Chapter 65: Codename: Aconite Chapter Fifteen

I walk through the frigid streets with my hand firmly clutched against my shoulder in a pathetic attempt to stem the bleeding. Part of me hopes the cold is at least slowing the blood down, while the other part of me just wants to get the fuck back to my hotel. By some miracle of the Gods, I see an approaching cab and hail it down. I don’t even wait for the car to come to a complete stop before I dive into the backseat.

“Hotel National,” I instruct.

The driver glances at me briefly in the rearview mirror and decides to avert his eyes before he turns the car around and begins heading in the direction of the hotel. I lean forward and do my best not to get blood on the backseat of his car – more for the sake of avoiding leaving evidence as opposed to courtesy. The driver never makes small talk and continues to avoid looking at me. It’s one of the things I love about this country. There’s trouble around every corner, so people tend to just keep their heads down and play dumb for their own good.

As soon as the cab pulls up to the hotel, I pull out a wad of cash from my purse and toss it onto the driver’s lap without a word then proceed to climb out of the cab, all while biting my lips together trying not to make any sounds to indicate just how much pain I’m in. With my non-bloody hand, I try to comb my solid-as-a-rock hair over my head wound, in hopes I can draw a little less attention to myself. Thanks to the black fabric of my dress, the blood isn’t easily noticeable, but to be safe, I pull my long hair over my shoulder wound, hoping to disguise that too. I then tuck my bloody hand under my armpit and make my way into the hotel, trying to appear as though I’m merely trying to shield my body from the cold.

I walk to the elevator, and when it dings, I climb in, acting as normal as I can given my current predicament. The more normal I appear, the less likely I am to get noticed. I make my way up to my room, withdraw my key from my purse and let myself in, turning on the light. I toss my purse with my dagger in it, onto the bed and lean my good side against the door as I finally let out the groan of agony I’ve been suppressing. I kick off my shoes, walk over to the mirror, and get a good look at myself and it’s not pretty. I look like shit. I lift my hair and examine the large gash to the side of my head that looks angry as hell. The blood has slowed down at least, but it still managed to cause blood to travel down the side of my face and along my chin like some macabre painting.

I turn around to examine the open wound in my back. My dress is horribly soaked in blood with a hole torn through the fabric, and yet it’s only now I realise there is no exit wound. The fucking bullet is still in my shoulder. Just fucking great! Actually, that is great. The bullet has no doubt kept the wound from bleeding even more than it would have had it gone right through, so I guess there’s a silver lining to everything.

I walk into the bathroom, grab one of the hand towels, soak it in warm water, and proceed to clean up my face. With languid movements I unzip my dress, biting down on my lip to muffle the sounds of my groans as I pull my arms out of the dress, peeling the stained fabric from my body and leaving it to hang around my waist. I turn and look in the bathroom mirror at the hole in my shoulder glaring at me amongst the blood coating my alabaster skin. I take the same hand towel and press it to my shoulder, sucking in a sharp breath through my teeth when I feel the pain radiate through my body.

While keeping pressure on the wound as best I can without dislocating my good arm, I walk out and over to my luggage, grab my cell phone, and begin to dial. I take a deep breath to steady my breathing as I place the phone to my ear. It rings for a bit before I hear a click on the other end of the line.

“Credit Suisse Accounts and Holdings, please provide your account number to continue.”

“GR16 0110 1250 0000 0001 2300 695,” I respond.

It is s silent for a moment before I hear a response. “How can I help you today Miss Vespasiano?”

“I have a deposit coming through. I would like you to stay on the line to confirm if it appears in my account.”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

I place the call on hold and place the cell down, reach over, grab the hotel phone, and place it on my lap, focusing on the task at hand to block out the pain. Though the throbbing in my skull pains me more than my shoulder does, surprisingly enough. I place the receiver to my ear and dial out of the hotel, then dial the contact number Armand gave me. After a few rings, it picks up.

“Hola?”

“The job is done, but there’s been a change in plans. The second half of the payment will be transferred to my account.”

“He’s dead?” he calmly asks.

“Would I be calling if I had failed in my task?” I snap, pain fuelling my irritation. Sure, he may have been breathing when I left, but he’ll be dead soon enough.

“Understood, but why have you decided on an electronic payment? We agreed in cash.”

“Because you seemed to leave out some fucking details in your alleged background check. The motherfucker knew my name, my actual name, and had a gun. How the fuck do you explain that?!” I usually am more composed than this, but this entire night has gone to shit and now I’m sitting here nursing a fucking gunshot wound.

“He knew your name? How is that even possible?”

“You tell me,” I seethe.

“Señorita, I assure you I am as shocked by this revelation as you are. I saw nothing in his background or history that would indicate he even knew how to use a gun, let alone owned one. Are you alright?” he asks with concern.

“No, I’m not fucking alright, the bastard shot me! This was meant to be an easy job. Your information was so far off the mark that it nearly got me killed, so for that reason, I’m bringing this contract to a close and we will never be seeing each other again. So, are you prepared to transfer the funds or are we going to have a problem?” I say threateningly.

“Of course not, I will happily transfer funds right now if you wish,” he says, continuing his cool and collected tone that I find unsettling.

I proceed to give him the account number, pick up my cell, and take it off hold.

“Transfer is going through, please let me know when it appears,” I instruct the man with the bank.

“A foreign transfer to the sum of 250,000Pts has just come through and is being converted.”

“Thank you very much, and take care,” I say, ending the call and tossing my cell, then I switch back to my call with Armand. “Your payment has cleared; our business is over.”

“I do sincerely apologi-” he begins to say, but I promptly hang up the phone and place the phone back down on the nightstand.

I take a frustrated breath and examine my shoulder once again. It’s still bleeding, just not as much as it would be if not for that bullet. I get up, walk across the room, and open the mini bar, pulling out a baby bottle of vodka, which I proceed to unscrew with my teeth and down the entire bottle in one gulp. I make a face and toss the bottle in the trashcan across the room. I lean against the dresser and take a deep breath as I reflect on the fucking mess I’ve gotten myself into and how my next order of business is to get my shoulder fixed.