“Bag.”
I take the box from him and look at the dividing dark screen go up between us, then down at the bag to unzip it. Black clothes. All black. Black, heavy boots, too. Bike ride then. I shrug into them all, eventually lacing up the boots and grabbing for the small box again. The top flips open and I’m presented with a silver ball on a chain, just like his. Smaller this time, but just as intricate. Pretty.
Slipping it over my head, I run the ball around my fingers as the journey goes on looking for some way of it flipping open like Malachi’s does. It doesn’t that I can find, so maybe it’s just a charm – a gift. Something that’s like him perhaps. Don’t know.
It doesn’t take long until we reach somewhere. The engine cuts out and the door’s opened for me. I look out at the foyer in front of me, searching for something I know. It isn’t until I get through the foyer and through a double set of doors that I begin to recognise the place. I keep going, turning the corners of the white corridors until I arrive into the hanger I’ve been in before. It’s strange that I’m half smiling as I look up at the massive fucking jet waiting for me. I damn well wasn’t the last time I was here.
The team of men fold in behind me, several of them carrying weapons in their grip, and one of them points me towards the steps. For once, there’s a relative ease about me as I climb them, and then some sort of fucking sigh of contentment as I get inside the plane and see Malachi sitting there.
“What’s going on?” I ask, walking to the chair opposite him.
“Apparently, I’m conceding. Buckle up.”
“To what?”
“You.”
Whatever that means, he doesn’t seem happy about it, as we get pulled out of the hanger and onto the runway. In fact, he seems full of undisclosed rage as we get up into the air and he continues to stare out at the clouds.
I look at the pristine suit he’s wearing, unsure why I’m wearing this if he’s wearing that.
“I’m not dressed for going out. You are. What are we-“
“I’ve been with my lawyer,” he mutters, sullenly.
“Why?” I ask, attempting conversation.
“My wife was killed,” he snaps, swinging his face to mine. “Amendments. Revisions. Corrections.”
Conversations happen after that between him and someone on his phone, and all the time he keeps his eyes fixed on the new charm ball thing around my neck. He eventually puts the phone down and goes to the bar, helping himself to a drink without offering me one. I fiddle with my ball, uncomfortable with the atmosphere he’s creating. This morning he’s telling me he loves me and now he’s barely speaking to me?
“Was this from you?” I ask, running the ball along the chain.
He looks back at me, watching my hand move. “Yes.”
“Pretty. Thank You.”
He looks back at his drink, frowning. “It’s a tracking device.” It is?
Unsure whether I’m offended or flattered by that, I say the first thing that comes into my head. “Still pretty.”
“Platinum always is,” he says morosely.
I unbuckle the belt, stand and walk over to him. “Alright, what’s the matter?” He turns away the second I get to him, choosing the chair rather than letting me touch him. “What the hell was that? You tell me you love me and now you don’t want me near you?”
“Leave it, Alice. I’m not in the mood.”
“No. We are doing the talking thing. Talk.” He doesn’t. He stares outside again. “Malachi, this hot and cold shit is jerk like. You’re not one no matter how much you try to be so-"
His drink crashes down on the table, face turning to me. “I want you in Manhattan. Safe,” he snarls. “Instead we’re here because you’re a pain in my godammed ass and I’m pissed off about obliging your clear fucking insanity.” He stands again and paces the cabin, shaking his head the entire time. “I suggest you keep yourself alive because if you die tonight the thought of slicing my own neck will become a priority to me. Do you understand?” My eyes widen, realisation dawning. He’s taking me to Greene. To kill Greene. “Do you, Alice? You die. I die. That’s our new bargain.” He heads towards the bedroom cabin. “Keep that on your goddamn conscience and don’t do anything remotely fucking stupid.”
The sound of the door slamming behind him almost makes the plane rattle, and I’m left with the real threat that my life means his for some reason. I don’t know whether to cry, be angry, or breathe out a sigh of relief. I’m in turmoil, part ready to run in there and thank him and another part ready to tell him it's fine – that it doesn’t matter, that I don’t need to do it because if that’s what it means to him, if he would choose death because of mine, then this is a no go.
But then – killing Franco.
And then I see Malachi’s dead body in my mind, a body I’ve already held on the brink of death if not already there. Visions flood my thoughts. My mother smiling, then her dead body. My father teaching me to shoot, and then his funeral. Temple Greene’s lifeless glazed eyes in front of mine. So much death. Faith Jones – dead. Tommy dead. So many people dead.
I swallow, trying to push the need for me to end this out of my thoughts so I can just go back to Manhattan, perhaps try doing the rest of my life under Malachi’s protection without the need to kill Franco, but it won’t work. He’ll hunt me, find me, find Brett and Brandon, and then he’ll go for anything that dared get in his way – Malachi included if he has to. And that is a definite no go as far as I’m concerned.
