The Swan and the Jackal

Chapter Ten

Fredrik

Today is the first day in a long time that I’ve left Cassia alone in Greta’s care and am relieved to be away from her. She is dangerous to me and I can’t let her get under my skin. I may be a devil in my own right, but I’m still human, and I feel remorse and compassion for Cassia, among other things, that are a recipe for pain and regret.

Seraphina is my priority. She’s all that should matter to me because in the end—

No, I can’t think about that right now. Not here.

“Fredrik?” Izabel Seyfried says from her seat to my left. Her voice snaps me back into the moment. “Are you still alive in there?” She waves her hand in front of my face, grinning at me with bright green eyes framed by long, auburn hair that lays over both shoulders.

Izabel has become quite an asset—and quite the killer—to our growing organization. She’s like a sister to me, a stubborn, feisty, blood-thirsty vengeance-seeker, but a sister, nonetheless. And I have no room to talk. She and I are more alike than I care to admit.

I let out a heavy sigh and lay both arms against the elongated table. Between them are photos of two targets in Washington State. The same photos are on the table in front of Izabel, Niklas on the other side of the table directly across from her, Dorian across from me, and next to him, of all people who stink of permanent markers and cheese, James Woodard.

It turns out that Woodard was telling the truth about Marion Callahan, the man he was selling false information to, which in turn almost got him killed.

Victor sits at the head of the table where he always sits, between Izabel and Niklas. I’m of higher rank than Izabel and would normally sit to Victor’s left, but seeing as she’s the one sleeping with him and might cut me if I argue with her about it, I don’t mind so much the demotion in seating arrangements.

The room is dimly lit with dark, dingy walls and a single exposed light bulb set in the high ceiling. There are no windows and the entire place reeks of mold and water damaged walls. It’s but one of dozens of bases scattered all over the United States that we use to conduct business and hold meetings just like this one.

I crack a smile at Izabel, hoping to deter her from digging deeper into my head.

“That’s a fake smile if I’ve never seen one,” she says, calling me out. “Seriously, what’s goin’ on with you?”

“I just haven’t had much sleep the past few days.” I refrain from looking her in the eyes. If anyone at this table can detect a lie other than myself, it’s Izabel. She is, after all, a master of manipulation and deceit.

“If you need to sit this mission out,” Victor speaks up, “you’re free to do so, and you’ll only be contacted if an interrogation is needed.”

“No,” I say right away because I want to be as far away from Cassia as I can be. “I’m good to go. I’ll get some shuteye on the flight out.” I glance back down at the photos of a man and a woman taken outside of restaurants, convenience stores, and one of the man coming out of a daycare center, which is disturbing on so many levels. “Besides, I have a feeling that this woman, if we don’t get to the man before her, won’t give him up.”

“What makes you think that?” Izabel asks simply with curiosity.

I glance at the fair-haired woman in the photo standing outside a restaurant, carrying a fountain drink in one hand and a small purse in the other.

“I don’t know exactly,” I say peering down at the target, “but she’s got that look. They’ll likely need me. She won’t be easy to break.”

Woodard’s chair legs scrape annoyingly against the floor as he adjusts his seating position. All eyes shift to him. He smiles dopily across the table at me and reaches a hand up to push his glasses over the bridge of his nose with the tip of his pudgy finger.

“I suppose you’ve been interrogating people long enough to see these kinds of things,” he says with admiration that makes me uncomfortable. “I really admire your work. I-I mean, not that I’m a sadistic freak with a hard-on for that kind of stuff, b-but I just mean how you’re able to break anyone.” His smile gets bigger, revealing his lightly-yellowed teeth. “It’s impressive.”

Dorian, sitting next to him, tries to suppress a smile. Niklas, on the other side of Dorian, raises a brow and grins at me.

“Sounds like someone does have a hard-on for you Gustavsson,” Niklas jests.

“Damn, man,” Dorian says looking over at Woodard, “could you be more obvious?”

“H-Hey, I’m just giving credit where credit is due,” Woodard tries to cover himself. “I’ve heard things about the Specialist for years.” He points at me now as if something jumped in his mind. “I’ve always wanted to ask you, why do they call you the Jackal?”

My teeth crash together behind my closed lips.

I turn to Victor.

“Why is he here, exactly?” I ask.

“You should probably shut the fuck up,” Dorian tells Woodard.

“Y’know, that’s actually a good question, about what he’s doing here,” Izabel says to Victor. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea letting him see your face. We don’t even know him.”

“And I don’t like him,” Niklas adds and Woodard appears quietly offended.

I’ve noticed the entire time we’ve been in this meeting that Niklas’s hand often twitches over the pack of Marlboro reds on the table in front of him. I’m mildly surprised he hasn’t said, Fuck it, and lit one up already, but he has more respect for his brother and leader, Victor Faust. At least until the nicotine eventually wins out.

Victor sits quietly and seemingly unperturbed by everyone talking around him, but when they realize they should let him speak, the table gets quiet and all eyes shift his way.

“Woodard is here because I want him to see my face,” Victor announces. He steeples his hands in front of him. “Marion Callahan is unaware that we’re onto him. I’ll be using Woodard to feed Callahan information that I want him to have. But it’s nothing any of you should concern yourself with. Seattle is your priority. I’ll handle this situation with Callahan while you’re gone.”

Izabel’s auburn head snaps around.

“I don’t like that, Victor,” she says demandingly. “Sending all of us away while you—”

“I’ve been doing this longer than anyone in this room,” Victor cuts in, retaining his unruffled composure. “No disrespect, Izabel, but I’m very capable of taking care of myself.”

Izabel’s nose crinkles on one side. I pretend not to have noticed. Obviously, Victor isn’t pleased with her ‘lover’s worries’ being thrown on the table like that for all of us to see. Victor is all business when business is being conducted. Izabel, although she knows this, still hasn’t quite grasped it yet. She may never.

Relationships are quite fucking ridiculous.

“Hey, I’m trustworthy,” Woodard speaks out offensively. “Don’t be so quick to—” A scraping noise pierces the air as Woodard nearly falls out of his chair when Izabel leans across the table in her tight black pants and buries the tip of her knife in the wood in front of him. His dark, beady eyes grow wide in the sockets and his double-chin rears back.

“Nobody asked you,” Izabel growls. She pulls the knife from the table and slowly slides back into her seat.

Woodard, as stiff as a statue, moves only his eyes to look at Victor.

Victor shrugs. “Don’t look at me,” he says nonchalantly. “If she wants to kill you, I won’t stop her. So, perhaps you should mind your tongue.”

Woodard slinks against the back of his seat and drops his short arms from the table placing his hands in his lap.

Dorian and Niklas can’t stop grinning. I just shake my head.

“As I was saying,” Victor goes on, “I’ll be dealing with Callahan on my own. If he’s an order leader, I’ll be the one taking him out. This will be Woodard’s chance to prove to me that he’s an asset to us. And if he doesn’t, I’ll kill him myself.”

Woodard’s throat moves nervously as he swallows.

I take the opportunity to further the discussion on our mission, sliding the photo of the man coming out of the daycare center, into the center of the table.

I tap it with my finger. “The guy allegedly molested a five-year-old girl,” I point out. “What’s he doing anywhere near a daycare center, much less leaving one?”

“He wasn’t convicted of the crime,” Victor says. His steepled hands fall away from the table as he rests his back comfortably in the chair. “Guilt could not be proven.”

“Lemme guess,” Dorian says, leaning forward and folding his hands together on the table, “parents of the five-year-old girl are the clients. Fuck yeah. I like their style. Nothing I wouldn’t do if some greasy motherfucker touched my daughter.” He pauses and then adds, “Well, actually I’d kill the piece of shit myself.”

Niklas pulls a cigarette from the pack and slides it between his lips, but doesn’t light it. He leans back in his chair, interlocking his hands together behind his head. “What about the woman?” he asks.

“She’s the girlfriend,” Victor says and then looks at me. “And the reason he’s coming out of a daycare center is because he just dropped off their eighteen-month-old daughter.”

A series of deep sighs moves lightly around the table.

“I don’t like this already,” Izabel says. She leans against the back of her chair and crosses one leg over the other, afterwards her arms.

“Are both parents targets?” I ask.

“No,” Victor says. “Just the man. His name is Paul Fortright. The girlfriend, Kelly Bennings.”

“OK, but why do all four of us need to take care of this?” Dorian asks. “I’m pretty sure any one of us can handle this one guy.”

“And you could,” Victor says. “But we’re not the only organization that the client employed to get the job done. The one to pull it off first is the one that gets paid.”

Niklas’s face spreads into a grin. “A competition. That’s my kind of work.”

“Hmmm”—Dorian rubs the underside of his chin with the edge of his index finger, in thought—“so because the stakes are so high, does this mean we kill whoever gets in our way? Rival operatives included?”

“Especially rival operatives,” Victor confirms. “The payday is twenty thousand—not a lot—but the money isn’t why I took on this job.”

“You took it because of the rival organization,” Izabel assumes. “It’s the perfect opportunity to draw them from the shadows.”

“Precisely,” Victor says.

“What happened to recruiting members of other organizations?” Dorian asks. “Don’t we need numbers?”

“We have numbers,” I speak out and Victor nods, confirming that I’m on the right track. “And if recruiting is the only thing we demonstrate, other rival organizations will begin to fear us less, leaving only the leaders and their right hand men and women looking over their shoulders.”

“Yes,” Victor says. “It’s time we start taking entire groups out and sending a message. In the past year after taking over the black market orders that we have, we’ve come across too many who have no loyalty. They’ll sell out their leaders and their entire organization at the drop of a few thousand dollars. I want future recruits to want to work for us, not because of how much they’re paid, and not only because of loyalty, but because they know we are the most dangerous and the most intolerant.”

All heads around the table, including Woodard’s, nod simultaneously in agreement.

Victor stands from the chair and straightens his suit jacket.

“There is a kill preference,” he says, “though ours is different from our rivals. It’s how the clients will know which of us got there first.” He pushes his chair underneath the table and stands behind it. “A single shot to the back of the head,” he adds.

“Well, that counts me out,” Izabel says disappointed. “I’d love to kill me some child molester.”

“Sorry, Izzy,” Niklas taunts, knowing she hates his nickname for her, “but you’re not the best shot at the Round Table.”

“Shut the fuck up, Niklas,” she snaps. “I could always practice on you.”

Niklas smirks and places the unlit cigarette between his lips again.

Victor’s eyes shut momentarily, appearing as though he has suddenly acquired a mild headache.

Then he looks over at me.

“The offer stands,” he says. “You can be notified if you’re needed. They may have no problem finding Paul Fortright without the girlfriend. She’s just a backup plan that likely won’t be utilized.”

I shake my head. “I’ll go just in case,” I say and stand up as well. “Besides, I’ll feel better about already being there if I’m needed, especially if we have competition.”

Victor nods, accepting my decision and probably agreeing with it. It strikes me somewhat odd that he would leave this decision up to me with so much at stake. That’s not like Victor Faust. While although he’s not a selfish, tyrant leader and he takes our well-being into careful consideration at all times, it’s still not like him to allow me such freedom on a job like this.

“All the information you need,” Victor says, looking at each of us in turn, “is in the envelope. Keep me updated on all events. I’ll see you in no more than three days.”

Everyone else stands from the table, all except for Woodard who isn’t sure what to do. His beady eyes dart around at all of us, taking in what’s expected of him by watching, and finally he follows suit.

“James Woodard,” Victor says and jerks his head back subtly, “come with me.”

Woodard swallows nervously again and stumbles around his chair as he walks away from the table. That guy’s going to have to grow a pair soon if he expects to survive with us, even if all he’s destined to do is sit behind a computer screen and be our eyes and ears over the information waves.

By midday, I’m on a plane to Seattle and although normally I would be able to think of nothing but the anticipation of a possible interrogation, Cassia is all that’s on my mind.