Book 2: Operation Detour

Episode 1

© by William Arthur Holmes

Warning: Adult Themes

Early 2005

Riva

Riva’s gray eyes reach out and grab anyone careless enough to look directly at her. Her flawless skin glows in contrast to her long black hair.

She knows the effect she has on men and is not afraid to use it... most days. Not today. Her hair is a tangled mess. Eyes bloodshot. Skin a sickly pallor from whatever ailment has befallen her as she holes up in a high-rise apartment on LA’s west side. She hates waiting on anyone or anything but now awaits her boss and mentor Serge and his promised “mission to define you.”

She is doing her evening yoga, in the downward-facing dog position, when she gets the feeling that she is not alone. Someone is in the room with her.

She ends the session with namasté, picks up the small-caliber pistol always within reach, and digs into her purse for a device given to her at training. The thing detects electronic bugs and heat signatures. She is not typically impressed with gadgets but has to admit this thing is pretty cool.

“There you are,” she coos when she finds what might be mistaken for a cell phone. Strapping it to her wrist to free up her left hand while the right hand holds the gun, she turns the device on and waits for it to buzz as she inspects the apartment.

Finding nothing behind the couch, she moves to the kitchen, opening every cabinet. Nothing. She edges down the narrow hallway past the front door. The device says there’s nothing there, either.

This thing thinks I am crazy.

She peeks out the front door peephole. If there is anyone out there, they are not generating any body heat. No one in the bathroom, shower or cabinets, either.

Maybe this place is haunted.

Entering the bedroom, the device vibrates furiously as a deep-voiced chortle emanates from the back of the room. She flips on the ceiling light. There on her bed is Serge, his hands tucked behind his head, propped against the headboard.

He is wearing his signature black thick-rimmed eyeglasses, a smile, and absolutely nothing else. His chortle turns to roaring laughter now that he’s been discovered.

“Oh, dear God,” she gasps at his naked corpulence. “Put some clothes on! Nobody wants to see that.”

“You look like hell,” he manages between laughs, running a hand through his longish greasy brown hair.

Riva is fluent in several languages and now uses one of her all-time favorite phrases, “Bite me.”

With or without clothes, Serge is not what anyone in any culture would consider attractive. He is well aware and counters it with a jovial air. Everyone loves a jovial air.

“You couldn’t text first?” she complains.

“I have to keep you on your toes,” he speaks with an accent vaguely foreign to anyone listening, no matter the listener’s native tongue. Born Sergiusz Kolza, he anglicized it to Serge Coleman upon migrating from Bulgaria to England as a teenager.

“Are you sick?” he asks, moving to the edge of the bed and grabbing his pants.

“Yes, and I hope it’s contagious. Here, give me a kiss.”

His eyes light up and he drops his pants to the floor. She vomits onto the sheets, barely missing him.

“I was joking, you old perv!”

“Seriously, Riva,” he avoids the vomit, “you are sloppy. Do not let people surprise you like this. It will get you killed.”

“It will get you killed!” She is in no mood for his cheerful insults. “Stop sneaking up on me, and the never-ending lessons! I am twenty-six years old and fully trained. That is why I am here, is it not?”

“My apologies,” he says, pulling his pants on. “But no one is ever fully trained. Did I not see you looking out the peephole just now? We trained you better than that!”

She gives him a dirty look. “Forever correcting me! Criticizing, finding fault, nitpicking! It is maddening!”

She hates that he gets under her skin so easily.

Laughing and shrugging his shoulders, he says, “That is my role, mon fleur. What would you have me do?”

“I never hear a ‘Well done’ or ‘Nice job,’” she says, now holding her pounding head. “’Nice ass’ doesn’t count.”

And with that, she adjourns to the living room. She thinks about setting the handgun down on the end table but decides it is best to be armed in Serge’s presence. She does remove and set the bug detector down.

Their relationship has followed an evolution of prisoner-emancipator, then student-teacher, and now agent-handler. It was during their prisoner-emancipator phase – when he took great pains to be kind and considerate while grooming her – that they became lovers.

It was during their student-teacher phase that he raped her... several times, and she has hated him ever since. For the sake of her career — and health — she has held her tongue but takes comfort in the conviction that he will meet a violent end at the hands of one of his many enemies.

Seeing the over-sized towel left draped over the back of the couch, she wraps it around her shoulders like a shawl. Moving to the window, she studies the shadowy figures on the street below, losing herself in their shapes and movements.

Behind her, Serge smiles lasciviously. Catching this in the window’s reflection, she rolls her eyes, turns to him and says, “I am amazed – old and horny as you are – you have never been caught in a honey trap.”

She returns her attention to something, anything outside.

Moving in close as she stares out the window, Serge raises his arms as if about to massage her shoulders... or strangle her. “Es-tu prêt?“ he asks.

“Je ne parlé pas Français” (“I don’t speak French”), she says, turning to face him. Unsmiling, she asks, “Why are we speaking French?”

“Are you ready?” he translates for her and carefully places his hands on her shoulders.

Her eyes flash at his touch, but she maintains control. Exhaling, she says, “Yes, I am ready.”

“Say it like you mean it!” he grabs her more firmly.

Despite her nasal congestion, she can smell the onion garlic bread on his breath. She knows he despises the slightest perceived disrespect — a few underlings who tested him have wound up dead — but she lets her disgust show, anyway. He has spent too much time and effort to kill her just yet.

He is standing close, holding her arms. She plays along, humoring him. Shouting like a new recruit in a mixture of English and Romanian, she says, “I am ready, moy kapetan!”

“Much better,” he oozes. His hands slide down her arms to her hips, pausing a moment before firmly grabbing her buttocks. Looking deep into her eyes, he awaits her reaction.

Other than a sudden, cold stillness, she has none. Even her pulse is now barely perceptible as she considers killing him.

He slides in behind her, pressing himself against her. “Tell me again what your assignment is.”

Riva drones robotically, “I must find someone... and...”

Something inside her snaps. At the depths of cold-blooded murderous thoughts one moment, the next moment finds her bursting out laughing. Unable, not wanting to control it, she is now laughing hysterically.

Serge doesn’t know what to make of it. He worries she might be having a mental breakdown. All he can do is step back and wait for her to get over it.

She eventually marshals her emotions and reduces her laughter to a giggle. She picks up where she left off. “I must find someone and... make him my bitch!”

“Not your ‘bitch,’” Serge corrects her with an uneasy laugh, not sure what got into her. “Your asset. Your pawn. We are chess players, you and I. We must be cold, calculating, like you were when I put my hands on you. That was good. You see there? I can give compliments. But this... laughing fit of yours... this was very bad. We must be in control at all times.”

After a moment, he continues, “What is our mantra, do you remember?”

She recites a line drilled into her during training, usually by Serge himself. “Sacrifice of the one for the good of the many!”

“Yes!”

“Anyone in particular you want sacrificed?” she asks.

“To keep it interesting,” he smiles, “I have procured someone entirely clean – no criminal past whatever – and have prepared him specially for you.”

“What do you mean ‘prepared?’”

“I have a young friend,” he confides. “A beautiful young man named Christian.”

“A young man, you say? Don’t ask, don’t tell?”

He glares at her.

“Let me guess,” she continues, “he knows too much, and you want him eliminated.”

“No! God, no! It is his girlfriend’s boyfriend that I have chosen for you.”

“Girlfriend’s boyfriend...” she begins, shakes her head, and asks, “Why him?”

“I allowed Christian and the other two to stay at my place in Beverly Hills after their apartment building was destroyed.”

“You have a house in Beverly Hills, but put me in this crappy apartment?”

“Christian’s friend Dobie is your target,” he ignores her question. “He has been on my radar since his involvement with another agent, Venelia, who is no longer with us.” He gives a sad look downward. “You didn’t know her. I have chosen him for your next project.”

Serge’s sadness seems rehearsed, but Riva shrugs. This is the deal: He got her out of prison, now she does whatever he asks and is well-paid for it.

“Your task,” he continues, “is to make him your patsy. Failure is not an option. I only ask that you do not fall in love with him.”

She rolls her eyes. “Have I ever?”

“You are young… and female,” he smirks. “Things happen.”

She scoffs.