The Gunrunner and Her Hound by Maria Ying

Author:Maria Ying
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hua Publishing
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

YVES

I watch as she drifts off to sleep. Her breathing becomes slow and regular, and she relaxes into the bed with a peace her waking moments never bring.

I hate myself for it, but this is the Viveca I love most, if love can be said to come into this thing between us. No biting remarks, no cold venom; no conquest, no surrender—the quiet of a battlefield alive with new growth, perhaps. I must imagine her happy.

Neither sleep nor peace comes to me. There is a niggling in my head about our upcoming assignment, a splinter in my eye that I just can’t see. It all follows: Cecilie has always wanted to expand, and Philipe is her right-hand man. But something about this feels off—too easy, too obvious.

I typically like the lack of windows in this bedroom—I rest easier, knowing a sniper will not claim Viveca as she sleeps—but tonight I find the solid walls oppressive. I want a vista to organize my thoughts, an old affect from my time with Cecilie: the conceit of seeing it all, watching how the lights and the lines come together to form a whole. The brute who can think, Cecilie called me once, as if a propensity for personal violence would typically preclude the higher faculties. I proved otherwise, or so I thought; in the end, she always did favor her weak right hand over her bloody left.

Quietly I stand and pull the slipped sheet over Viveca’s shoulder. She sighs and murmurs something incoherent, an almost sing-song lilt. I resist the urge to squeeze in beside her, wrap my arms around her while she mutters and moans through the night. I settle instead for a kiss on the cheek; sleep is still elusive.

In the guest room, I find Fahriye diligently toiling away. There’s an opened weapons case on the bed, a sleek SMG in parts. But she’s distracted herself; the gun is forgotten while she mulls a tablet, probably the personnel assignments for this coming job.

Her brow is creased in thought, but she smiles when she looks up at me, a little conspiratorial smirk. I raise my hands, palms out—I don’t want to talk about it. She nods once. On the subject of Viveca, we have come to read each other very well: I am riled easily, we both now know, and Fahriye does not delight in jerking my chain.

“Fine now; probably fitful later,” I add; it is perfectly normal for the hounds to fret over their mistress’ health. Then I pull up a chair and sit beside her. “I don’t like this, Fahriye.”

She puts her tablet down and turns to focus on me. “You think they’re playing us?”

I rock my head back and forth, noncommittal. “Tristan always was a walking, talking opsec disaster; it’d be just like him to brag over drinks about his big new assignment.” That part makes sense to me. “I just think Cecilie is smarter than this.”

Fahriye leans over and gently kisses my temple. “You are very cute when you worry.

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