The Doll 04（文稿）

英文有声《第43条疤痕》三部曲

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Chapter 4 ALTITUDE 29,000 FEET, U.S. AIRSPACE, OVER THE GULF COAST
Valon Lumani looked down at the woman lying on the bench seat, so docile, so relaxed.
Studied her face and tracked the length of her long body, and as he’d done the first time he saw her, he scoffed.
Because she was a woman. This was the solution he’d gone through such effort to secure on behalf of his uncle.
Lumani understood the need for expertise and the need for a stranger,
but not why so much energy and expense had been put toward this one in particular, even if the nonsense was true— and really, maybe half was about right.
She was even less worrisome up close than she’d been from a distance, dressed in black on that black motorcycle.
Even so, he’d used a heavy dosage calculated for her height and estimated weight, and he’d give her another during the trip to keep her unconscious until it was safe.
But the rest of it? The rules and the talking— so much talking? Bah. Superstitious nonsense.
Do not let her hear your language, the source had said, she will use language as a weapon.
Keep the area around her free of objects, everything will be used as a weapon. Stay clear of her reach, she doesn’t need a weapon to kill you.
Don’t use restraints, she will find a way out of them, and they will only give a false sense of safety.
Do not touch her, the source said. Leave her in peace, and treat her respectfully, only then will the violence stay muted.
Disrespect these and make no mistake, she will kill you.
Lumani smiled and made his fingers into the shape of a gun, placed it to her forehead, and pulled the imaginary trigger. Bang.
In the end, this woman was no different from any other piece of merchandise. Disposable.
He patted her face, the way he would a dog, as if to say Sleep well, little animal, until you are needed.
And then he straightened and moved to the fore of the cabin, where a drink waited for him.
He took no alcohol today because until he delivered, the job wasn’t complete,
and because once started there would be no stopping until his own inner carnival ran dead. There would soon be time enough for private celebration.
Lumani took a sip of the soda and checked his watch. They flew against the sun, seven time zones east, on a Gulfstream G550,
an extravagant expense toward speed and flying range that nudged the overhead for hunting down this one woman to the same level as for a run on merchandise, maybe more.
Who could say if she would be worth it? He was only the right-hand man, the doer.
Extract, Uncle had said, and so Lumani had performed, and perhaps in having executed this job so perfectly, he’d achieved enough to earn a smile, or a Well done, or something,
because to solve the problem would bring enough to lease this jet outright for years, if that’s what Uncle wanted— although he wouldn’t.
Only idiots kept toys that attracted such attention.
Another glance at his watch. Once beyond U.S. airspace, he would notify the pilots of the change in plans:
They would land in the Dominican Republic to refuel and then continue on to Tenerife, where he had connections and could charter something smaller and more affordable— something European, less ostentatious and easier to hide.
Not that he really worried. He’d taken precautions within the United States to buy time, and once they were international, he might as well have become invisible.
The switch in the Canary Islands was one last precaution in case the pilots talked when they returned,
because someone highly motivated would come looking for this woman, and Lumani knew better than to lead a straight path to her.