Betrayed

By Cat

I shift slightly, trying unsuccessfully to make myself more comfortable while I wait for my mark to appear. The cold rain and the humid air do little to increase my comfort or my mood. I lean back against the wall behind me, and I feel the cold, wet, rough rock press into my skin. Once I am resettled, I situate my weapon so that my sight is still accurate. If I miss this mark, I'll be the next, and like any human being, I'd rather kill than be killed.

Hours seem to pass. I close my eyes briefly, hoping to assuage them of the gritty sleepiness that has pervaded my entire body. I put down my weapon momentarily and stand up. I am stiff, and it won't do me much good to shoot and run if I'm so stiff I can't move. I put my arms over my head, stretching, and twist at the waist. I bend over, and crouch down once I'm assured that I can be mobile when and if necessary. I run a hand through my short hair, brush beaded water off my forehead, and settle back into position.

Moments later, I gasp and pull further back into my inconspicuous location. Through my sight I see someone I'd hoped would not be here today. My adversary, my competition, the man I love, and the man who would kill me and who I would kill if given the word: Miguel Bain. What is he doing here? Why is he talking to my mark? Is he out to get me? Does he know I am here? The thoughts race through my brain. I lean my head back against the stone wall and close my eyes. If I am going to do this, I am going to have to do it right, regardless of who else happens to be here.

I look through the sight again, trying to get a clear shot of my mark. No matter where I aim, though, Miguel is in the way. It's as though he is trying to protect the man walking next to him, the man I've been hired to kill. I realize that Miguel is walking stiffly, unnaturally, and then I realize that he, himself, is armed. His mark is the same as mine. Now it's simply a question of who is going to succeed in retiring him.

Patience is the name of the game in this line of business, and an impatient person is the same as a dead one. I can't say that patience has ever been a virtue of mine, but practice makes perfect, and I've learned to successfully wait-out some of the most exhausting marks, the ones that think if they take long enough, that person hidden discreetly across the street will go away. However, today my patience is shot. Perhaps it is the rain, or the cool, sticky humidity. Or perhaps seeing Miguel has unnerved me. Whatever the reason, I prematurely ready myself, and pop off a shot. My aim is off. If he'd been alone, my mark would have looked around and chalked up that whizzing by his head to some natural cause. As it is, having Miguel by his side has heightened his awareness, and he is running and has disappeared before I can re-aim and try again.

Miguel looks around, subtly checking out any noticeable hiding spots in the general proximity of his location. He doesn't see me, and I close my eyes in relief. I slouch back against the wall, nearly comfortable for the first time all day, and I let my guard down. Suddenly, I sense danger, and my eyes fly open to see Miguel looming over me. My insides turn, in anxiety, fear, and desire. He looks angry, very angry. His dark eyes blaze, boring into mine. His chest is heaving, more out of intense anger than exertion; Miguel is not one to get winded easily. I've seen him chase down the most agile and speedy mark and complete his job with hardly more than a shortness of breath.

I stand up from my half-lounging position, and set my weapon against the wall behind me. I want nothing more than to run my fingers through his thick, dark, curly hair, hanging in tight ringlets, with rain dripping from the ends. I want nothing more than to put my hands on his chest, and feel the breath in his lungs. I want nothing more than to kiss away his anger, to turn that fiery anger directed at me into fiery passion for me. I want nothing more than to love him as I know only I can.

I've forgotten my mark by this time, and my breath is coming in gasps; I'm not use to being this close to him. My love for him is usually from afar, although the not-so-rare-he's-angry-I'm-defensive encounter does bring him close occasionally. I get the feeling this is going to be one of those encounters. I rake my eyes from the top of Miguel's head to his waist, as low as I will let my eyes go, and back up to his face, and when I see his dark eyes filled with agitation, I remember the mark, I remember why I'm here, I remember the failed attempt at completing my job, and I remember why he's standing inches from me.

"You missed him," Miguel growls in a low voice. He cocks his head at me mockingly, and sneers at me. "Have you ever missed? I don't believe I've ever seen you miss."

"That's bullshit, Miguel. You know damn well I've missed plenty. When you kill as often as I do, I'm bound to have a few misses." His anger and condescension makes me respond in kind. If I could only stay cool with him, my encounters with him would go better, wouldn't end with him walking away the bigger man while I shy away the loser. I want to kiss him, I want him to kiss me, but instead, I get angry, pick up my weapon, and turn and stalk away to save face. The less he sees of the emotion he stirs up in me, the better.

I walk a block to my truck, an inconspicuous beat-up black Chevy, a throwback from my less affluent days. I open the passenger side, and slide my weapon onto the floorboard, as far under the seat as I can get it. I slam the door angrily and turn around, leaning against it, and reliving the last few moments in my head. I can't believe I missed. I can't believe I let him get to me that way. I can't believe I said 'bullshit' and 'damn' within thirty seconds of each other. I may be a hit man, but I'm still a lady. I silently curse Miguel, blaming him for my lack of intelligent speech.

I sigh heavily, and stick my hand in my jeans pocket to retrieve my truck keys. I can't find them. I feel around my waist, hitting all the main pocket areas that are large enough to hold a set of keys. They aren't there. After searching myself all over, futile really, since I'm only wearing the jeans and a tank top with no pockets, I open my truck door and wildly move things on the seat and the floorboard, glancing in the ignition, running my hand through the seam of the seat. I gaze unbelievably at the interior of my truck. My keys aren't there. I am on the edge of hysteria; what else can go wrong today?

My finely tuned hearing picks up a footstep near me. Afraid someone may have seen me with my weapon, I spin around quickly, expecting a police officer, or a suspicious passerby. I roll my eyes when I come face to face with Miguel.

"Hey, Hotshot," I say sarcastically.

"Hey, No-shot," he replies sardonically.

"What, not done humiliating me today? You had to follow me to continue?" I have a horrible habit of saying the first thing that comes to mind, and obviously, my behavior today is no different.

Miguel smiles at me sweetly. "No, but perhaps you'll need these?" He questions me with his voice and his eyes while he languidly holds up my truck keys. I am not fooled by his lackadaisical tone of speech, or the sweet smile on his face. The still-mocking look in his eyes makes me instantly furious, and I angrily grab for my keys. Just as my fingers close tentatively around them, he yanks them out of my reach.

"No no no. Not yet." He shakes his head at me as if I am merely a misbehaving child, needing to be scolded for some minor infraction of a preschool rule. The look of moderate disappointment turns to one of interest before my eyes. I'd never seen an expression change quite like that, and I probably never will again. It was a fluid movement, all in one breath, in a fraction of a breath. I see his expression as it is, and I find it nearly impossible to believe he ever looked any different. His eyes narrow slightly, his mouth curves up at the corners, and all at once, he seems not an assassin, but a normal guy who I might have coffee with, or dinner, or... My mind trails off, and I pull my concentration back to the man before me.

"I thought I'd let you know, you have a reputation now," he says musically. "Shall I tell you what they are saying?." My eyebrows raised. I know nothing of a reputation.

I give up acquiring my keys for the moment, and lean back casually against my truck door. "Oh? I wasn't aware that I have a reputation. Mind telling me what it is so I can set you straight?"

Miguel smiles at me a little, the first time I've ever seen anything remotely lighthearted on his face. "Let me see...where to begin? Your name is Catheryn. When you got into the business, you thought it was too...how should I say it...feminine. So now you go by Kit, which, may I add, fits you well. You are twenty-nine years old. You are single. You live alone in an apartment uptown, and besides this truck, you own a 1987 BMW, your one nod to the money you've amassed in the business. You have a tendency to be a bit..." He pauses. "You are a bit free with your affections."

My eyebrows are about to raise off my forehead at this point. "Well, people seem to know me pretty well." Miguel smiles again, broader this time.

"A good businessman always knows his adversaries and associates."

"So which am I to you? An adversary, or an associate?

His face darkened a bit. "You made me lose my mark today. That is not the work of an associate."

"Sure," I say casually. "But we know each other too well for me to be an adversary."

"As long as we are competition, we are adversaries."

"Yeah, if you say so, Miguel." I look down and kick the ground with my boot, trying to find something else to concentrate on besides this angry man in front of me. I gaze at him as my eyes follow the contours of his body back up, and I let my eyes keep going so he doesn't know what I'm staring at. The grayness of the day has broken, and as I look into the sky I'm forced to squint to keep the sunlight from blinding me. "I don't suppose I can have my keys now, eh? I rather have someplace to be."

Miguel's face brightens, not just his expression, but seemingly, something from within. He tosses me my keys so unexpectedly, they hit my chest and land on the ground.

"Thanks." I bend over to pick them up, and from above me, I hear Miguel lighting a cigarette. I stand up and catch a face full of smoke. I glare at Miguel. "Don't you have someplace to be?"

"I suppose as long as it's not where I'm bothering you, then I do have someplace to be. Ciao, senorita." And with that, as quickly as he'd appeared, he was gone.

* * * * *

Months have passed, and with those months, the changing of the seasons, from summer, to fall, to winter, to spring. With those months have passed many things. Jobs come and go, lovers come and go, my encounters with Miguel come and go. Ahhh...Miguel.

Miguel and I seem to be in the same place at the same time a lot these days. I'm not sure if it's coincidence, or some subconscious wrangling on my part to arrange it. I know his every move, as I suspect he knows mine. We complete our jobs, we banter, and that's usually how it ends. Things have been different, though, lately, and I can't help but feel we're moving towards something. Then again, I've been wrong before, and it wouldn't surprise me in the least if the only thing we're moving towards is an explosive confrontation.

I hop out of my truck, and grab my purse, shoving my keys into them for safekeeping. I slam my truck door, the only way it will shut. I slide my sunglasses up to my forehead. I'm only going to the grocery store, but I always have to keep my eyes wide open, and I've learned the hard way that sunglasses severely restrict peripheral vision. I walk through the automatic doors of the store, out of the heat that, in mid-May, is just beginning to become uncomfortable. I grab a cart and head into the produce section, and the first thing I see just happens to not be on my grocery list for the week: Miguel. He's standing conspicuously by the apple display, silently monitoring everyone who passes. He sees me, and fluidly straightens up and heads for me.

"Hello, Sweetheart."

I sigh. "Miguel, I'm not your sweetheart. If you insist on using a misogynistic term of endearment, call me 'Honey' or something. At least that's not possessive."

"Alright. Hello, Honey."

"Better, thank you. And hello. What in the world are you doing here? This isn't your neck of the woods is it? Or have you moved in the last few weeks?"

"No, actually, I came to see you."

"To see me?"

"To see you, yes. I thought coming to your apartment would have been too...ah...intrusive."

"Intrusive. Yeah." My eyes never leave his face. Most men, I can read like open books, but not Miguel. I can't read Miguel during a normal encounter, and I certainly can't read him now, during one that is so out of the ordinary I'm thinking I'm hallucinating. "So, uh, why did you want to see me?"

"To give you something." He's speaking clipped, unsure, nothing at all like his usual tone, or rate of speech. Something's up.

"To give me something." I'm beginning to sound like a parrot. "What do you want to give me?"

Miguel takes a few steps forward until he is mere inches away from me. The heat radiating from him was unbelievable. Under normal circumstances, I'd have chosen the sticky heat outside to this, but these were clearly not normal circumstances. Once he is practically on top of me, Miguel leans towards me so we are nose to nose, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think he's going to kill me. Instead, he does something that shocks me even more.

"Close your eyes, " Miguel says, almost mumbling. I can't understand him for a second, then do what he says. All at once I feel his warm mouth on mine. And all at once it's over. I open my eyes and he's gone. My breath is coming in short gasps. I'm dizzy, I'm warm, and the room is spinning. I close my eyes again to catch my breath, and as my breathing slows to it's normal rate, I open my eyes again. I look around for him, but I know Miguel, and I'm sure by now he's some distance away. Kissing me is probably the most dangerous thing he's done; he's not going to stick around for the consequences. Whatever they may have been.

At this point I know my grocery shopping is over. I leave my cart in the aisle, grab my purse, and take off. I get in my truck, roll up the windows, and crank up the air; to me, it's still inexplicably hot. As I cool down, and my pulse slows, and my thoughts stop racing in my head, there's only one thing I can think of to do. I put my truck in gear and head to his side of town.

I've known where he lives for quite sometime. I know where most of my competition lives. It doesn't hurt to be on the safe side. I find his apartment with ease, and I'm relieved to find his car in front of it. At least I don't have to wait for him. I slide my truck into a parking spot and turn off the ignition. Before getting out, I try to envision what I'm going to do, or what I'm going to say. My mind goes blank, except for the bright white heat of desire.

I cautiously get out of my truck. I close the door gently, hoping if it doesn't stay closed it at least doesn't swing back open. I clutch my purse to my side as though it's going to protect me from something evil. I'm anxious, scared, and I realize this is what nervousness feels like. I've never been nervous. Anxious, sure. Scared, yes. But never both at the same time. I climb the steps to the second floor, and peer down the darkened hallway for apartment six. I see the glistening fake-bronze number hanging at a crazy angle, and I start down the hall. I reach the door, and raise my hand to knock. I pause before I do, and consciously make the effort to arrange my face into an expression that possibly doesn't look like I've just seen a ghost. I raise my hand again, and I knock.

I hear Miguel making sounds of coming to the door, and I feel myself being looked at through the peephole before I am able to relax. I lean nonchalantly against the railing behind me, and wait for him to open the door. I hear a dozen locks sliding open, and then the door opens a crack, and one glorious coffee-colored eye peers out at me.

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

"I wanted to give you something."

"Give me something?"

"Yes. I would have met you someplace else, but I was afraid it wouldn't have been...ah...intrusive enough."

"Intrusive...yes. Hold on." I wait a moment while he closes the door and slides open the chain lock. He opens the door wider and motions me into his home. I walk in, just past the threshold and look around. Miguel has closed the door behind me and is standing against it, not as a way to keep me in, but because he doesn't know where else to go. I wonder how long it's been since he's had a woman in his apartment. His arms are crossed, and he's eyeing me cautiously, as though I'm completely unpredictable and he doesn't know what I'll do next. It's a situation he's not comfortable in. He's normally the one in control.

"Nice place, Miguel." I meander over to him. I'm nearly his height, and we are standing almost eye to eye.

"You wanted to give me something?" I know he knows what's coming. He has to. But I want to drag this out as long as I can.

"Yes...I'll get to that in a minute. You know, people are talking about you. Your reputation precedes you." He gets a little of his cockiness back.

"Oh? And what are they saying?"

"Miguel Bain...32 years old, lives alone, lives in a surprisingly clean apartment considering he's single... Also goes around kissing adversaries in his spare time." Miguel lowers his eyes. I take this opportunity to approach him, stepping in as close as I can. When my body is pressed up against his, I stop, mostly because his arms are still crossed and I can't get any closer. I realize I'm still holding my purse, and I slide it of my shoulder and drop it to the floor next to me. I take my hands, and force Miguel's arms to uncross. I step even closer. His head is down, but his eyes are looking straight into mine. I put my hands on each side of his head and whisper, "Close your eyes."

I'm surprised when he obeys. I take a deep breath, and as I exhale, he breathes in. As I inch closer to his face, we continue this erotic, intimate give-and-take of one of life's necessities. I close my eyes as my lips touch his, and instead of ending it as quick as it starts, as Miguel did before, I let myself melt into him. I feel Miguel relax, and his arms, hanging motionless at his sides before, are now around me, pulling me closer, until I can't be any closer to him. All rational thought leaves my head as Miguel and I sink into oblivion.

* * * * *

It's been six weeks since Miguel and I were first together. Since then, each day has gotten better and better, and just when I think I will explode with happiness, I find that I can contain more than I ever thought possible. I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop. And now it has.

I stare unbelievably at the dossier that has just come over my fax machine. The information is old, the format, old, but together, it breaks my heart. I'm hoping for the best, until the picture of my next mark comes over the fax. Those eyes, those eyes that change from excited to passionate to indifferent to intrigued, to loving. The hair, that mouth, all parts of the man I love, and the man I've come to realize I can't live without. I shuffle the papers, still hoping against hope that it's some mistake, that I can't really be expected to kill him. I roughly fold the papers, stuff them into my purse, and I'm in my truck on my way to Miguel's before I break down and cry.

I'm still crying, tears are streaming down my face, as I pull into Miguel's parking lot. I park, and slam my truck door much harder than necessary. I run, stumbling, to Miguel's door, and I'm hysterically sobbing by the time he unlocks his 12 locks and lets me in. It's obvious there's something wrong, and the first thing he did was take me in his arms, and hold me until I calmed down enough to speak. But I don't speak. I take the papers out of my purse, lay them in front Miguel, and let them speak for themselves. He looks at them, letting the cold facts sink in. He picks them up, examines them, searching for something.

"Who is your client?" His voice is dead, expressionless, unemotional. I shake my head.

"I don't know. The orders all come through from an unspecified, unlisted fax number, there's never a name on them, I'm paid in cash. There hasn't been a name attached to anything. I'm not even sure he knows who I am." My breath is still short, and filled with unshed tears, but I'm calmer now. Being with Miguel has centered me. This doesn't seem the calamity it did before. We'll deal with it. Together.

"What are you going to do?" I'm sitting next to Miguel. His arm is around me, protecting me for the horrific thing I've been asked to do.

"I don't know, Miguel. What can I do? You know how it works in this business. You know that if I don't follow through I'm next. You know that. What am I supposed to do? I can't kill you. I can't. What am I...?" I begin crying, sobbing, and Miguel holds me close.

"Honey, honey, calm down. We'll figure it out. We'll do something to keep both of us alive and safe. You know that. I won't let anything happen to you." I'm touched by the way he's worried about me, although it's his life that is on the line. I sink against Miguel, laying my head on his chest, and as his heartbeat pounds solidly in my ear, he rubs my back, runs his fingers through my hair, soothing me, comforting me. Letting me know he loves me. I sit up suddenly; a thought has occurred to me.

"Miguel, what if..." The thought is still forming in my mind, and I'm weary of speaking before it comes full circle. "What if I do follow through?" A worried look crosses his face, but he must know that I don't mean what I say. "What if we stage the hit? I...I can use blanks, or something. Let him think I've killed you. We can go away. We can both get out of the business. Then it won't matter." Miguel closes his eyes, rubs his forehead, thinks for a few moments. When I assume he thinks it's the most ridiculous idea he's ever heard, his eyes snap open and he nods slowly.

"Yes. Yes. We'll make travel arrangements before. We do this in public. You tell your client that the mark is retired. And we go. We go away from here. We'll go to South America, Mexico. Have you ever been?" I shake my head no. "No consequence. No one there will bother us. I promise. Sweetheart, that's perfect." I smile, still not entirely convinced of my own plan, but with Miguel behind me, I won't fail. I stay next to Miguel, comforted by his solid heartbeat and the rising and falling of his chest with each breath. I'm assured that everything will work out.

Two days later, I'm stationed much like I was almost a year before, when he had my car keys in his possession, and I realized how much I wanted him. I am leaning against a warm rock wall, my weapon, filled with blanks, aimed and ready. All I needed now was Miguel. While I wait, I check and recheck my ammunition. I want to be completely sure that I am using only blanks. I could never live with myself if live ammunition had inadvertently gotten into the mix.

Five minutes have passed. Miguel comes out of the building as planned. I aim. I shoot. Miguel falls.

Two hours later I am in my apartment, pacing wildly, wondering why he hasn't come yet. I've faxed my client, telling him the mark is retired. I only hope that I'm not telling the truth. I've unplugged my electronics, I've packed my few bags, I'm waiting for Miguel to arrive so we can leave for our haven. There's a short, quick, knock on the door. I run over, look through my peephole, and sigh with relief; it's him. I let him in, he's holding his suitcase.

"Are you ready, Honey?" I nod, still dazed that this has all appeared to work out according to plan. I grab my bags, and we agree to take my truck. It's less conspicuous, and no one will think, when seeing my BMW in the driveway, that I've left for good. No one would leave a car like that behind. Unless they're on the run.

We get in my truck, looking all around us, making sure no one is waiting to complete the job I didn't. It's early in the afternoon. We have all day and night to make the border, and we get started on the trip that will take us to the rest of our lives.

* * * * *

Six months later, Miguel and I are in Mexico. It's beautiful here. I'm sorry now that I never came here before, but I'm glad I get to experience it for the first time with Miguel. We are standing on the beach, in front of my truck, our truck, our arms around each other. I look out over the water that has turned into a gorgeous mirage of things that are real, and things that aren't, a living, breathing body of water that reflects all of our dreams together, all that we have already experienced. It embodies our hope, our spirit, our love.

The first few months we were here, it was touch and go. The stress of leaving everything behind got to both of us; the stress of finding all we had was each other got to us more. But we made it over the tough spots. We're together, permanently together. But there is one thing that needs to be said, words neither of us have dared to say, and I'm caught up in the magic of the beach, and the sunset, and my love, and I lean in close to Miguel and whisper, "I love you."

Miguel turns to face me, and as he slides his arms around me and pulls me close. I lay my head on his chest, and he whispers into my hair, "I hope you mean that."

"I'm terribly afraid someone is going to get hurt. But as afraid as I am, I do mean it."

Miguel pulls me closer and inhales deeply. "No one's going to get hurt, Honey. I promise."

"And I believe you." I raise my head and look into Miguel's dark brown eyes, the eyes that express everything, and all I see is unfettered love and devotion, and hope. I kiss him softly. We turn to leave and go home.

We pull apart, our hands lingering together, as if we can't bear to be apart in the few moments it will take to get in the truck. The instant we let go, I hear a whizzing, unfamiliar at first, but then it's meaning strikes me and I am frozen in place, terrified. I hear it again, followed by the sound of it striking it's mark, and as I fall to the beach, I realize that I am the mark.

I wonder where the bullet came from. There is no one else on the beach. There is no one but Miguel and I. Miguel...oh, Miguel?

Miguel comes around the back of the truck, and I moan in pain, and try to lift myself up to see his face. I need to know. I can't see him; my vision is dimming. I hear a soft thud in the sand, and my gaze falls on a weapon. My heart sinks. There is no one else. My question is answered.

"Miguel, please. Come to me." He walks slowly towards me, and sinks to the sand. He holds me tenderly. I ask him why.

"Kit, Honey, I love you. You know I do. But you know the business. If I hadn't done it, I'd have been next."

I begin to cry, quietly first, and then my body is racked with sob after painful sob. "Miguel, I gave my life for you. I really did. If I had known... I gave my life for you."

Abruptly, I'm placed back on the sand, out of the arms of the man I love, and I call his name. I know he's not gone. Though my vision is fading I sense him still near me.

"Miguel, Miguel, please," I whisper. He lowers himself to the ground beside me, again pulling him to me.

Miguel begins to cry softly; I feel his tears on my face. Or maybe they're my own tears. It's difficult to tell. My grasp on this life is becoming dimmer. My consciousness is becoming less consistent. My vision is nearly gone. The only thing that's solid is Miguel.

I whisper his name again, and Miguel cries out as he pulls me to his chest. "I'm sorry," he cries. "But I had to, please understand, I had to."

"Miguel, I love you, always know I love you..." My voice trails off, and I hear him reply, but the words are meaningless. I hear his heartbeat, and that speaks volumes, and the beating of his heart, and the rise and fall of his chest with each breath comforts me, and I close my eyes...