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- Author: Hope Anika
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She was afraid it never would be.
“LIAR,” she wrote.
No.
I don’t lie.
“EVERYONE LIES,” she added, the words appearing without intent.
Do you?
“YES.”
Not to me.
Never to me.
She blinked. “GO FUCK YOURSELF.”
Talk to me.
I know you’re hurting.
Tell me about that day.
“I hate you,” she said again. Because she desperately wanted to tell him. Someone. Anyone.
Give me the words, a rứnsearc.
Please.
Please, he said. But he was no one. An enemy. Out to hunt her, out to hurt her. Not someone she could trust. Not someone who cared for her. No matter what claims he made.
But the ache welling within her was beginning to blot out reason. Logic. Common sense. And even though she knew it was foolish—stupid, worse—her fingers found the keys and pressed. “BLOOD AND BRAINS AND DEATH.”
What else?
Who was he, and why the hell did he want to know? But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t.
“SCREAMS AND SIRENS AND SHOTS.” Her hands cramped, and her fingers froze, but she forced them to move. “I CAN STILL HEAR THEM. POP, POP, POP.”
Silencers.
They knew what they were doing.
Yes, they had. The rage that slept so fitfully within her stirred.
“HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?” she demanded, panic and fear knifing through her. “WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?”
What else happened?
The screen blurred; inside her skin, her bones trembled. But her hands moved over the keyboard of their own volition. “THEY TOOK HER.”
I know.
I’m sorry.
“I’M GOING TO FIND HER.” She pushed back, away from the desk, and stared in horror at her words.
I can help.
But she didn’t want his help. She didn’t want anything.
“Liar,” she whispered, but she wasn’t sure if it was him she was talking to, or herself.
You’re not alone anymore, a rứnsearc.
His words made her throat swell, and the fury bubbled to the surface.
“DON’T NEED HELP,” she typed, growls working in her chest. “PSYCHO STALKER!!”
Nay, lass.
Just a fan.
“YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT ME.”
But I do.
I told you.
We’re the same.
Which only made her angrier. “NOT A GODDAMN THING!!!”
I know everything.
I know what you do.
I know why.
I know your hunger.
Your rage.
Your despair.
I know you as I know myself.
Devastating words; surely just the alcohol. The emotion that swelled within her—need and want and such wrenching yearning that she felt rent in two—it couldn’t be real. No. No matter that she was crying, hot, salty tears that dripped from her chin. That her throat ached. That she wanted to throw her keyboard at his head.
And if some secret, insane part of her was tempted by him…that had to be the wine.
Yes, just the wine.
A rứnsearc…
She turned him off and stumbled away.
How are you?
“Suck it,” she told the monitor. But part of her tingled.
Idiot.
When are we going to meet?
Her heart leapt, but she scowled. Even knowing it was a bad idea, she typed, “AS IF.”
Don’t be like that, a rứnsearc.
You know you want to.
Damn him. She didn’t have time for this. There were files to download.
People to manipulate. Men to kill.
The Eiffel Tower at midnight?
The Parthenon at daybreak?
Victoria Falls at noon?
Stupid, fanciful man.
“GO AWAY,” she typed, her fingers pounding the keys.
Never.
She didn’t argue. She just tuned him out and kept working.
You took care of him.
Good.
I knew you would.
“You don’t know anything,” she said.
But he did. Inexplicably, he did.
And she hated him for it.
That’s my murderous girl.
“NOT YOUR GIRL,” she responded, hitting the keys a little too hard. Because, really, she couldn’t argue with “murderous.” And unfortunately, not responding was becoming impossible.
He was driving her insane.
Mine.
And the day is coming when you’ll not be able to deny it.
Soon.
She froze, and something wild and electric shot through her veins. Fear. Excitement. Dread.
Crazy. Goddamn crazy.
What was she doing? Encouraging him. Pulling the tiger’s tail.
It was stupid and irresponsible and dangerous.
And she couldn’t seem to stop.
Your time is running out, a rứnsearc.
Get ready.
She slammed her laptop shut, her heart beating hard in her throat.
“Fool,” she told herself.
Because nothing good would come of this.
Nothing good at all.
Cian Lazarus Ahearn.
Born to eKaterina Skryabin (Russian immigrant) and Lochlain Ahearn (Irish citizen/might have been IRA?). Raised in Dublin. Police records indicate arrests for larceny, brawling, and general thuggery. Lochlain disappeared when Lazarus was twelve (again, IRA?), and eKaterina moved them to St. Petersburg, Russia, where they lived until she died of ovarian cancer when Lazarus was 16. Records disappear after that until the rise of Lazarus Resolutions over a decade later, an international corporation which first appeared in the Baltic States and spread operations to the Middle East, Africa and South America.
According to the website, Lazarus Resolutions offers “private security and problem resolution,” and includes guarding both bodies and various objects of value. Clients include celebrities, politicians, museums, galleries, gemstone dealers, private citizens, and several small countries. No bio is included on the site. Wikipedia info on Lazarus is speculative and unverifiable. No photos on the web, public interviews have never been given, and his private information is all but impossible to lay hands on.
“Wanker,” Honor Genovese muttered, staring down at her notes.
Rumors insist Lazarus is self-created, a mercenary who made good dealing in rare objects and providing protection until his reputation—and pocketbook—enabled him to go legit. Known for being cutthroat, ruthless and unforgiving of those who betray him, Lazarus is, paradoxically, also known for his honesty and strength of character. The word “honorable” is used ad nauseam. Those he employs do not speak out
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