Angel and the Assassin: Be Brave

“What‟s your name?”
    “ Dyadya .” Uncle.
    Outside in the hallway, Kael hurried, holding Clement upright, until he got to
    the top of the staircase. He walked down with a smile, breaking into a grin each
    time someone passed them. “He needs some fresh air,” he said in French, laughing a
    little.
    The men on the veranda were busy with the two women, lying on top of them
    on reclining chairs, and didn‟t even notice him. One of the women made eye contact
    with him as the man on top of her worked, oblivious to her. The gate was obscured
    from view by tall shrubs, and as Kael made his way toward it, Clement began to
    revive in the crisp night air. The moment he passed through the gate, Kael said,
    “Open the boot.” Mattie popped the boot.
    Uncaring if he was hurting the man, Kael picked Clement up and threw him
    into the boot.
    “What the hell‟s going on?” Clement began to protest.
    “Shut the fuck up!” Kael slammed the boot closed on him. Clement began to
    bang, screaming to be let out. Kael was in the passenger seat a second later.
    “Drive.”
    They were back on the dark country road heading for the motorway that would
    take them to the Channel Tunnel when Mattie said, “You were exactly twenty
    minutes in the house. Right down to the second, sir, just like you said.” Kael didn‟t
    answer. “The whole thing went smoothly, I take it?”
    “Stop the car,” Kael said.
    There was nowhere to pull over on the narrow country lane without getting hit
    by another vehicle, and Mattie continued on to the next lay-by and pulled in.
    “Open the boot,” he told her as he got out.
    Mattie pushed the button, and the boot opened. Clement was already
    struggling to sit up the moment the boot popped. Still silent and utterly intent, Kael
    grabbed the man by his shirtfront and pulled him out onto the pavement.
    “I knew somebody would be sent for me sooner or later,” Clement said as
    though he had not just been pulled off a nine-year-old child. “Look, I‟ll come back
    willingly because I need the damn money, but I‟ll sit in the backseat. Shoving me in
    the boot is overkill.”

    98
    Fyn Alexander

    Kael closed his fingers into his palm and with a swift, sure movement knocked
    Clement across the bridge of his nose.
    Blood began to run from the man‟s nostrils, and he ducked his head, putting
    his hands to his face. “What the fuck?” he protested.
    Ignoring the words, Kael began to punch him repeatedly in the face and torso
    until Clement fell to the ground.
    Mattie jumped out of the car and came running around behind. “What are you
    doing? You‟ll kill him. You can‟t kill him.”
    “Shut up and get into the car.”
    “Sir, stop!”
    “Get in the fucking car!”
    Mattie obeyed, and Kael landed two hard kicks to Clement‟s midsection,
    enjoying the feel of the man‟s ribs cracking beneath his toe. Blood ran from
    Clement‟s face where his eyebrows had swelled and split. His nose gushed. Kael
    dragged him to his feet and threw him back into the boot again, closed it, and got
    into the car.
    “Drive.”
    Without a word, Mattie set off.

    * * *
    They had been driving for at least an hour when Mattie said tentatively, “Sir,

    were we supposed to get the target back unharmed?”
    The drive through the quiet darkness had served to calm Kael‟s initial anger.
    He knew perfectly well he shouldn‟t have beaten Clement, but he didn‟t regret it.
    “Do you know what was going on in that house?”
    “No, sir. I was given no information.”
    “It belongs to a man who trafficks young women for sex slaves. When I say
    women, I mean girls, usually from ages fourteen to about twenty-four at the oldest.”
    “It‟s sickening, sir. Drugs and other commodities can only be sold once. A
    human being can be sold over and over again for sex. But Interpol and the
    European police agencies are working on it all the time. Beating up one bloke may
    make you feel better, but it won‟t matter in the scheme of things. Anyway you told
    me not to let my personal prejudices get in the way of the job.”
    That was precisely what he had told her, and a year ago he would have thrown
    Clement into the boot and driven home without giving him another thought. But a
    year ago he had not met Angel, who had softened his heart in a way that frightened
    him. He had not met Freddie‟s little girls and been aware of just how defenseless
    and fragile children were. Who he was at his core was changing, and he did not