Niklas scoffs and crosses his arms. “Wow,” he says, “you really think you know me—you didn’t have to lie to the girl; she’s probably not even my real sister.”
I turn to Woodard. “The results of Naeva’s hair sample?”
“They were a match,” Woodard answers. “She is your sister.”
I turn to Niklas again.
He snarls, and chews on the inside of his mouth.
“Whatever,” he finally says. “What I’m looking at is how you handled it—you just let the girl leave? Rookie move, Victor. Should’ve killed her.” There is accusation in his voice. But I do know my brother, and he is only using accusation to cover up pain.
“Yes,” I answer. “I let her go. She works for The Order, and unless we want a bounty on her head like you and I have, we should stay away from her.”
Niklas sneers.
Izabel steps up. And steps in.
“This has to end, Victor,” she snaps, pointing her index finger at the floor. “We can’t continue to live like this; we can’t keep hiding from Vonnegut and his thousands of employees”—she put a lot of emphasis on the number—“I won’t continue to live like this. We never should’ve spread ourselves so thin, taking on other jobs, wasting time and resources on other things when we should’ve been doing everything in our power to find and eliminate Vonnegut.”
Eliminate—it troubles me how much more like me she sounds every day.
“She’s right,” Niklas puts in. “France. Washington. Italy. A waste of fucking time, Victor. I’m tired of always feeling like someone from The Order is standing right behind me, just waiting for me to bend over. We need to take him down before we get fucked.”
I look across at a quiet Gustavsson, giving him an opportunity to put in his two cents.
“Victor and I were discussing this before the rest of you showed up,” he says. “I’m in agreement.”
Niklas scoffs. “You want to take time away from catching your serial killer?” He smiles, shaking his head with disbelief.
Gustavsson looks to me, and once again I have the floor.
I explain to everyone what I spoke to Gustavsson about, and for the next fifteen minutes they all debate and converse and agree and disagree.
“Then what do you plan to do, Victor?” Niklas asks; he gestures his hands as he speaks. “So we’re all gonna split up; Fredrik is still going to be doing his serial killer thing; Nora is going to be off with some crazy brother and sister hunting down and even crazier brother and sister—I don’t see how any of that is going to lead to putting a plug in Vonnegut’s operations. Not to mention, now you have The Gemini involved—crazy fuckin’ shit, brother. What do you plan to do? What do you expect me to do? And Izabel?”
I start to speak, but Izabel interrupts me.
“Actually, that’s the only reason I came here today,” she says.
All eyes veer in her direction—especially mine.
“I leave for Mexico in two days,” she announces. “And I’m going alone.”
TWENTY-FOUR
I feared this day would come, and in my heart I knew that it would, but I did not expect it so soon. I thought I had more time. Time to condition Izabel to her fullest (or to allow Kessler to do it for me); time to steer Izabel’s sights in another direction—any direction other than Mexico. She has talked about it the past many months, about going back there; she has pressed the issue, arguing her—I hate to admit its truth—very valid and solid case. But I have continuously shot her down at every turn, giving in only a fraction by telling her that she could go on the mission with Nora, but that only Nora would be putting herself in danger’s path. I was a fool to let myself believe that Izabel would ever give up on this pursuit.
“Out of the question,” Niklas speaks out.
But Izabel puts up her hand to silence him. And without looking at him she says to me, “Without refusal, without an argument, without your opinions,” reiterating our conversation weeks ago at Dina Gregory’s house, to which I know I must abide.
She drops her hand; Niklas wants more than anything to keep talking, but he hesitantly gives her the floor.
Izabel turns so that everyone can see her.
“The end begins today,” she announces. “We eradicate Vonnegut, and Victor takes over The Order before the summer is over.” She makes eye contact with everyone in the room, one after the other, challenging any one of us to a debate. “The plan to weed him out will not change: we will trust and utilize the information that Nora gave us, and I, being the only one who knows how the slavery rings work in Mexico, will be the one carrying out the mission—I’m the only one here who can.”
She begins to pace, her arms crossed, her mind focused, determined, and unwavering.
“It’s a bad idea, Izzy—”
“No,” she cuts Niklas off, finally looking at him. “It’s the only idea.”
“Bullshit—there are a hundred different ways to go about this,” he argues. “There are dozens of women in our Order who can play the part you think you’re going to play.”
“That I am going to play,” she corrects him swiftly. “Sure, you can take any other woman from our Order, make her dress the part, show her how to play the part, but not one of them”—she points her index finger at the floor sternly—“knows what I know; not one of them has been there, seen the things I’ve seen, experienced the things I’ve experienced. I am the fucking expert”—her voice begins to rise and harden—“and I’m the one who, no matter what any of you believe, will be the one who pulls this off. Not So-And-So from the First Division, or Agent-Whatever who watched a few movies about sex slavery and read a few newspapers and case files and thinks she’s ready. And not even Nora Kessler, who can fake tears and emotions well enough, but she can’t fake being broken. Not like I can.” Her hand shoots up again. “But more importantly than being the absolute best for the job because of first-hand experience, I’m the only one here who’s seen the real Vonnegut.”
An uncomfortable quiet blankets the room.
“I hate to say this, Izabel,” Gustavsson speaks up, “but I agree with Niklas—despite your experience, you shouldn’t be the one to go there, not after everything you’ve—”
“I’m not having this conversation with any of you again,” Izabel snaps, and she looks at each one of us in turns. “About how you think what I went through in Mexico will impede my performance—it’s an old and tiring argument.” She pauses, inhales and exhales deeply. “Look, I’m as much a part of this Order as any of you; I may be the youngest, the one with the least experience, but all of you seem to forget, or maybe you just don’t realize it, that every one of you are as fucked up as I am. Every one of you have sapping weaknesses that threaten to derail you every day in this profession—not just me.”
She points at Fredrik.
“You kept a psychotic woman prisoner in your basement because you couldn’t see through your love for her to realize she was a danger to you, herself, and to anyone who crossed her path, including all of us.”
Gustavsson swallows hard, says nothing.
Izabel looks to Niklas.
“The grudge you hold against your brother is a bigger weakness than you realize,” she points out. “Not to mention, you can’t keep your dick in your pants, or your tongue in your mouth.”
“My two best assets,” Niklas comes back, ignoring the part about me. “I don’t see how that’s a weakness, Izzy.” He grins. “And my tongue…well, it’s kind of famous, actually.”