xxvii. beautiful assassins

xxvii. BEAUTIFUL ASSASSINS

He died right in front of my eyes after I promised that he and his daughter would be safe. He died because of my mistakes, my lack of preparation, and my overconfidence. I should have known that Thirteen would be one step ahead.

"Octavia! Where are you going?" Ace yells as the world around us descends into chaos.

Half of the world leaders in this room had, in some capacity, followed Deschamps' toast and drank the poisoned champagne. Every death was visible from the balcony. Thirteen had given me a front row seat to all the destruction he so beautifully orchestrated.

Everything—from the dead security guards, to his own dead assassins, to the almost dead and now arrested blonde woman—it was all a distraction. It was an elegantly designed trap that ensnared me the moment I walked through the goddamn palace doors.

"Save as many lives as possible," I clamor against the shrieks of horror. "I'm going to find Thirteen."

"I'm coming with you," Ace calls.

"No. No more deaths because of me."

"Octavia Snow, you stubborn and braindead toaster. This is not the time to be a hero."

"Listen you primitive rat-faced bastard, I couldn't care less about being a hero. But Thirteen's going to hurt you to get to me."

Ace grabs my wrist. We both realized that I was exactly where Thirteen wanted me to be. His grip tightens, and his golden eyes plead for me to stay.

"Trust me," I whisper. I run down the marble stairs of the palace without looking back.

~

You could drop a pin in the ivory Grecian room and hear nothing, for a split second of eternity, except the echoing of the pin hitting the floor. I was in a room inside of the Louvre. The ticket that the blonde woman had left me was strategically planted back at Toulouse so that I would come.

This room had absolutely no paintings in it. In fact, it had absolutely nothing inside. The only mantle giving the room any meaning should have been The Winged Victory of Samothrace. But it was completely gone.

If I didn't hate art museums before, I hated them now.

Thirteen stood alone, facing away from me and musing at the space where the sculpture once was. There was a haunting allure behind his grass green eyes; an allure shaped by sorrow.

I held my pistol in my hand with an iron grip and pointed it in his direction. Only one of us would leave this room alive.

"The sculpture is beautiful, isn't it?" Thirteen's voice echoes in the room.

"Why—why did you steal from the fucking Louvre?"

"To prove myself," Thirteen says matter-of-factly. "I don't think you understand just how much power I have."

"I don't need you to prove yourself..."

"The sculpture will be in your house by next week. Consider it a penance."

My eyes glare at him, appalled. Who steals a thousand-year-old sculpture as penance?

The gun cocks in my hand. "Why did you kill all those people?" I seethe.

Thirteen chuckles. "Deschamps was obvious. He betrayed me. As for the others... just a little show and tell for you, namely."

Bile rises in my mouth. A sickening feeling steamrolled over my limbs. "I control everything, Darling. It's time you stop defying me and help me," Thirteen threatens.

"You're insane. Whatever you want, I'd never help you."

He turns around to face me. His eyes look me up and down until they land squarely on the gun I have pointed at him. An eyebrow raises in my direction without any surprise, as if to say, seriously?

"Don't move. Come close to me and I'll shoot," I demand.

"Do you really think you can kill me?" Thirteen observes with an amused look.

"One could hope."

"Go ahead. Fire."

My fingers slam down against the trigger. Unfortunately, being the shitty aimer that I am, I missed and hit the wall. Anger flares in Thirteen's grass green eyes as he swiftly dodges the bullet. Suddenly, he slams me roughly against the wall.

"You're either going to get out of my day or I'll kill you," he hisses into my neck.

I don't respond. His warped statement didn't deserve any recognition. His grip tightens on my neck until I can barely breathe.

"Why don't you just kill me," I manage to choke out.

Thirteen releases his deadly grip on me once he realizes he's hurting me. Gasping, I place a hand on my chest to steady myself. My eyes scan the area for any possible way I could still kill him.

At six foot two, well-trained, and now armed, there is no way for me to physically overpower him. The universe has seriously been trying to kill me over the last couple of months. Maybe this was the price I had to pay for the safety of everyone else.

"I'll do anything you want—just stop hurting innocent people." I choke out.

"None of those that I killed tonight were innocent. All of their deaths were calculated, Darling. I don't hurt the innocent."

My breath shallows. Murder, regardless, was murder.

"I'm impressed that you figured everything out so quickly, by the way," Thirteen muses.

"That blonde woman you sent in Toulouse. You planned it all along."

"She'll die before the CIA gets any information out of her; there are hundreds of people who will just take her place."

My teeth grit together so tightly my jaw loses sensation. Thirteen's jaded gaze examines me, sizing me up, and his eyes finally land on my blush dress. He was like a Panther: dark and calculating.

"Nice dress, Darling. Pink is a nice color on you. Although, whose blood is that?" Thirteen gestures.

"It's the blood of your men," I state drly.

"All those deaths were truly elegant. I was almost afraid you wouldn't be able to survive that attack. Blackwell hasn't lost his destructive touch."

My eyes narrow at the mention of Ace. Thirteen then goes on to grab a bottle of champagne and fill two glasses, handing one to me. "My favorite part of the night had to be the drinks," he smiles wickedly. Then, he clinks out glasses together.

"A toast to peace," Thirteen says, pleased.

I let my glass fall to the ground. Glass shatters into thousands of tiny little pieces against the floor. Thirteen visibly bristles. Undeterred, he chugs the entire glass.

"I said, why am I here?" I emphasize with anger.

Thirteen runs his hand through his jet black hair. "The USB, I know Eve gave it to you."

A part of me considers lying. Though judging by his poignant daze, I bite my words before I endanger myself more. Thirteen's steps begin to periodically circle me like a predator. The most terrifying part was when remnants of Eve's last conversation came up in my mind. She was working with Thirteen... and she got assassinated.

"I need you to figure out what's on the USB," he continues.

A sarcastic scoff exits my lips before I could push it back. "Sure. Let me just betray the CIA and work for a goddamn criminal."

"Are you not a criminal as well? Hacking into the Pentagon is quite a feat."

"There's a difference between hacking for information and murder, Ian."

"I'll offer you your freedom," Thirteen offers. A glimmer of hope appeared in his dark eyes. "I'll remove the tracker in your neck and provide you a new start."

"Is that what you said to Eve before you shot her?"

He grimaces. "Eve was different; she found out something she wasn't supposed to."

Stop. He's manipulating you.

Quickly, I dive for the gun in his hand. Thirteen responds immediately; his strong hands roughly pull me around to face him. His lips tug into a menacing snarl that would even make the Joker cower in fear. Green from his eyes seemed to turn a shade darker, and the grip he has on my wrists begin to tighten without bound.

"2940 Forest Tower Road," Thirteen whispers, "Colorado."

I freeze—that was the address where my mom lived.

My nails leave pink scratch marks on Thirteen's face as I slapped him instinctively. In retaliation, he yanks my hands with force.

"I don't want to hurt her," he consoles almost in an attempt to comfort me.

"Do you really expect me to believe that?" I spit.

Fire sprouted on my tongue. I hoped it would somehow manifest itself on Thirteen's clothes and set him ablaze. My own brown eyes lock with his dangerously cynical ones to be met with nothing but emptiness. Not anger, not sin, not determination, but emptiness, as if a part of him needed to be filled.

"I'm doing what has to be done. I've already shown you, Octavia Snow, that no one can stop me. Don't let the CIA know you're working for me. Get the USB, and you have my word that your mother will be safe."

"What the fuck is on this USB?" I ask, horrified.

Thirteen hesitates. Finally, he lets out a wistful, nostalgic sigh. "My Queen—the location of my Queen."

My mouth goes dry. Who was he talking about? I looked to him if he wanted to say more. Thirteen breaks my gaze and turns away from me. A numbness had entered my wrists from the strength Thirteen had gripped me with.

"I'm sorry," he says in a sorrowful tone. "I sometimes don't know my own strength."

His gaze softens once he sees the fear blatantly sewn over my expression. My fingers tremble over the bruises now forming on my wrists.

A sleek, black case appears from Thirteen's pocket, and he offers it to me. I unwittingly take it. There was an encrypted burner phone for one. Golden inscriptions shine from the other object; it was a CIA badge belonging to a woman that looked like me, except she had dark blonde hair.

"These are to help you in stealing the USB," he explains.

"You realize I am incapable, right?"

"I have my ways. Just trust me," Thirteen cautions.

His hand brings the small of my back closer to him. Almost with concern, a gentle kiss is planted on my bruised wrists. A winter chill ran down seeping from his touch. I wanted to pull the trigger up to his forehead.

"Stay safe, Darling. I'll be watching over you. I'm sorry for hurting you. I... I just need to find her."

Octavia: "Vote... Also what the hell do I do now?"