SpySistah Chronicles Spyvella Chapter 5: The FinaleHere it is, the long-awaited finale to the SpySistah Spyvella. I didn't have a lot of extra time this afternoon, so it is a bit longer than it should be. My apologies for that.
To Recap, Silk started the story with Ravens and Ghost Stories. Christina brought us Secrets of the Night. Theresa gave us The Recruit. I brought you the fourth chapter, Blood & Cristal, on Wednesday.
I hope that you are not disappointed. Chapter 5:
Garter Belts and Glocks
Cutter, Edwin, and Sam looked down on the body.
Cutter exhaled a long-held breath. “Thank God. It isn’t Natasha.”
“Yes. But who is it? And where is Natasha?” This mystery wasn’t unraveling fast enough for Sam.
“I’ve never seen that person before.”
Cutter and Sam looked at Edwin expectantly. “What are you looking at me for? I like redheads!” They all laughed.
“Okay.” Sam scanned the scene quickly making note of the gawkers. “I have to get a new passport from Carstairs and catch a plane to Geneva. I don’t know if this person has anything to do with this, but can you guys do the homework here and forward me anything I need to know?” The men nodded, then began the task of investigating the body as Sam slid behind the wheel of the Vanquish S and headed off toward headquarters.
The concierge leered suggestively at the display of cleavage that the blonde ski-bunny was parading. He loved wealthy women: too much time on their hands, absent husbands, and plenty of plastic – both in their bras and their wallets.
“Howdy!” Sam addressed the concierge, adopting a Texas drawl. “I’d like to check in, please.”
“Your name?” The concierge was all unctuous business now.
“Juliette Lawson-Nash. Of Dallas. Has my husband checked in or left any messages for me?” She tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder for good measure.
“I will check.” He peered into the mailboxes behind him and brought out a piece of folded cream-colored cardstock. “Your messages, Madame.”
“Why, thank you. I don’t suppose you have a boy that can attend to my bags, do you?”
He smiled. “Of course.” He rang the bell and a young man appeared. The concierge handed him a large ornate metal key with a scarlet tassel attached. “The Elizabet Suite, Michel.”
The young man started to lead Sam away, but she turned back in time to see the Concierge had been checking out her backside. “Ya’ll have wifi, right?”
“Yes, Madam. Michel will show you.”
Cozily ensconced in her room, the bell boy well-tipped and on his way, Sam pulled her pressed powder out of her Louis Vuitton handbag. She opened the compact and walked around the room, gazing at her reflection and applying fresh powder to the non-existent shiny spots on her face. The green light appeared behind the mirror and she knew that the room was “clean.”
She went into the living room and pulled up the cushions on the settee. From there, she was able to slide her hand into the opening in the couch back cushion and retrieve her G36 and the two extra magazines. She replaced the cushions and picked up her phone, calling “Granny” as the note had instructed.
After a few clicks, the call connected.
Sam was dripping with sweat. She had just spent an hour gyrating on the floor of the hotel’s disco. Very retro. But, she had achieved her purpose. Fayad had noticed her. She could tell.
She strolled over to the bar and ordered a drink, threw her hair over her shoulder and looked back casually at Fayad’s table. His eyes were locked on her. She bent down and smoothed the silk stocking on her leg, shifting as she did so that Fayad would get a peek at her garter. The bartender placed a shot of whiskey before her next to a glass of water. With flair, she threw her head back and downed the whiskey. Then she sat down and sipped at her water.
She could tell from the way the bartender’s eyes shifted that Fayad was approaching.
“You are a beautiful woman,” he said by way of introduction.
“Why, thank you, Mr…?”
“Everyone calls me Fayad.”
“Mr. Fayad, do you dance?”
“I’m afraid not. However, I would like to buy you a drink. Shall we have some champagne?”
They sat there for quite a while, making polite conversation about Gstaad and European travel, continually drinking. Slowly, Samantha feigned increasing inebriation.
“I think I need some air,” she said rising.
“Let me carry your drink. We can continue talking as we walk.”
“That is so gentlemanly of you, Mr. Fayad.” Samantha turned toward the exit and saw herself in the mirrored wall. She also saw Mr. Fayad drop something into her glass.
Sam “awakened” slowly, aware that she was tied arms-over-her-head to the shower head. Her clothing had been removed and she wore only her underthings, stockings, and garter.
“Samantha. So good of you to rejoin us.” Fayad was sitting in the middle of the bath suite on a leather wing chair.
“Mr. Fayad. I didn’t know you had a kinky streak! I had heard that you only liked little boys. In fact, Michel the bell boy told me…”
Fayad interrupted, “Shut up! We are done with social hour. Now you will tell me how you choose to die.”
“Hmm. That’s a tough one. Okay, I got it! I choose old age.”
“I’m afraid that is not an option.” He raised his gun and pointed it at her chest.
“Don’t you dare, Fayad!” Natasha came stalking into the bathroom. “You promised me I could kill her.”
“Then do so.”
Samantha was not surprised to see Natasha. She had suspected that the young woman hadn’t been honest with them.
“Are you going to fill me in, Natasha? Why did you kill that woman on the street?”
“She got in my way. What do you care? She was no one.”
“You are such a lovely person, you know that. Just so I don’t die of curiosity, are you going to tell me why you are killing me?”
“You Bitch! You killed my husband in Vienna last year!” Natasha was flying into a rage.
“It’s possible. Was he a terrorist? I kill a lot of terrorists.”
“Not any more you don’t!” Natasha’s face was blistering red and her hand was shaking. She aimed the gun at Samantha’s heart. “Go to hell, you…”
Natasha never spoke the final word. She fell over, the gun skittering across the marble floor.
“You waited long enough.” Sam grinned at Mark who held her Glock trained on the seated Fayad.
“She really needed to let out her emotions. It isn’t good to keep that kind of rage bottled up. It will constipate you. Anyway, shall we deal with Mr. Fayad and his little training program for terrorists?”
“Absolutely. Then let’s go for sushi. How was Vegas, by the way?”