place afterwards. Throwing open my suitcase on the end of the bed, I take out my short platinum-blonde wig, carefully dragging my fingers through it to straighten the few unruly strands, and then fix it on top of the nearby lampshade so it’ll hold its form.
I get dressed in a skimpy Dolce & Gabbana dress, apply my makeup, dark and heavy and perfect after spending a great deal of time at home practicing the technique, and then slip into my strappy heels. Heels. Something else I’ve spent a lot of time trying to master. My alter ego, Izabel Seyfried, would know how to walk in them and look good doing it, so naturally, I needed to get with the program.
Then I wet my hair and break it into two parts behind me, twist each half and then cross them over one another at the back of my head. Several Bobby pins later, my long auburn hair is fixed tightly against my scalp. I slip the wig cap over the hair and then the wig, adjusting it for a long time until I get rid of any imperfections.
Lastly, I tighten a knife sheath around my thigh and drop the fabric of my dress back over it.
I stand in front of the tall mirror, looking at myself at every possible angle. I feel odd as a blonde. Satisfied, I grab my little black purse and tuck it underneath my arm, the small handgun hidden inside making it bulge somewhat in the center. I reach out for the door handle letting my hand fall back to my side.
“What the hell am I doing?”
What needs to be done.
Why the hell am I doing it?
Because I have to.
I can’t get it out of my head. The things this man admitted to, the people he killed because of a sick, sexual fetish. Every night since Victor left me, when I close my eyes, I see Hamburg’s face, and that chilling grin he wore when I was bent over that table, exposed in front of him. I see the face of his wife, emaciated and sickly, her sunken eyes glazed over with resignation. I can even still smell the urine that had dried in her clothes and on the ratted cot she slept on in that hidden room.
My chest fills with air and I hold it there for several long seconds before letting the heavy breath out.
I can’t let it go. The need to kill him is like an itch in the center of my back. I can’t reach it naturally, but I’ll bend and twist my arms to the point of pain to scratch it.
I can’t let it go…
And maybe…just maybe I’ll get the attention of a certain assassin I can’t force myself to forget, while I’m at it.
The moment I walk out the door I leave Sarai behind and become Izabel for the night.
~~~
Not having thought beforehand about the importance of at least renting my own fancy car, I have a cab drop me off two blocks from the restaurant and I walk the rest of the way. Izabel would never be seen riding in a cab.
“Table for one?” the host inquires after I make my way inside.
I cock my head to one side and look upon him with a hint of annoyance. “Is that a problem? Am I not allowed to enjoy a meal by myself? Or, are you hitting on me?” I smirk at him and cock my head to the other side. He’s getting nervous. “Would you like to eat with me…,” I look at the name embroidered on his jacket, “…Jeffrey?” I step closer. He takes an uncomfortable step back.
“Ummm,” he stammers, “I’m sorry, ma’am—.”
I step back fully and snarl at him.
“Don’t ever call me ma’am,” I snap. “Just take me to a table. For one.”
He nods quickly and gestures for me to follow. Once I’m at my small round table with two chairs situated in the center of the restaurant, I take a seat and set my purse aside. A waiter walks over as the host leaves and presents the wine menu. I reject it with the brushing movement of my fingers.
“Just bring me water with a lemon wedge.”
“Yes ma’am,” he says, but I let it slide.
As he strides through the room and away from me, I start scoping the place out. There’s one exit sign to my left, far off near the hallway. Another one to
I get dressed in a skimpy Dolce & Gabbana dress, apply my makeup, dark and heavy and perfect after spending a great deal of time at home practicing the technique, and then slip into my strappy heels. Heels. Something else I’ve spent a lot of time trying to master. My alter ego, Izabel Seyfried, would know how to walk in them and look good doing it, so naturally, I needed to get with the program.
Then I wet my hair and break it into two parts behind me, twist each half and then cross them over one another at the back of my head. Several Bobby pins later, my long auburn hair is fixed tightly against my scalp. I slip the wig cap over the hair and then the wig, adjusting it for a long time until I get rid of any imperfections.
Lastly, I tighten a knife sheath around my thigh and drop the fabric of my dress back over it.
I stand in front of the tall mirror, looking at myself at every possible angle. I feel odd as a blonde. Satisfied, I grab my little black purse and tuck it underneath my arm, the small handgun hidden inside making it bulge somewhat in the center. I reach out for the door handle letting my hand fall back to my side.
“What the hell am I doing?”
What needs to be done.
Why the hell am I doing it?
Because I have to.
I can’t get it out of my head. The things this man admitted to, the people he killed because of a sick, sexual fetish. Every night since Victor left me, when I close my eyes, I see Hamburg’s face, and that chilling grin he wore when I was bent over that table, exposed in front of him. I see the face of his wife, emaciated and sickly, her sunken eyes glazed over with resignation. I can even still smell the urine that had dried in her clothes and on the ratted cot she slept on in that hidden room.
My chest fills with air and I hold it there for several long seconds before letting the heavy breath out.
I can’t let it go. The need to kill him is like an itch in the center of my back. I can’t reach it naturally, but I’ll bend and twist my arms to the point of pain to scratch it.
I can’t let it go…
And maybe…just maybe I’ll get the attention of a certain assassin I can’t force myself to forget, while I’m at it.
The moment I walk out the door I leave Sarai behind and become Izabel for the night.
~~~
Not having thought beforehand about the importance of at least renting my own fancy car, I have a cab drop me off two blocks from the restaurant and I walk the rest of the way. Izabel would never be seen riding in a cab.
“Table for one?” the host inquires after I make my way inside.
I cock my head to one side and look upon him with a hint of annoyance. “Is that a problem? Am I not allowed to enjoy a meal by myself? Or, are you hitting on me?” I smirk at him and cock my head to the other side. He’s getting nervous. “Would you like to eat with me…,” I look at the name embroidered on his jacket, “…Jeffrey?” I step closer. He takes an uncomfortable step back.
“Ummm,” he stammers, “I’m sorry, ma’am—.”
I step back fully and snarl at him.
“Don’t ever call me ma’am,” I snap. “Just take me to a table. For one.”
He nods quickly and gestures for me to follow. Once I’m at my small round table with two chairs situated in the center of the restaurant, I take a seat and set my purse aside. A waiter walks over as the host leaves and presents the wine menu. I reject it with the brushing movement of my fingers.
“Just bring me water with a lemon wedge.”
“Yes ma’am,” he says, but I let it slide.
As he strides through the room and away from me, I start scoping the place out. There’s one exit sign to my left, far off near the hallway. Another one to
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