Rachel, More Lies (Patreon)

Rachel walked across the field towards the estate, the location of her target, and the last job before a much needed one-month holiday. She was off to visit her mother in Wakefield outside of London and maybe do a tour of the UK. She needed some alone time — time away from work. She needed to be herself for a while.

As she reached the edge of the estate, a four-meter wall wrapped the perimeter, and security cameras adorned the top of the wall every ten meters. Vince had not given her much Intel. Acquire files from Hugo Michaud, who sat at the fourth position in the 2011 Forbes List of French Billionaires. Only this wasn’t Paris but Wellesley, Massachusetts. Michaud ran the Caron Group, an aviation and weapons company. She didn’t know why Vince wanted the files, but she never made it her business to know why he wanted anything. She just knew Michaud was doing something the US and British governments didn’t like. Eventually that dislike turned actionable, and an order hopped down the line until it landed on a self-erasing flash drive she picked up in a storage box in Grand Central Terminal. They didn’t even want him dead but wanted a set of files he kept in a safe location. All Rachel knew is that they were in an office. Not much to go on.

She had no idea how she was getting onto the estate. There was no going over the wall as far as she could see. A guard tower sat at the end of the main road and another one sat close to the main mansion. The guards were little more than basic security detail with semiautomatic pistols, but she didn’t want to harm any of them. She was only here for Michaud’s files.

A dark blue two door car traveled along the road towards the mansion. It was the sixth car she had seen since she arrived two hours ago, but this one was different. A single, white woman in her early thirties sat behind the wheel of the car. Rachel moved onto the road, blocking it, and flagged her down. The Honda Accord slowed, and Rachel walked up next to the driver-side and motioned her hand for the woman to lower the window.

“Hello, I am estate security. What business do you have here today?” Rachel asked. Her all-black suit looked similar to the guards’.

“I already spoke to the guys at the first gate. They gave me this and checked my car, ” the woman said and held up a plastic card. It had her photo and the words, Temporary ID.

Rachel recognized the Boston accent. She said cah instead of cah. “Sorry about this, ma’am. After this checkpoint, there is one more. I don’t make the rules but follow them. I hate to ask but do you mind stepping out?”

The woman moaned but stepped outside. She was shorter than Rachel but about the same build. Short hair. She was wearing scrubs. Was this some kind of caregiver? She had the same short haircut as Rachel, a boyish cut and even had the same sharp nose and high cheekbones. The woman was not as in shape as Rachel who was lean and tightly muscled. Rachel looked up and down the road. She knew there wasn’t a lot of time. A security drone flew over this area every seventeen minutes. This was minute seven of the cycle.

“Ma’am can you put your arms out and face the car, please,” Rachel asked.

Another grown, but the woman complied. “How much longer do you think this is going to—“

Rachel wrapped her arms around the woman’s neck in a blood choke, knocking her out in less than ten seconds. She stripped off her own clothes and shoved them in her backpack. She quickly put on the scrubs, zip tied the woman’s wrists and ankles, duct taped her mouth, and put her in the trunk of the car. Once inside the car, Rachel looked through the woman’s handbag. Terri Finelli was the name on the driver’s license. A set of business cards revealed she was a masseuse from a high-end salon, Essenza. An appointment book showed the reason she was here — to massage Danielle Michaud, Hugo’s daughter.

Hearing the security drone overhead, Rachel climbed into the car and drove towards the next checkpoint. Two guards manned the gate and let her pass after inspecting the outside of the car and checking the temporary ID. Rachel flirted with one of them to keep him distracted. The whole check took less than five minutes, and she drove along the last stretch of road towards an immense mansion.

In and out. Get the file and go. No collateral damage.

As she pulled up to the front of the mansion, a man in a suit stepped out of the front door. “Mrs. Finelli? Security called ahead.”

“Please, call me Terri. Where should I park the car?” Rachel asked, matching the Boston accent so it sounded like pahk the cah.

“You may leave it there. Ms. Michaud is by the pool on the far side of the estate. A guard will escort you there.”

Rachel thanked the man and went inside, where a security guard escorted her through the first floor to a lavish back area with an Olympic-size pool and a wraparound lagoon. It reminded her of a resort on the French Riviera. Through the house, she scanned for any rooms that may be an office. The estate was so large, it was hard to predict where such a room could exist. Now that she was outside, she saw a young woman, likely in her late teens, wearing a red bikini and sitting under a large umbrella.

“Danielle, this is your 9 AM appointment.”

The young woman ignored the guard and tapped away on her phone. The guard rolled his eyes to Rachel, motioned to a chair, and walked away.

Rachel sat and looked around. Cameras stood on the back perimeter wall to the left and right side of the pool area.

“Dammit, I’m burning. I’m going to turn red like a tomato,” Danielle said.

“Want me to put some suntan lotion on you?” Rachel asked.

The young woman turned on her stomach and pulled her long brown hair away from her back. “Yes, there’s some on the table over there.”

While Rachel was applying lotion to Daniel’s back, a trio of men entered the back patio area. One among them was Hugo Michaud. He was 6’3”, well-built, had a goatee, and wore a turtleneck that likely cost more than the car she stole from Terri. The other two men were much older with saggy bodies and more wrinkles than a prune.

“Damn, he’s hot,” Rachel said in Terri’s voice.

“Oh God, that’s my dad,” Danielle said back.

As Rachel stared, something happened. She caught Hugo’s eye, and he smiled back. She diverted her gaze to Daniel’s back and applied more lotion. It was a simple technique to draw him in. Looking anyway conveyed a message that I’m interested but too shy to make the first move.

“Don’t put too much. I still want a tan,” Danielle said with the charm of a Marine drill instructor.

“Sorry. I’m all done anyway. Are you ready for your massage?”

“I didn’t even want a stupid massage. Just sit over there for now.”

Rachel sat on a beach chair and wiped lotion from her hands. By now, the three men stepped from the patio to the pool area. At the same time, a series of servants carried out trays of food and drink and set up a table with a full spread of breakfast.

“Danielle, you don’t want a massage?” Hugo asked in a French accent.

He was much younger looking than the photos Rachel had received. Handsome with olive skin and light blue eyes.

“I told you I didn’t when you asked me yesterday.”

“You said you had sore muscles. A massage is good for you,” he said and nodded to Rachel. “She drove all the way from the city.”

Danielle stood up, slipped on sandals, and walked into the house without another word.

“What should I do now?” Rachel asked. “Do one of you guys want a massage?”

The other two men sat at the table and piled plates with breakfast foods, while Hugo took a sip from a cup of black coffee.

“I am so sorry my daughter did not want to use your services. I assure you, you will be paid and given a generous tip for wasting your time.”

Rachel leaned back, crossed her leg over the other, and twirled her foot in a circle. “What about you? Don’t you want to massage?”

“That would be nice, but I am very busy,” Hugo said with a laugh.

“We can make it a quickie,” Rachel said and bit her bottom lip.

He stood quietly for a moment, and Rachel felt his eyes going up and down her body. “Well, you drove all this way,” he said.

--

Within the next five minutes, they were in a second-floor bedroom and Hugo was lying face down covered by nothing but a towel. Rachel spread oil across his back and kneaded the sides of his body above the ribs.

“Tell me if I’m doing it too hard,” she said.

“It feels good. Perfect.”

On her way up the stairs she noticed an open doorway to a room that looked like an office. Could that be where she needed to go? How was she going to get that file?

“I need more oil. One sec,” she said to Hugo and moved to her handbag on a chair. She pulled from it a secure mini tablet and sent a message to Vince.

With HM. Any idea where office located?

“Have you worked long for the salon? What’s it called? Essenza, no? An Italian word.”

“About a year. I’m working my way through school.”

“Good for you. And then?”

“I’m hoping to start my own salon. Maybe franchise.”

“Smart. I am self-made. I started my first business with a thousand francs from a loan. That was twenty years ago.”

The message came through: File not needed. Eliminate target.

Rachel’s heart sank. She didn’t want to kill this man. This wasn’t an assassination mission at the start. Or had it been? She had told Vince her objection to more killings after the last time. Was this a bait-and-switch?

Hugo’s cell phone rang, and he answered it. “Louis, tell me something good,” he said in French. Rachel spoke French. She dropped her own phone in the bag and brought over a bottle of oil. As he spoke on the phone, she applied the oil to his back.

“Half a million? But it’s just a room,” Hugo said. “I understand. Well, I will pay it, but it must be large enough for my wife and my daughter. Enough food for several years. Electricity, water, gas. And medicines.”

What was Hugo talking about? A safe room? Why would he need a safe room for several years? None of this mattered. She really didn’t want to kill him. She didn’t know much about him, but she was doubting the concept of good and evil. For a long time she believed all of the people she had killed were evil. As time went on and the body count expanded, she started to realize many of her targets were not evil. They were just on the wrong side of the government. Who’s to say Hugo deserved this?

He flipped on his back and smiled at her. “It must be done before May. I don’t care what it will cost, but if it’s not done by the end of April, I don’t want it at all. Fine, I will pay extra.” He hung up and tossed the phone onto a nearby end table.

Rachel put oil on his chest and rubbed it in. Bristly hairs tickled her skin. Hugo motioned for her to go lower, and when she was massaging his ribs, he pushed one of her hands under his towel.

Definitely not a good guy.

She pulled from his grasp and brought her fist down on his Adam ’s apple. He made a choking cough and grabbed his neck with both hands. In one quick move she reached under his body, gripped the bedsheets, and yanked. As the sheets moved, Hugo flipped onto his stomach. Rachel kneed the center of his back. He struggled to rise, but she held him in place. She pulled an ISDN wire from the bottom of the wall, yanked his head back, and snaked the wire around his throat. He gasped and thrashed as the wire cut into his windpipe. Her oil-covered hands slipped on the wires, so she looped them around each one several times. His hands reached for hers, but all they did was scratch her wrists. He struggled but Rachel had him pinned beneath her body, and the wire did the rest. Before long, his body stopped moving and fell limp.

Rachel collapsed beside him. She hated this job and hated herself for what she had to do. She pushed her face into a pillow and screamed. She wanted out, didn’t want to kill people anymore. How could she get out of this?

She reached over for his phone. At least it was unlocked, so she scanned the last few text messages. They were all from Louis Chevalier. Her eyes widened as she read. They talked about a virus that would spread across the world by the spring of 2012. It was called Zeta. She knew all of this, but Vince had assured her the virus was under control. More lies?