she¡¯d made duplicates. Duplicates to be found in Paris, Berlin, and London. A first class postage stamp goes far.


    ¡°Of course¡± she said. Her mouth going dry from the cold and the uncertainty.


    The minutes had never lingered like this before. The old church stones absorbing the cold into them, and the cards scraping against the wooden pews. Sweat formulated at Irene¡¯s hairline. Her hands began to cramp. Her breath got short as she considered the risk of the next move.


    She dealt the cards slowly, making a show of it. He couldn¡¯t notice the next move. It was vital. Ken dealt his cards, and Irene feigned a stretch, letting the card caught between in her leather jacket sleeve slide forward to the cuff of her shirt.


    She took a shakey handed sip of her wine. Spilling a little on herself, and the deck. Her hidden ace would stand out like a sore thumb now. One pristine pale card against a tie dyed deck of dripping wet purples and pinks that seemed to be seeping into the laminated card pack.


    She took the distraction. Took the risk. Her card squished against a 4 of diamonds, and a 6 of clubs. The wine was soaking through. The card was ruined. The card was rare. The card was beginning to blend in perfectly as she dabbed herself down flustered.


    She put the cards down confidently and Kennedy glared at her. He was a man of his word, no amount of suspicion in the world would fix it.


    ¡°I guess you¡¯re joining my team then¡± he said affectionately, dabbing the wine from her neck.

 Chapter Ten: Pop goes the weasel

    Back at the bunker, the hairs on the back of Ted¡¯s neck stood on end, as a metallic crank was heard tearing apart the bunker¡¯s reinforced door. There was no way they¡¯d survive this. The fangs of the door¡¯s locking mechanism tore apart like bad dentistry and a face was visible between the mashed together metal hooks holding the door in place. Ted knew it would take 2 minutes for that door to be entirely annihilated, and after that it would take 8 minutes to end up in a stalemate. Maybe less if he had this kind of technology gnashing at the metal.


    Irene pushed the steel table aside, crashing the dictaphone onto the concrete with a loud scramble. They had no choice but to go back further into the bowels of the bunker. Ken shoved Ted into the store room and tore apart enough cardboard that he could be hidden among the boxes for a short while. It was a juvenile plan, but often the stupid plans worked better. Irene shoveled through the weapon box, looking for anything with enough power to keep intruders at bay. She hated this part of the job. She wasn¡¯t built for violence, she was a pen pusher at heart.


    She hid 4 revolvers around the public area, two large hunting knives by the door, and a smattering of smaller weapons under tables and behind documents and filing cabinets. Tasers, hammers, knuckle dusters and smaller knives. Anything with a bite to it.


    She heard the crackle when the first door was finally torn off its hinges. The second door was easier to take care of, that would take 30 more seconds. In this time she decided to take a defensive position by the files and the vaults. She was a petite woman, not the tall, fiery thing she was 40 years ago, and while there are some breeds of 60 year old martial artists that could kick ass, Irene was not one of them.


    She counted the footsteps as the military boots hit the metallic floors for the first time. Nothing to do now other then sit next to a filing cabinet, and grasp whatever she could find. She held a pistol close to her chest, checking the bullets and counting them again and again. A paranoid, fiddly ritual. She checked the holster, she checked the grips, she even checked the safety was off.


    The footsteps grew closer. Boots against metal. She could hear what sounded like three, maybe four sets. Not a militia, she breathed to herself, tucking her legs in so she¡¯d take up as little space as possible.


    GUNSHOT.


    They seemed to be splitting up.


    She breathed closer. Distinctly noticing the sound of boots against metal and the grunts of the armed men as they split up in three directions. One stayed close to the entrance. One was checking out the supply cupboard. TED. No. don¡¯t think about that. One of the men was heading into the bedrooms, and that meant that the fourth man was heading towards the offices. She heard him grow closer and tried her hardest not to move. She knew it was silly, he was an armed gunman not a T rex. But from a slither of 90s computer screen she caught sight of a large, black machine gun.


    Her heart was beating in her chest now.


    He wasn¡¯t close enough to taze. He wasn¡¯t close enough to swipe for. She could do nothing but wait.


    He stood 12 paces away. Entering directly into her line of sight. Holding the gun with no hesitation. ¡°DROP THE PISTOL¡± he barked. Bald and vicious. A pit bull of a man, White, British, muscles bulging out of his kevlar vest.


    Irene raised her hands submissively, ¡°please don¡¯t shoot¡± she whimpered. She liked to believe it was part of an act, like if she could remind them of a helpless older relative - A fond aunt or a mother figure in their lives - she might be spared. The reality was it was never that straight forward. She was terrified.


    The barrel of the bulldog man¡¯s gun found itself levitating towards her head. He called over his companions. All equally doggish. The man who looked like a doberman, racially ambigious with sharpened cheekbones and jaws, stared her down. As did the man who looked like a husky, more Russian traits.


    ¡°Fellas, please don¡¯t shoot¡± she tried.


    They looked at her as if she was the daftest bitch in the world. ¡°we¡¯re keeping you alive. You¡¯re bait¡± the doberman told her. The husky leaning in just close enough that she could smell his breath in the air. Stale coffee and a meat heavy breakfast.


    ¡°Are you attached to your limbs?¡± one of the men grizzled. She couldn¡¯t tell who it was, she was too horse blinder-ed by panic to pay attention. She nodded and sobbed. Please lord save me without too much injury she begged internally. She didn¡¯t dare smuggle out any words. She knew she¡¯d say the wrong thing.


    She didn¡¯t move. She didn¡¯t blink. She just let whatever panicked noises happen. That¡¯s what they wanted isn¡¯t it? She looked at the locking mechanism of the safe, the fingerprints against it and the puddle of now dried and sticky coffee by the floor. ¡°He¡¯s in the safe¡± she grumbled. Her eyes catching a handle tucked to the side of the great vault. Don¡¯t stare at it. Don¡¯t let them know its there. Ignore it. She begged herself.


    The bulldog man went first. ¡°This better not be a trick¡± he grumbled, grabbing the reinforced door tearing device from his bag. It was like a set of plyers. Big pinchers that pulled out instead of in. He skewered the door and cranked for five consecutive pumps.


    ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. FIVE.


    The door tore off. And the knife tumbled to the ground in front of the safe.


    Quick as a flash. A desperate stranger with desperate burns sprung out at them. Picking up the knife and tearing across the flesh of the miserable men. She was dropped in the panic and scrambled back, watching the strange men change targets as her kitten heels scraped against the metal.


    The husky noticed her, taking off after her as the other two restrained the starved and pathetic skeleton man that sprung out to them. He¡¯d been tainted by desperation, and starvation. Whatever was man, was now pure animal fight or flight. A human wall of aggression.


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    Irene ran into the bed quarters. The investigator was there. She was under the beds, in the American ¡°school shooter drill¡± position, aged vodka in hand and mascara drenching her cheeks. Irene grabbed the leg of a bedside table and lifted it aloft, like a club. Her pistol had been lost in the scramble. She took a glance as the intruder¡¯s door guard moved over to offer support, seeing the rogues gallery in front of her. She tried to memorise the men she saw. So that she¡¯d know if anyone was hidden for an ambush.


    Pitbull. Doberman. Husky.


    She added The feline looking doorman and the punky one with the mohawk, although the mohawk man was not getting up any time soon. He was either dead or unconscious. For his sake, she hoped dead.


    In total she saw five. Four left.


    Pitbull. Doberman. Husky. Sphinx. Rooster.


    There was a familiar scream, and the sound of a gunshot. Looks like her surprise from the safe is no longer a suitable distraction. She didn¡¯t know what other tricks she had left. She tore her head out the door as quickly and quietly as she could. Baited breath. She grabbed the interviewers wrist. The woman had slithered out of her hiding spot by now.


    She counted mentally. Three. Two. ONE.


    She ran. If the boys had any sense they would too. She was the only one not formally combat trained. The footsteps slapped against the metal. A desperate scramble. No elegance. No sense. No subtlety. There was a Jeep about 40 paces away in the hot sun. Jet black, doors open for a quick getaway. The women stumbled through the cracked open bunker door and their feet ached up the metallic ladder. Fresh air. Hot sand. Freedom.


    Irene and the interviewer landed themselves into the jeep and hit the accelerator full throttle. Don¡¯t look back. Don¡¯t think back. Survivors think about the future. Irene begged herself. They tore through the desert for miles. Sand whipping at their window and the crunch of stone under the tires. She didn¡¯t care where they went. They just had to go.


    No honor among thieves. The boys would be fine. They always were.


    * * *


    After an adequate distance had occurred, they scrapped the Jeep. It was tracked. Of course it was tracked. They beached it at a dune and walked to a petrol station diner, doing the best to ignore the memories of gunshots and bloodsplatter.


    ¡°looks like I¡¯m going to have to get that cleaned up before a certain someone gets released¡± The interviewer gruffed.


    Irene breathed through her nose.


    ¡°If we survive, hand me a sponge¡± she half joked, receiving a glance in return.


    ¡°And the door?¡± the interviewer asked.


    ¡°The door did its job¡± she huffed.


    ¡°No I mean how do we repair it?¡± the interviewer asked.


    ¡°That¡¯s not my problem. There¡¯s bound to be a door guy you can contact, assuming we all get out of this alive¡± Irene shrugged. Sand getting into the nooks on her jacket and into the cracks of her feet.


    The arrived at a diner 3 miles from the site, ordering a pair of milkshakes on an anonymous card. They¡¯d have to steal a motorbike or something out back. That was a later problem. For now they had precious minutes.


    ¡°The FUCK was that?¡± the interviewer asked.


    ¡°That was a hired hit-man team from San Francisco¡± Irene answered.


    ¡°But there was gunfire!¡± the interviewer shuddered.


    ¡°What were you expecting? You were housing a drug kingpin¡± Irene pointed out.


    ¡°At this point in the career no one takes a hit team personally, its like sending an email. You don¡¯t blame Mark Zuckerberg that your high school crush broke up with you on Facebook¡±


    The interviewer watched her carefully, strawberry milkshake straw lingering in her mouth as she thought. It was a well earned milkshake. Frankly they¡¯d been living off lukewarm drinks for the last few days, and the 3 mile walk in the scorching sand had caused nothing other than calluses and discomfort. Irene leaned on an elbow.


    ¡°can I borrow your phone quickly?¡± she asked.


    The interviewer handed over a smart phone, about 3 models behind the latest, but alas that¡¯s what you get on documentary royalties. Irene took to it like a duck to water, scrambling the location trackers in the local area. She wanted to broadcast two clear messages. One, that she was alive so her husband could stop worrying, and two, that she¡¯d gotten out of the desert.


    She hadn¡¯t gotten out of the desert of course. But if she could fudge the controls a little, she could say the jeep was headed to an airport, or skimming its way to Mexico, they¡¯d be in the clear. Ken would know it was a lie, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth closed.


    She¡¯d make it look like an accident, like she¡¯d left the tracker controls on by mistake. It wouldn¡¯t work for long, but it would buy them an hour or two.


    ¡°My tapes¡± the interviewer sighed to herself. Irene shook her head slowly, ¡°Babe, we know you have like three different recording devices. My money is on a secret cloud drive and an auto upload.¡± The interviewer looked at her with a baffled expression.


    ¡°Drop the act, you¡¯re not that dumb, that¡¯s why I hired you¡± Irene told her.


    The interviewer shrugged ¡°I just hope that last auto upload worked, only one of those tapes has a black box feature.¡±


    Irene stared at her, reading her like a dime store murder mystery. ¡°Any other secrets you want to tell me? Before those men make you tell them?¡±


    The interviewer thought, unflinching. ¡°I was in three different war zones, I¡¯ve worked across the political spectrum, and I¡¯ve made an effort to keep my beak clean when I can¡± she told Irene.


    Irene shook her head ¡°I didn¡¯t ask for your CV.¡±


    The interviewer thought harder, biting her lip and finding her free hand running through her hair anxiously. ¡°Okay, I may have accidentally leaked our location¡± she admitted nervously. Irene just stared.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to, but every time my recording devices uploaded the footage it¡¯d send a little time stamp and an IP address to the cloud. If they tracked that then they¡¯d be able to piece together our location. Especially paired with the rumours about the crazy millionaire¡¯s secret sex bunker that drift around the college campuses nearby¡± she rambled.


    Irene wasn¡¯t having it. She lifted her eyebrows and made a constipated face. ¡°Be for real, we¡¯ve told you our stories, the least you can do is tell the truth¡± she huffed. ¡°You¡¯re lucky my revolver was left in the bunker¡± she added.


    The interviewer started twiddling the napkin holder.


    ¡°Okay, okay okay okay. FINE¡± she capitulated.


    ¡°I leaked your data, I was made an offer. They said an attack would increase the ratings of the documentary and that I¡¯d be spared if anything goes wrong.¡±


    Irene resisted the temptation to skewer her dining companion in the hand with a hamburger fork, instead opting for an arctic stare and to shove the woman into the scorching desert sand.


    ¡°If its a hook you¡¯re looking for, walk home¡± she told her. ¡°Or I¡¯ll provide plenty of inspiration for your true crime show.¡±

 Chapter Eleven: If I could turn back time.

    In truth, Irene couldn¡¯t care less about the investigator. It was a betrayal, sure, but in her line of work that was the gold standard. It would have been somehow more offensive if she hadn¡¯t tried to set them up. The poor girl was on barely a banker¡¯s wage, and they weren¡¯t exactly close. In truth Irene would have done the same.


    She picked up an unassuming vehicle. Something beaten up and sunbleached, a workman¡¯s van. She tried not to think so hard about her husband, her soon-to-be-self-employed boyfriend - that was, if he survived all this. She doubted he¡¯d stay in their employment once his freedom had been insured - and the woman she discarded at a diner further up the road. Trying not to think about something, as we all know, is the worst way to keep thinking about it.


    Instead she hummed. No tapes, no radio, to the song that played on the night when she tipped from petty drug mule to master criminal. The day of the fire. Wondering if she could dare admit to herself what she did.


    She was never a big Cher fan, no one ever really is. But at the end of the day, history has a habit of forcing songs on the radio into becoming parts of a personal narrative. Latching onto memories and big events, leeching them dry until you can¡¯t separate the song from the act. She knew what she did, and now was the time to deal with it. Not to the interviewer, not to her husband or her boyfriend or the victim of her selfish acts. To herself.


    If I could turn back time¡­


    Lily¡¯s gallery. 1988. months before the big inferno.


    Irene and Lily had become solid friends over the year. Its easy to make friends when you¡¯re providing someone $2000 for $50 paintings, a perfect smoke screen for a metric shit tonne of cocaine money. The government probably worked it out ages ago, but if they did, they didn¡¯t dare say anything.


    Outside of large, showy events, Lily dressed down in shapeless, paint splattered jumpsuits and a selection of neat headscarves and hats. Today she sat in nothing but a bath robe and a set of white pearl jewellery, surrounded by artists and students eager to sketch a lifelike nude.


    She perched on a stark white chaise lounge, bottle of wine in hand as the robe was swiftly discarded. The eager students gawked at the scandalous young woman, and watched as she poured an entire bottle of pinot noir down her silky skin, letting it pool at her bellybutton and drip off her cleavage. The final drizzle was used on her legs and feet, starting up at her knee and marinading the poor woman in a glaze of alcohol.


    She tried to lay there motionless, until a masculine figure caught her eye. He stood there, broad shoulders and a businesslike haircut, like a lighthouse among the insecure and blushing artists. In an hour or two the shock would wear off, and by the end of the course these early 20s yuppies would view the naked form as nothing more than another object with lights and shadows to sketch.


    Lily perched up, observing the man walking towards her. It was entirely possible from her body language that she¡¯d forgotten she was naked at all.


    ¡°Hello trouble¡± she said, watching him as she pulled up the second bottle of wine from beside her, and poured out a little glass of for herself. He pulled up a chair and Lily watched as her designated assistant twitched up ready to escort him away if trouble arose. She dismissed him with a flick of the hand and he stood down, but watched the conversation like a hawk.


    Ken was taken back by her cool demeanor, aware that he was in the sphinx¡¯s den this time. She watched him like she was appraising a portrait. ¡°Hello Gorgeous¡± she whispered. He sat there, quietly aware that he was being added to the background of at least 30 different sketches. He adjusted his position ever so slightly on the spot.


    ¡°My wife says you¡¯re helping us with our art problem¡± Ken interrupted, trying to frost her over before she took the spotlight.


    She stared harder, searching for the sketch-lines in his hands and the crows feet at his eyes, trying to get a good read at his visage.


    ¡°would that be the barmaid? The twee little redhead who visited my personal office a few days a week?¡± lily asked.


    Ken nodded, ¡°that''s the one, quite the firecracker¡± he replied.


    Lily took a finger of wine off her chest and put it to her mouth. Rubbing the drink between her fingers as she talked to get the consistency. ¡°She¡¯s been coming here a while now, she told me you knew.¡±


    Ken nodded again. ¡°Yeah she mentioned it, but I¡¯m beginning to think with the favors you¡¯re doing her, that you¡¯re not just a weekly fling.¡±


    Lily licked her lips and sat up straighter at that.


    ¡°I¡¯m just providing her with a little excitement¡± Lily gasped, throwing in a demure tap of her pearls as she did. ¡°I don¡¯t mean any trouble.¡±


    Ken shrugged ¡°a long time ago she asked me to keep an eye on her, make sure she didn¡¯t get any trouble.¡± The words lingered in the air, the veil of euphemism draped over the conversation like a nun¡¯s winkle disguising a vicious crocodile. ¡°¡­ I¡¯m just doing my due diligence.¡±


    Lily held his gaze, ¡°If you want to see what favors I¡¯m providing her, I¡¯d be happy to show you.¡±


    Ken considered the offer, unsure if he should say yes, but it was worth knowing. If nothing else, it was bound to get her attention.


    ¡°Okay, meet me at 2pm ¨C and I expect you to be clothed¡± Ken offered.


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    ¡°Two thirty¡± she challenged.


    ¡°Its a date¡± Ken concluded.


    ***


    The time ticked along, as Ken lingered, floating through portraits and abstracts and unusual statues of animals. Irene was fully clothed this time, for once not in chiffon or suspiciously large coats. She¡¯d traded her head scarf out for a feathery 80s bob cut that seemed to ruffle out in a mountain of hairspray and back-combing, the tight curls shortening it to about ear length. Her nudity was replaced by a slinky blouse and high waist-ed office trousers. The effect was like that of a more technicolor Sigourney Weaver on the red carpet.


    She gave a glance that could have cut glass. ¡°You wanted to know how I got so close to dear Irene?¡± she asked, guiding him down a flight of stairs into a basement landing full of little storage room doors.


    He turned the handle of an enamel white door, the only door that hadn¡¯t been painted. As he stepped in, he was met with Irene and the intern that was standing guard on Lily¡¯s modeling session. They both sat at a velvet table, two seats left to be claimed. About ten paces away from her table was a leather bed with a camera connected to it.


    ¡°Irene¡¯s idea¡± Lily claimed, a suggestion that got a look of vinegar from Irene. These particular poker chips were already engraved, each with an incredibly specific set of instructions.


    ¡°Your wife told me about your games, so I¡¯ve taken it upon myself to raise the stakes¡± Lily smirked. Ken, never a coward in the face of luxury, took a seat forward. ¡°what are we playing for?¡± he asked the art mistress.


    She didn¡¯t answer with words, but she did hold up the casino chip towards the light so he could clearly see the writing on it. He didn¡¯t react, He didn¡¯t typically play those games, not since boarding school.


    There was the sound of shuffling, and the silhouettes of his friends in the low light. Ken couldn¡¯t even see his own cards particularly well. He had to stare through the dark and wait for his eyes to adjust. He felt the imprints of the cards, trying to make out if that was a three or an eight.


    He looked across at the intern. The figure had to be about twenty five, a tall, hairy, mediterranean man with hair glued back with product. The intern watched the cards carefully and let his glance drift until he was staring back at Ken with a hunger in his eyes.


    The cards were dealt, and the cards were revealed. Irene lost the first round to Lily, and on the token that was gambled, was the words passionate kiss. Irene breathed and sat up, locking lips with her sometime-rival and letting a smooth, clean kiss linger on her tongue. It tasted like orange liquor and red wine, and took Irene all her self control not to ruffle the back comb with her hands mid-kiss.


    ¡°You said this was performance art¡± Ken stated.


    ¡°What is a better performance than human sexuality? Its all games and challenges.¡± Lily pointed out.


    ¡°Performance art requires an audience¡± Ken pointed out.


    ¡°My medium for this piece is video. Isn¡¯t that right darling?¡± Lily asked Irene, stroking her cheek gently.


    ¡°Then what separates you from the common pornographer?¡± Ken probed. Lily soured at the question, but still provided a clean answer.


    ¡°The common pornographer doesn¡¯t take the time to record the truth. They edit around the awkward moments, they contour the human sexuality so that its only beauty or filth. Catching none of the emotional nuances of the piece¡± she told him.


    Now it was Ken¡¯s turn to bristle. ¡°So ¡­ money then?¡± he disagreed, ¡°Getting it framed.¡±


    While this fencing match was beginning to happen, Lily was drifting back towards her cards, trying to notice what had already been played and what was left on the table. ¡°My family have ties to some more ¡­ controversial ¡­ New York figures. My willingness to perform was what kept me from trouble¡± she said, dishing out the cards again.


    ¡°That and my brother, who taught me to count cards, to talk business, and to carry myself in a room full of staggeringly sinister colleagues¡± she said, tapping down on the cards one by one.


    ¡°There are 52 cards in a standard pack, 32 of which are above seven. In the last round we played six of the 32 high cards. There are 26 cards left in the back above a seven¡± she observed.


    Irene arched an eyebrow and turned to watch her. Her stomach and heart not settled from the kiss. ¡°Considering my cards that means the odds of you having a higher card than me isn¡¯t worth any big risks¡± Lily explained aloud.


    Irene wouldn¡¯t discuss this conversation when asked about Lily in future articles, but she remembered it well, it was the start of a long few months of practice. The kind of practice that paid the bills quite well.


    ¡°Long story short, I fold. I¡¯m out of the game, and I don¡¯t want to waste my chips¡± she explained, flicking her cards face up and clawing her poker chips like a dragon hoarding gold. She lost, as predicted, but no money was spent.


    ¡°So, any more schemes¡± Ken asked. Irene grabbing his arm affectionately.


    Lily fidgeted with her earring, Trying to loosen it before it disrupted the blood flow to her ear. ¡°I¡¯ll be honest, I need a holiday¡± she told him frankly.


    ¡°I would take a residency in Europe somewhere, or maybe a small Japanese town. Somewhere without the drama of New York¡± she told the table, zshuzshing up her hair and powdering her neck.


    Ken looked at her, smelling an idea on the air. ¡°How much is the gallery worth?¡± he asked candidly.


    She told him a number. A very large number.


    ¡°And how much of that art is actually meaningful?¡± he followed up.


    She lunged into a lecture about the value of art and beauty, and how each person would view the art differently. She seemed to genuinely believe it. Even for the nonsense abstract paintings.


    ¡°If one of these paintings we¡¯ve given you say ¡­ caught fire, would the insurance companies be generous? You¡¯re a woman with a colourful history and I¡¯m sure a lot of potential targets on your back¡± Irene said, cottoning onto the offer.


    She thought about it for a second. ¡°We have a pop up gallery full of the lesser known work, but that wouldn¡¯t be enough for the insurance to pay out¡± she glared.


    Irene looked at her, a bitter chill hitting her at that point.


    ¡°Any art pieces you despise? Money laundering pieces in cheap frames at the back of the exhibit. Ugly, pretentious works the world could do without?¡± Irene asked.


    A grimace hit Lily¡¯s face as she thought back to her collection.


    ¡°We have a Barnett Newman painting we were donated for the tax evasion. If you can promise me most of the gallery will stay untouched, I¡¯ll make sure the cameras are turned off when you need them off¡± she leant forward.


    Ken¡¯s eyes lit up at that promise.


    ¡°I¡¯ll do it for you, but you have to do something for me¡± she said putting down her cards for the next round.


    Ken tilted his head like a startled chicken at that caveat. She was a hard taskmaster.


    She tossed him a poker chip. Bondage and blindfolds.

 Chapter twelve: you give love a bad name

    Back in the ruins of the bunker, Ted and Ken stood among the corpses, trying not to talk about the acts they¡¯d just committed. The impersonal violence of a gun was preferred, killing with your hands was more real. Ken wasn¡¯t a violent man traditionally, he pulled the trigger on other crimes.


    The death toll was probably there, you can¡¯t wipe your hands of the problems that drug running in Latin America did to the local economy and the families of the workers in the area. Another thing he tried not to think about, except when chuckling at white hippies and health conscious eco-warriors who would praise themselves for veganism and oat milk, all the while snorting plant based drugs that had killed the Congo.


    One day, they¡¯d make fair trade, OSHA approved cocaine, if such a thing existed. But in the meantime they¡¯d have to gather up the corpses and deep clean the bunker of its blood soaked state. It would take a considerable bit of sawing, and the sacrifice of a lot of flammable vodka, but bit by bit they¡¯d manage it.


    Limb by limb they¡¯d end up smuggling out the bodies in duffle bags and suitcases. Poking the flames with the sworded documents they¡¯d found in the bunker that shouldn¡¯t have seen the light of day anyway.


    They say by the roaring funeral fire, trying their hardest not to smell the smoke. Sizzling bacon. It was just sizzling bacon. Ken told himself, watching a chapter of their lives go up in flame. Unless you were a big deal in the organized crime world, people didn¡¯t send assassins after you twice. Ken knew his wife would see the bellowing smoke, but he sent her a photo of it just in case, a confirmation of his survival.


    The smoke got in his eyes a tad, and the strong chemical cleaning products required to deep clean the bunker. Thankfully, aside from a few soft furnishings and a sofa, most of the surfaces were wipe clean metal. There was a slight cast-iron effect on the floor, absorbing the colours that bled into it, but that wouldn¡¯t be his issue in a few hours.


    Ted said a few words of respect, unsure if it was a religious ritual, or just a way of paying respect to the men that had just died at his hands. He lit a candle and mumbled to himself in Korean, ending it with a few words in English.


    ¡°May your soul find the freedom in death that it couldn¡¯t in life¡± he told the bloodied floor, scrubber in hand and rubber gloves on. Ken watched in amazement as the gore of the situation didn¡¯t phase his young understudy. There was nothing but medical grade respect and a drive to do a good job removing the evidence.


    At the end of the blaze, when the bullet holes were covered and the blood was removed onto bloodstained rags, Ken and Ted were left to stare at the fire and do nothing but process the carnage.


    ¡°Why were those men after you?¡± Ken asked.


    ¡°That¡¯s a difficult question, with a difficult answer¡± Ted replied, his eyes flickering in the embers.


    ¡°Is Irene alright?¡± Ted added, unsure if he was close enough to ask such personal questions.


    ¡°She¡¯s survived, or at least enough to fudge the trackers¡± Ken told the blaze, candidly.


    He didn¡¯t dare glance at his companion. He just stared out at the fire.


    * * *


    Over the years of living with a British woman, one particular tradition stayed with Ken. He brewed a pot of tea, and closed his eyes, counting his breaths as the kettle boiled. She always knew what to say, where was she when he needed her?


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    He sat there, trying to think of the advice and the calming words she¡¯d said over the years, she was his compass with these things. Ted was too pushy, he would rush through the process when trying to comfort someone, a cyclone of a man. Ken supposed once you cause enough bloodshed the instincts withdraw, it becomes a little way that terrible violence becomes normal.


    Irene may not have been his most ¡­ vivacious paramour ¡­ when it came to intimacy, but in the day to day she was reliable, and kind. She took care of him and she made sure he didn¡¯t make the wrong choices.


    He made a mental note to tell her next time he saw her. If he saw her again. He wouldn¡¯t be surprised if she left him at this rate. He often wondered if the only reason she stayed was because she was afraid of what would happen if she didn¡¯t. Maybe now a hit squad was killed, she¡¯d feel she had insurance, the kind of insurance that allowed her to leave him.


    He shook out the thought, remembering the clip of her with the riding crop. The fearless woman she¡¯d been over the last four decades. She¡¯d serve him divorce papers and laugh while she did so, if she ever felt compelled.


    In the meantime, he¡¯d have to find a way back to civilization, the desert was not known for its traffic and they¡¯d already been compromised.


    He took one step at a time, through the cold desert night. The vehicles that weren¡¯t stolen had all had their tires punctured or been cannibalized for the fire anyway, so walking would have to do. He didn¡¯t even tell Ted where he was going.


    ***


    Irene booked a motel bed in a tacky cowboy themed hotel with a card that bordered on disposable, trying to ignore the ridiculous cowboy-clad man at the door. She was tired, she was fed up, and most of all she was concerned for the others. She paid her bill and didn¡¯t look him in the eyes, trying to savor that for the first time in a while she was finally on her own.


    Privacy was long overdue. That cramped tin can they¡¯d been staying in left her with no room to breathe, no room to consider her options. She stared up at the ceiling and let her mind wander. What now? What if the boys don¡¯t come back? Her phone had been off for hours now and they had no way of finding her at the hotel. What would my life look like if I had to start again?


    She considered that question for a while. Would she pursue a mundane job? Or try and take over the empire they¡¯d built together as a one woman enterprise? She knew she¡¯d be fine at the end, but these were the realities she¡¯d have to consider. She could always pull a few strings, get a room in a casino hotel for a season, or a residency for some bullshit art piece under Lily¡¯s name. Go into writing tours and holding Q and As.


    She laughed to herself, Lily would have scoffed at that. The audacity of it. She¡¯d almost admire the bravery of someone using her legacy to make a quick buck after the fire of ¡®88. Irene was always a woman who rewarded audacity when it happened. She¡¯d give opportunities to starving artists and interns with the cheek to break into her penthouse, at one point she even encouraged people to squat in her summer houses when she wasn¡¯t in town.


    Irene missed her. They didn¡¯t know each other well at the time, but they should have been given the opportunity. Usually she¡¯d try to shake the thought away, do something else, watch something loud and distracting. Tonight she didn¡¯t have the energy for all that, she was just left to simmer in her thoughts from 40 years ago.


    It effected her marriage for a few years, her husband started working late and busying himself, traveling abroad and finding excuse after excuse to get away from her. Sometimes she wondered if he¡¯d forgiven her, they barely knew each other. The double standard astounded her, he killed dozens of people, she¡¯d only knowingly killed one. In person.


    She fell into a dreamless sleep, wondering if she was going to be murdered before she woke up. They weren¡¯t after her she reminded herself. She couldn¡¯t hold herself up, she just fell asleep. She knew she shouldn¡¯t, she felt it was greedy, her friends were still out there. She was too tired for consistency.


    ***


    Ken arrived at the 24 hour diner, he was alone, he was tired, his eyes were bloodshot. He ordered a milkshake and a chicken burger, tucking in with gusto. There was sand under his fingertips and in the cracks in his hand.


    He didn¡¯t talk to the fry cook, just stewed in his own sweat and adrenaline, not wanting disturbance. The sickly feeling in his stomach never left, even after all these years that groggy feeling clung to his stomach and his neck. His eyes burned even with the sugar and the butter and the meat in his digestive system. The acidic ketchup stung his lips but he was grateful to have some food that wasn¡¯t from a packet. Warm food.


    He didn¡¯t know what else to do, he had the smell of smoking henchman in his hair and strange military clothing from a group that didn¡¯t exist. His wife was missing, but she wasn¡¯t dead. If he could find her, if he could just get back to her after all these years he could work out a plan. She was always smarter than him, on the day they met she was a far better liar that he was, even if he totally knew what games she was playing.


    He needed to rest, he could get home to the penthouse they¡¯d been living in from there. Shower and send out a message. Not a bounty, that would be cruel, but an invitation. If you can see this, please come home. He¡¯d considered. She¡¯d know who it was for.


    Did she even want to come back? She gave you one job, you couldn¡¯t even do that!


    He shook off the self talk. It was late. Never trust your opinion after 9pm, especially don¡¯t trust your opinion after being shot at.

 Chapter thirteen: Do you believe in life after love.

    1988. New York. The Inferno


    Irene stood there in her wedding dress, a meringue number with massive shoulders that bubbled up in tulle, polyester and big white bakery swirls. She¡¯d been promised simplicity. It was meant to be a quick job. A small fire, and they¡¯d run away on the insurance money.


    It was an ugly painting anyway, cubic and bland. An ugly representation of the kind of luxuries that only certain people can get. The red and blue squares didn¡¯t showcase any emotion, and yet they had a fabulous skill for getting under people¡¯s skin. Irene didn¡¯t buy the argument that debating whether something was art made it inherently interesting. It didn¡¯t. It was lazy, no amount of framing urinals or plain blue canvases was ever worth the cost of a million dollars.


    It would sting far later, when the painting would be worth almost 4 million dollars in modern money. She¡¯d seen the things people would do for that amount of money.


    She struck the match against the stone of the open rooftop, watching the flame dance at the tip of the match. All she had to do was to set fire to the painting. It wouldn¡¯t do any harm anyway, the world was better with that money in circulation, in the hands of real people. Politicians of the 80s had gone on and on about the trickle down economics of money, she was just giving the fountain a little push.


    She placed the match against the canvas and watched it take to the flammable oil paints in seconds. It blazed in a satisfying controlled fire that seemed to cook everything. The smell of strong, sickly chemicals hitting her nostrils and blindsiding her. She coughed horsely, the smoke getting into her lungs.


    The wind started whisking up the embers into the air in a dazzling way. Maybe fire was the original art? It certainly was more interesting than the framed crime against real talent. The reality was that Irene wasn¡¯t mad at Mr Newman for his painting, she was mad at being outdone. He¡¯d succeeded in art fraud in a way her and Lily could only dream of.


    She didn¡¯t notice the flame catching her veil as she went back inside. The fire catching the wooden doorway and the chemical wallpaper. The polyester fabrics went up in a royal blaze, and Irene didn¡¯t look back until it was too late. She felt the heat lick the back of her arm, and by the time she realized what had happened, the small, controllable blaze had now become an entire wall.


    She ran, snatching off her veil and removing her heels so she could get out of the blaze. She ran through the galleries, hitting the fire alarm as she went. Screaming bloody murder at anyone who¡¯d listen in the empty building. Her lungs stinging with the paint smoke as she yelled. Her dress was becoming thinner and thinner as she kept tearing off melted polyester and impractical skirting, until nothing was left but a miniskirt and a corset.


    People were running from the building, it was only two floors. There was hammering on the doors as each masterpiece began to catch fire, and the wooden display frames fueled the blaze. As she ran down the spiral staircase she saw the red door. Lily¡¯s office. All three locks sealed. A Cher album was playing from that room, enough to muffle the desperate hammering from the door.


    She couldn¡¯t do anything but leave, her dress now blackened with smoke and her mascara running across her once perfectly made up face. She escaped the building and rested her head against a concrete wall, her voice catching as she imagined the red door going up in flames.


    A corpse would be found in the building 12 hours later. It would be on the news. The heaters would overheat and the boilers would pop, frying the building to a blackened wreckage. A striking woman, in a ridiculous outfit and burn marks against her once delicate legs.


    Irene never forgave herself for that night. What was meant to be her viking funeral for the misdeeds she¡¯d committed in her former life, and a way to set the world to right, had become a life ruining moment. She¡¯d need to pick up the pieces.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    She saw Ken there, breathing in the darkened air with a look of absolute confusion on his perfectly framed face. His blonde hair dirtied by smoke. Irene stood up and stared at him, a rage misdirected. ¡°YOU TOLD ME THE BUILDING WAS EMPTY!¡± she scolded him. ¡°YOU SAID IT WOULD BE CONTROLLED!¡±


    He backed off, not saying a single word as she hammered a fist against his chest like she was taking her aggression out on a wall. ¡°you said there wasn¡¯t a class booked tonight, that it was the perfect crime¡± she gulped.


    This would be the last night she¡¯d spend in New York for a very long time. She¡¯d run to Alaska, or New Zealand, or ¡­ or. She couldn¡¯t think of a life. She couldn¡¯t think of a life better than this one, or anything worse. Her senses were nothing but bonfire and shock.


    ***


    Present day Irene buckled a spare pair of cowboy boots, and purchased a set of toiletries from one of those vending machines that hotels have, feeling great appreciation for the invention. She¡¯d never been good at uprooting, which was ironic given the practice she¡¯d been given.


    She hotwired a car and drove back to the bunker, wanting to see the mess. The boys sat there among a pile of ash, with a disconcertingly familiar smell in the air. She saw her husband, bruised and draped across the sand in a pose she¡¯d remembered from long ago. He was breathing, but he was tired.


    ¡°I think we should send a warning of our own¡± she said, car battery jumper cable in hand. If she could get the bunker generator back up after it was shot, she could work out where they¡¯d come from.


    She then turned to the men in her life, ¡°and after this, I¡¯m retiring.¡±


    ***


    They crashed into the diner, ate their body weight in pancakes and sickly sweet syrups. Heavy carbohydrate loaded foods, and simply went home in the van.


    Irene sat there with heavy documents, she didn¡¯t speak for hours. She just sat with her coffee, her luxurious dresses traded in for a hoodie and a set of leggings, she didn¡¯t even do her hair. She just sat there sorting through her data and her paperwork. Replaying the black box of interview recordings privately, hearing everyone¡¯s perspectives in the privacy of her own armchair.


    The three of them stayed home for a few weeks, nipping out for fresh air but generally keeping a low profile. No more big parties, no more big deliveries, no more drug runs. The kind of quiet in the house that you could hear a pin drop in. The open plan turning a wide range of space into an inescapable lack of privacy. Irene found herself becoming almost compulsive with the tapes, looping the interviews over and over again to form her own private world among her headphones.


    She tried to distract herself, scouring the internet for a trace of where those assassins came from. She took the data she needed, the location, the google drive passwords, the eclectic history of the bunker and its inhabitable over the years, and searched.


    People always got the idea of the ¡°dark web¡± wrong, they imagine it as a set of specific, twisted websites, when in reality its more like google. If you search for puppies, you¡¯ll still get imagines of adorable puppies, you just need to know what to look for.


    She started with the names of the weapons, the makes, the models. There was always a paper trail for these things. She found the IP address for the customers, and triangulated that with places where a hitman was recently hired. These people were usually glorified freelancers, and before you knew it the website pinged up on the database. Shamelessly exaggerated letters in reds and greens, the kind of website a video game from the 2000s would have had.


    She tapped into a data breach that Trevor, the golden vampire, had traded her during a game of cards years ago. Three clicks and a memory stick would be all it would take to peel away all the records of the users, most of them weren¡¯t even smart enough to apply a VPN. She looked at the track records and followed them back to a bitcoin server.


    Hang on. Nonononono.


    There it was. Clear as day, a bank account owned by Fisher Galleries. She should tell the boys.


    She didn¡¯t. She felt the thoughts ping pong across her brain as she viewed the files online. But she couldn¡¯t involve them, if this was personal, she was the person ¡­ not Ted. She buckled up her boots and planned a weekend away, claiming it was a holiday.


    She had to put to bed this old vendetta if she could. She couldn¡¯t not.


    She purchased a plane ticket to New York and stole an antique motorbike from the vehicle storage unit they shared. A cherry Red Honda that purred with a European engine. A motorbike from all those years ago, it wasn¡¯t flash

 Chapter Fourteen: Someone like you.

    The turnover time was fast, from recording to documentary took about two months. The tape itself was as corny and overproduced as you¡¯d expect from a ¡°true crime¡± show. Lots of panning and B-role of CCTV tapes.


    Ted watched it alone. He wasn¡¯t sure what he was about to see, he was just glad he made an effort to look impressive in his mugshot, almost a music video style mugshot. He¡¯d taken to carrying a travel size pot of hair product in his pocket whenever he¡¯d go out on a job. He almost let out a cheer in the empty house as the image flashed up on the screen.


    Irene had ran away two months ago, and when her husband began to realize it was a bit more than a holiday, he¡¯d left too. Something about Brazil Ted tried to remember, but most of this employers motives seemed to melt into a slurry of bravado and emotion. He didn¡¯t give them much thought, they weren¡¯t known for their subtlety, or rationality.


    He continued to watch the documentary, watching interviews from afraid parents, and drug smugglers from jail. He even watched the bleeding heart interviews from the new York property developers, whose biggest concern was that it was an ¡°absolute waste of mid century modern architecture.¡± He was particularly fascinated by the interviews from the bunker recordings, but it was the last interviewer that took him off guard.


    ***


    An interview with Ms Lillian ¡°Lily¡± Fisher


    The interviewer sat her down in a plain room, warm colours of the background banners contrasting sharply with the woman in front of them.


    ¡°good to see you Lily¡± a voice from behind the camera introduced.


    Lily smiled to the camera, chewing the scenery for all to see ¡°Hi, thank you for taking the time to see me.¡±


    The interviewer followed her script plainly ¡°is it true that the fire of New York¡¯s Fisher Gallery was due to the Klein crime family?¡±If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Lily gulped, ¡°yes, I would say that.¡±


    ¡°could you tell me what happened that night?¡±


    Lily sobbed, the kind of Disney princess sob that was over-performed on the camera. She had short curly hair and a white blazer on as she talked performed, after all, this was her big return to civilization.


    ¡°All I remember is flames¡± the damsel sighed, pulling her coat closer to her neck for comfort, ¡°The woman who started the fire, she was crazed. She was vicious, and that cruel choice of dress!¡±


    An image of Irene in wedding dress torn asunder and singed, was placed on the screen, the one Lily had suggested.


    ¡°She knew I¡¯d been struggling since the divorce, she picked that outfit to taunt me as she set the building aflame¡± the art mistress whispered, wiping a mascara tear for effect.


    ¡°I¡¯ve had to go into hiding all these years later in Greece, but no more! I want to proudly step into the sunlight and say I AM NOT AFRAID¡± she told the camera, with a hand gesture and an increase in eye contact.


    ¡°We cannot let bullies win¡± she added, as the camera zoomed.


    A voice over came on the speakers, explaining Lily¡¯s relation to the Klein family.


    An infamous art critic and controversial figure in the American nightlife scene, she was often considered a lost muse, thought of as a new competitor to the legacy of the likes of Warhol or Gerda Wegener. She specialized in character studies and portraits of young lovers across multiple mediums. The voice mused.


    She was often sighted in the 1980s alongside the likes of Kennedy Klein and his beloved Fiance Irene Clark (Nee Klein). Rumors spiraled across the New York club scene, of a socialite painter from a rich family, and her connections to the transcontinental crime syndicate.


    Irene was found in multiple portraits, as well as featuring in the background of many interior venue paintings, her cameos varying from intimate character studies set somewhere that matched the reports of Ms Fisher¡¯s penthouse, to sweeping lifesize nudes that until recently, hung in an intimate Members Only venue by the New York riverside. It was considered to be a rumour until 2005, when early mobile phone photos of the painting were found circulating the internet.


    Ted chuckled to himself watching the documentary, she¡¯d be fuming. She¡¯d be so insulted to know they thought of her as merely a wife, she¡¯d be even more embarrassed to discover evidence of her misspent youth was going to be found on a public streaming platform. Ted almost looked forward to hearing her discuss it later, He¡¯d go as far as to break his rule about probing questions,


    ... if they ever came back that was.