Show: Alias
Sarkney
You get restless while waiting for the phone call. The hotel accommodations are not accommodating.
You slip out of your hotel and manage to find a tall blonde in less than five minutes. She’s ready and willing. So are you.
She barely steps into your room before you have her legs spread and her face in the pillow.
**
When the phone finally rings, the blonde reaches for it. You slap her hand away and answer the call.
Your target has been spotted.
You get out of bed and quickly dress. She watches curiously from the bed. Where are you going?
You throw her clothing at her—the bra and skirt she came in with—and pull her out bed. She hurls insults at you as you push her out your door with her payment.
You wait until you hear her heels disappear into the elevator. Then, you go to the closet to retrieve the black case.
**
You open that black case again when you’re high above the rooftop. Below you, your bullseye: a man by the name of Joseph Humphrey. A lone guard the only obstacle in your way.
You assemble your weapon, snap the case shut, and descend the stairs.
**
He doesn’t see it coming. Then again, they never do.
**
You discard of the black case and its contents before returning to your hotel room.
There’s someone waiting outside your door. A head of blonde hair. You think it’s the prostitute, but when the woman turns around, you’re momentarily taken aback at how wrong you are.
**
She sits on your bed and you cringe knowing what just happened there a few hours ago. She looks up at you with those inquisitive dark eyes. Looking inside you. That’s what she’s doing.
You shut the curtains and turn to the woman. Wig?
Yes.
I would have been devastated if you had altered your hair color.
Would you?
Yes.
She takes a moment before she continues talking. Humphrey’s dead.
Yes.
You know what that means.
Pause. Yes.
She pulls the blonde wig off. Her dark hair tumbles down her shoulders in soft waves. No, not much has changed after all.
Irina stands up, runs a hand through her hair, and turns to the door. Don’t try to follow me.
You tilt your head and watch her go.
After a moment, you peek outside the window to see if she will emerge below.
She never does.
**
A week passes. Then, two. Three.
The new month brings in a new beginning.
You’re waiting for a phone call again. You sit in your hotel room, staring at the beige wallpaper before remembering the redhead you saw downstairs earlier.
In the bar, there is only an elderly man and his glass of whiskey.
You shrug and take a seat in a booth. You order a glass of red wine and end up staring at the same beige wallpaper that was in your hotel room.
When your wine comes, you look up and catch a glimpse of red hair in the corner of the room. It’s a flash and then it’s gone. You squint, wondering if perhaps you imagined it. You take a sip from the wineglass, and when you lower it, there she is.
The redhead pauses at the bar’s entrance as if she can feel you gaze on her. She half-turns to you before changing her mind and bolting out the room.
You toss some money on the table for your drink and you begin your chase.
**
You catch up to her in an empty corridor behind the hotel’s pool room. The smell of chlorine engulfs your senses. Your arms start to rise—you can’t help it; it’s something your body automatically does when you enter a suspicious situation.
You turn a corner. Your arms lower at the sight of the redhead. Her back is facing you as she looks out the glass window at the pool room. As you near her, you can hear the sound of children laughing coming from the other side of the glass.
She speaks before you’re even at her side. I’ve finally found you.
You pause, recognizing the voice. It can’t be.
But it is.
She turns. Her face as cold as a sheet of ice.
You knew this day would come. Irina had warned you about it, and you had anticipated it.
Your eyes move up and down her black attire. Tight shirt. Firm breasts. Fitted jeans. Long legs.
Have you come to show your gratitude, you say.
She shows no emotion, only clenches her fists at her sides.
You smirk. I did you a favor.
She shakes her head. You had no right to do that.
I only did what my employer requested.
You always do what your employer says?
Yes. That’s what I’m paid for.
She reaches inside her pocket and hands you a check. Then, do as I say.
**
You continue your conversation with
She’s staring at you with that unflinching expression.
You gesture to your head. Wig?
Yes.
I would have been devastated if you had altered your hair color.
Would you?
Yes.
She leans against the wooden desk across from the bed. Will you at least listen to my offer?
You take out the check and look over the large figure that it’s written for, and nod.
She inhales. First, tell me why you really killed him.
Humphrey?
She narrows her eyes.
Sloane.
She raises a brow, waiting for you to answer her.
I already told you. My employer requested—
She throws up her hands. The truth,
You control the anger that is boiling inside you. You let her outburst roll off your back. Just this once, you tell yourself.
Tell me the truth, she says.
And you do.
**
Afterwards, she’s not all surprised. She stands in place with her hands pressed down flat on the desk behind her.
You lift your hand to her, the one holding the check.
She steps away from you and says, Keep it.
Your mouth twitches like it wants to smile.
That’s how you make your living, right? She’s speaking softly now, almost whispering. People pay you to kill.
You rip the paper check in half. I’ve been waiting a very long time for this. There’s no need to pay me.
She heads to the door and you follow.
She turns back around.
You reach up to the red wig and gently pull it off her head. Her dark hair is pinned up underneath. And without even asking, you begin to dismantle the pieces until her hair falls, framing her stoic face.
**
The hit takes place in board daylight.
The bullet travels through the air and into her chest. Her heart.
She’s dead before she even hits the ground.
**
You’ve made the arrangements?
You look up at Irina and answer her question with a nod of your head.
**
Four months ago, Arvin Sloane contacted you about a proposal.
You met Sloane—or Joseph Humphrey as he was called now—in a small Italian restaurant, where he passed along to you a document.
Take your time on replying to me, he says and then he leaves you with the manila envelope.
In your hotel room, you pull out the document.
In the event of my death, the perpetrator is to be killed.
And with that statement, the promise of a high reward.
Five minutes later, you have Sloane on the line.
Your answer is yes.
**
You hide behind the dark sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose.
In a distance, you watch the small crowd of black move away from the fresh grave. Among them a distraught ex-lover, a regretful father, and a long-lost friend.
When they are gone, you approach the tombstone. SYDNEY ANNE BRISTOW craved on the hard stone.
Yes, Sydney Bristow is indeed dead.
You check the time on your watch. You hurry out of the cemetery. You have somewhere else to be.
**
Two months after agreeing to Sloane’s plan, you receive the phone call.
The voice on the other line is velvety and low. A voice that once lulled you to sleep as a child. A voice that dictated to you on how to assemble a rifle in less than ten seconds.
You tell Irina about the meeting with Mr. Humphrey in the Italian restaurant.
How does your schedule look right now,
I’m open to anything.
You can hear her smile. Good.
A week later, you board a plane to pay a visit to Joseph Humphrey. And the hunt is on for his killer.
But you know the truth.
As you pick up the handgun, you look at him in the reflection of the mirror. You chuckle, thinking about Sloane’s ridiculous document. If you are to truly honor it, it will not be a murder, but rather a suicide.
You need a scapegoat, and Irina needs a daughter.
**
You board the plane and search for your seat. It’s an aisle seat; next to you by the window is a woman with long blonde hair and tired eyes. You give her a small smile and sit down beside her.
She tries unsuccessfully to hold back a yawn. She covers her mouth and lets it out.
Tired? you say.
She nods.
It’s okay. Another smile. You can rest now.
Do you really think so?
And you can see the faraway look in her eyes as her mind wanders. But she blinks and returns her attention to you. Any particular reason why you’re traveling today?
Your smile widens. I’m on my way to meet a woman.
She raises her eyebrows. A lover?
I ‘m not sure. Actually, I don’t even know her name.
And yet you’ll fly halfway across the world for her.
That’s just one of the things I’ll do for her.
Would you kill for her perhaps?
Already done.
She tilts her head, trying to figure you out. If that is even possible. She leans back in her seat, her eyes closing slightly.
Whoever she is, the blonde says, she’s a lucky woman.
**
An hour passes and the woman next to you has fallen asleep. Her head rests on your shoulder and you make no attempt to move it. You reach up to brush a piece of her hair away from her face. You notice the dark strand in between the blonde.
And you smile.
THE END