Insight

By M. Rees

"I'm not an ordinary child. I'm the daughter of Ian McRae – an assassin. That alone is big. But a hit-man who can read minds and can make you do and forget things by the touch of his hand? The word ordinary will never apply. Not in a million years. Especially, since I have the same ability."

In general, Elle's main concern is to keep her secret life a secret. Act normal. Live as normal. Blend in.

But when a boy saves her from a near mishap, Elle has no idea that this boy will unravel her, she has no idea that she will make decisions that are unheard of, she has no idea that she will be pulled in the middle of a dangerous hunt – between her own father and the boy who saved her.

"The many unpredictable twists and turns that the story takes draw you in and keep you on your toes. This is one of those books that once you start reading it, you just won't want to put it down." - Reviewed by Dinorah Blackman for Readers' Favorite

"This book was awesome!!! Super twist full!!! I didn't even see anything coming. Wow. Suspenseful and a little hot and not to mention dangerous!!! I very much recommend this to anyone!!" - Goodreads Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. Rees
• Release date: Feb 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310352249

M. Rees

Born in Philippines, M. Rees graduated from University of Santo Tomas, where she took a degree in Management. She currently lives in United Kingdom with her husband and three children. So far, in life, she's been a barista, a bar tender, and a retail shop employee. She now unequally divides her time between family, writing and her current work as a Council advisor.

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Prologue

Ian watches as the postman walks by, and out of nowhere he is struck by the simplicity of the postman’s occupation – delivering parcels, pushing letters through letterboxes. Sometimes he wishes that he has a simple job like that. Sometimes he wishes he can wear a red shirt and blue trousers and carry a red satchel, and not be clothed all in black with guns strapped to his sides and around his ankles. Especially today. Today is an exceptionally bad day for him.

He waits until the postman has done the last house on the street before he climbs out of his silver 2002 Porsche 911 Turbo. Today is also not the day to drive this particular car. He needs something inconspicuous for what he’s set to do. But there’s a part of him, buried somewhere deep, that calls for him to be reckless at present. There’s a part of him that wants to get caught or hurt.

Ian walks the rest of the way, until he reaches the house with the brown front door. There’s no one inside at the moment. The owners are on holiday in Greece, courtesy of him. The day is too bright. The sun is up and there are no clouds to cover the blue sky. He would like to do this job cloaked in darkness, but it has to be done at this hour. And it’s not only because he’s feeling careless, but because of something else entirely.

Within seconds he unlocks the front door, as though he has a spare key to the house. But he hasn’t. Ian has been in and out of this house for a couple of days and none of the neighbours has questioned him. Perhaps they think he’s a distant relative of the Andrews, here to look after the house while they’re away. But even if one of them is stupid enough to ring Richard or Diane to verify, Ian has it covered. The couple is aware of his presence here, aware that he’s using their house, but that knowledge will disappear with Ian the moment they come back home.

Ian pushes the door open and walks into the main hallway, careful not to step on the letters scattered on the beech laminate floor, before closing and locking the door again. Ignoring the picture of smiling faces hanging on the wall, Ian marches down the hallway to the kitchen and makes a beeline towards the pine door in the corner, next to the washer and dryer that are stacked one on top of the other. He opens the door, his right hand automatically reaching for the pull switch hanging from the ceiling and the room lights up. In front of him is a wooden stairwell that leads down to the basement. The stair would normally creak under weight, but not his. Ian can make himself as light as air if he wants to. He’s very good at not making any sounds.

The basement is quite small. There’s very little room to convert it into a proper living space, and the ceiling is low too. Ian is 6’2" and he has to hunch. The smell of damp is not too strong today because of the improved weather, but he can still feel the dust in the air. He walks around the white chest freezer to get to the partition wall, surveying his work. He has made a hole in the wall, large enough for him to comfortably walk through without bringing the whole house down.

Ian hesitates. For a split moment he lets himself think that perhaps there is another way. It doesn’t have to be death. But Jack insists. And what Jack wants – Jack gets. Ian quickly clamps down on his emotions and lets numbness seep in. There is no other way, and wasting seconds thinking of alternatives is futile. This has to be done.

He steps through the hole and into a tunnel. It was by coincidence that he heard about this tunnel. It’s not on the property layout. But when he was speaking to the owners, whispering in their heads to let him use their house for reconnaissance, the wife proudly told him of the town’s history, how the people built some tunnels underground to get from place to place during the war. And when the houses were rebuilt, the tunnels were blocked but not completely destroyed.

To use the tunnel wasn’t a part of his plan but it has come in handy. He likes to do, and normally does, his job in a straightforward manner. But Emma and her husband are different. Though they are posing as ordinary people, they’re not. They will see him coming and they’re not going to go down without a fight. That’s what Ian is trying to avoid. He prefers the outcome of his missions with as less mess as possible.

He heads north until he reaches the part where the tunnel forks. He chooses the middle path. This was the difficult part, when he made a hole in the wall of Emma’s basement. He wasn’t sure how he was going to hide it and when he finally settled to building a fake wall, he was worried she would notice. But Ian is very good at everything he does, as the fake wall is still there. With a single knock, it crumbles to the ground.

There’s a lot of dust in the air. Ian has to squint to prevent it from getting in his eyes. He has his gun in his hand and he’s moving fluidly, up the stairs and into a utility room. He can hear footsteps but he doesn’t wait, bursting into the kitchen and pointing the gun at the man standing before him – Leon Gilles. The gun connects on Gilles’ right temple. Gilles’ eyes widen in astonishment, not fear. Ian expects him to have some kind of weapon, but he doesn’t. Ian thinks Frenchmen are idiots and this guy is no exception, even though he is supposed to be dangerous – a vicious thief and a ruthless murderer. Apparently, he’s also a charmer. Gilles’ messy copper hair suits his cultured and chiselled features. Unfortunately for him, Ian is not a lass and he doesn’t swing both ways either.

Ian doesn’t wait for the guy to speak or make a move. He shoots him. And Ian is already a few steps away and out of the kitchen when he hears the body crumple to the floor. Now he has to move quicker, but he feels rather heavier. Perhaps it’s his heart. He’s not sorry for killing Gilles. In fact it gives him a lot of satisfaction. But his work is not finished yet.

He finds Emma in the lounge, sitting on her favourite armchair by the fireplace. Her long wavy hair is hanging around her shoulders, caramel brown with streaks of gold, a few shades darker than her skin. Before she can reach for the small pistol that he knows she keeps underneath the side table, he jumps her and they topple onto the floor, armchair and all. He doesn’t know why he is doing it, when he can just shoot her then and be done with it. But as he pins her down with his own body, his left hand gripping both her wrists above her head, the tip of his silenced gun on her chest, he asks the question that has been burning inside of him from the moment he learned the truth.

Why, Emma?

Emma doesn’t answer. Tears are gathering in her big blue eyes and he can tell that she’s trying very hard to stop them. Her eyes are not afraid and Ian is surprised to see remorse and also delight in them, as though she’s happy to see him.

This was not supposed to happen, Ian says. He hears the pain in his own voice but he doesn’t bother to hide his feelings.

Emma softly whimpers, "I’m sorry that I disappointed you, Ian."

Ian can’t speak, can’t move, can’t do anything. There’s a battle currently raging inside him, consuming him like fire burning him from inside out. He has his answer – Emma has given it unwillingly, without her knowledge, and there’s a part of Ian that already knows. And that’s what’s making him falter.

I have to kill you, Ian’s voice breaks once again.

I know. I think it is better this way. I want it to be you, you know?

Ian eyes narrow. You knew I was coming?

Emma nods her head. You taught me well. She smiles and looks beautiful. "This has to end. But I can’t kill my own husband."

Air rushes out of Ian. He can tell the lies from the truth, and what he just heard is not a lie. But there is something wrong in this picture inside Emma’s mind. She can’t kill her husband – can’t, not won’t. Literally can’t. And it wasn’t love that tied her to him, nor loyalty, as Ian thought, but something completely foreign. He lets go of Emma’s wrists and sits on the floor, shoulders hunched in defeat.

Ian, you have to do this, Emma says without moving. The mixture of plea and forceful demand is apparent in her voice.

No, I don’t.

Listen…

I could give you a head start… or give you a new life. I did it before.

Listen to me!

Ian turns to face Emma. She pushes herself up so they’re eye to eye. Hers are full of determination and acceptance. He can only guess what’s in his and he’s certain it not the kind of look he normally wears.

I’m not going to run away and hide. That’s not the kind of life I want for my son.

Ian takes a long, deep breath. He can feel the sliver of hope he wasn’t even aware he was holding on to slowly crumble into pieces, like grains under a grinder, and no matter what he does, no matter how hard he holds on, the miniscule grains still slip from his hands.

Jack wants him, I’m aware of that. Let him have my son, but promise me that you’ll watch over him.

She couldn’t have been more wrong. If there was anyone in their fucking world who wanted to keep the boy alive, it certainly wasn’t Jack.

But there’s always a way to convince people.

Emma gets up without waiting for his answer, as though she already knows that his answer is a yes.

Ian follows her into the kitchen, sees the way her shoulders stiffen when she finds her husband, watches her as she kneels next to his body and carefully leans over to give him a kiss. There are no tears in her eyes, only sorrow. But her body is shaking as she stands up and walks over to Ian. Emma is a striking beauty but he has only treated her like a sibling. It breaks his cold heart to see her this way. It breaks his barren soul to do what he’s about to do. Her eyes travel to the gun in his hand and she shakes her head. Ian groans inside. He knows what Emma is asking.

She doesn’t want her son to find her covered in blood.

Chapter One

The blow sends me flying across the room, knocking the air out of me. I wince. I’m sprawled on the floor in the most degrading position and my tired, shaky arms can barely support my upper body, can barely keep it from collapsing totally. My unfortunate butt has taken most of the impact as I crash down, beaten. It will be bruised for sure, and will be disgustingly hideous. I have a swimming competition in two weeks, and the last thing I want is to look like I’ve been getting involved in some spanking activity. I swear, not so discreetly, at the man standing over me.

His eyes flare with murder.

Do you mind not swearing? my father says in disgust.

The mixture of derision and authority in his tone grates on my nerves. I’m a perfect marksman, I don’t need this shit. Are you…trying to kill me? I can barely speak. I’m breathless. I want to curl up in pain, but I suck it in. This is embarrassing enough. I can’t believe he landed another one on me. This constant training has left me black and blue many times before, and this time is not going to be any different.

He rolls his eyes upward. A familiar gesture that says I don’t give a fuck about your dramas. You’re getting sloppy, Elle. You’re so easy to distract.

"So, is it just a distraction or are you really leaving again?"

In a fight, you will hear things you do not like, so do not let your personal feelings get the better of you, do not lose your focus. Set the bloody thing aside! Dad wraps his left hand around his right wrist. He’s clenching and unclenching his right fist.

Don’t change the subject. Where are you going this time? He just got back from God knows where and did God knows what, and he’s leaving again. Why can’t he wait until I’m back in that pathetic boarding school where he ships me so he can work? I still have two weeks left.

If you must know, I’m going to London. He crosses his arms and shrugs, like it’s no big deal. It probably isn’t a big deal, not to him anyway, but every time he goes somewhere without me, earth’s population decreases. Scum population, as I’d like to think.

With a huff, I stagger to get up, wincing and swearing because it feels like my insides are being torn into shreds. I’m sweating hard in places I’m not even aware I can sweat. My grey vest clings to my body like a second skin. The tie of my long auburn hair is loose; the strands that got away are plastered to my forehead and the sides of my face. A drop of sweat runs from the base of my head, down my nape and the length of my back. I give him my best fake, over exaggerated beam. Who is it this time, the Mayor? His hair makes me want to kill him myself. No one should prance in public with hair like that and get away with it. Wait! Are you going to stop a terrorist attack?

He smirks. Oh, he dares smile! He makes me want to give him a good kick on the shin. I just need to sort out a hiccup. He holds his hand out, offering to help me up.

What’s the difference? I stare at his hand, then his eyes. His eyes are telling me that it’s safe to touch. But I don’t risk it. As much as I’d love to see what’s inside his head right now, I don’t want him to see what’s inside mine. And he will know if I’m trying to, or reading him. He can always tell.

But I can’t. So I block him, to be on the safe side, and accept his help. His grip on my hand is strong. And in one swift pull, I’m on my feet. We’re almost face to face. I’m tall, but not as tall as him. He’s toned and muscled. His chest alone can make men half his age red with envy. Apart from that, and his thick black hair with no sign of grey, he’s blessed with a young, angelic face that doesn’t seem to age at all. No one will believe he has a seventeen-year-old daughter. Or that he’s a killer.

My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath. I pull my hand from his hold, but he doesn’t let go, not for a few seconds. He’s hesitating. I catch something in his eyes when he looks at me, something I have never seen before, can’t identify, but as the morning rays of the sun hit his face, the shadow in his eyes disappears. There’s something on his mind that he wants me to see, I think, but I’m no longer interested. Because an outrageous idea – something I’m quite certain he will not approve of – pops into my head. I’m coming with you, I say.

Dad stiffens. Forget it, he says coldly, in a tone that comes with a warning not to challenge him.

I hold my chin up, No.

"What do you mean no?"

It’s been a while. I miss London, I deadpan.

He runs his fingers through his dark locks. I’ll try to come back really quick.

I know him too well to safely conclude that he’s lying. He’s not going to come back now that my vacation is almost over. This is what I don’t understand – why he can’t wait. I’m hurt, offended and upset. It pisses me off. I smell something burning… maybe because someone’s pants are on fire!

He laughs as he grabs a bottle of water sitting on the window ledge with one hand and shuts the window blinds halfway with the other. One. Two. Three… and he’s still laughing. I slide my clenched fists in my pockets to hide them – because I want to punch him on the face! And he notices it. Every single movement I do, he catches it. That’s just the way he is.

All right, I’m sorry. He presses his lips to suppress a smile. He twists the cap off and brings the bottle to his lips. I hope he chokes. He chugs the full content in one go while I stand rigidly, fuming. If things go wrong, I can’t worry about you.

Pfft, he’s not necessarily thinking that it will happen. Slip up, blunder, fail and misjudge are my father’s least favourite words. Also fear. And he sincerely believes they will never, EVER, apply to him.

I catch the soft white towel that he tosses me, a little bit in awe by how cool he appears. No sign of tiredness from the one hour or so of kickboxing. Just wet patches on his white t-shirt, mid chest and back. I never told him this, but I admire him with a passion, like a die-hard fan of a band. Hence, when he decided to teach me every single self-defence and basic survival training trick for people in his trade, such as shooting, carjacking, lock-picking and the likes, I said yes, and absorbed it all like a stranded traveller in a desert who is dying of thirst and comes upon a bucket of water. He said it was a preparation for all kinds of situations that might befall me, including becoming an orphan.

Orphan – the word is like a splash of ice-cold water on my back, it sends shivers down my spine. I can take care of myself. You made sure of it. I sweep my hand towards him. I’m your protégé, right? I’m ready for my future career.

The look he shoots me is enough to make me wilt. He chucks the empty bottle in the chrome coloured trashcan without even looking. It’s not that I aim to become an assassin. I said it because I want to provoke him. Now, I sort of regret saying it. For a split second, I wish I’m standing next to the door so I can bolt out of this mean looking training room with its white walls covered with shelves of high-powered guns and sharp knives of different sizes. And this hard, unpadded hardwood floor that seems to shoot cold pins up my bare feet. I steal another glance in his direction, and I wish I hadn’t, because he’s still looking at me like he’s dying to bite my head off. He’s scary as hell.

This is not the life I want for you, he says.

I know. I just… I’m worried about you. I worry that you won’t come back. Is that wrong? Honestly, I’ve had enough of this. I’m tired of waiting for him to return from his work, mission or whatever, not knowing whether he will ever come back at all. Whether I will see him again. Let’s face it. Guys like him always end up buried in an unmarked grave