Free The Ninth Orphan by Lance Morcan, James Morcan Page B

table and sat opposite Nine. All she could see of him now was his silhouette. Light from a streetlamp reflected off the barrel of the pistol he still held.
    Sensing her fear, Nine placed the pistol back down close to him on the tabletop.
    Something about the bearded stranger chilled Isabelle to the bone. She shivered involuntarily then pulled her winter dressing gown tight around her.
    For several long moments, neither spoke. Finally, Isabelle could stand it no longer. “What do you want?” she murmured in French.
    Nine looked at her uncomprehendingly, pretending not to understand the language.
    “ What do you want?” she repeated in English. Although her English had strong French inflections, it was perfectly understandable to Nine’s ears.
    Nine averted his eyes to the wooden tabletop. He couldn’t trust himself to speak again. Not yet. The fugitive agent needed time to process his inner pain and turmoil – to work out what the hell had just happened to him. He was more certain than ever he was experiencing some sort of meltdown. Possibly a nervous breakdown. He wasn’t sure.
    His mind searched frantically for a solution to his predicament. He still couldn’t get his head around the fact that he’d been unable to terminate this woman. What on earth am I going to do with her?
    Such questions were giving Nine a headache. He felt like his brain would explode and he was having trouble breathing. It seemed as if there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room. Desperate for fresh air, he grabbed his pistol and stood up. Isabelle recoiled, afraid he was going to shoot her. Ignoring her, Nine lurched to the near window and flung it open. He stood there breathing in the cold, night air.
    Isabelle watched him as he fought to regain his self-control. She realized he was in difficulty but, like him, had no idea what the problem was. “Do you need help?” she asked, slowly standing up. “I can call an ambulance.” She took a step toward the kitchen.
    “ No, devotchka!” Nine motioned to her to sit back down. She reluctantly obeyed.
    Nine continued taking deep breaths. Eventually, this brought his breathing under control, but did nothing for the pounding in his head. His heart was hammering away, too. Finally, he closed the window and rejoined Isabelle at the table. He noticed she was also shaking. Not sure whether she was cold or fearful, he put the pistol back in his pocket.
    Isabelle’s shaking continued. “May I get a blanket?” she asked hopefully.
    Nine shook his head. A look of anger flashed across Isabelle’s face. In the semi-dark, Nine sensed rather than saw this. He felt a glimmer of admiration for the woman. For the first time, he thought of her feelings, not just his. He realized she must be terrified, yet despite her terror she had found it within herself to feel anger. As well as impressing him, this pricked his conscience. He immediately forced it to the back of his mind.
    As Nine continued to ponder his predicament, he studied Isabelle’s hands. Long and slender, they told him a lot about her. Through years of observing people, he’d learned a person’s hands often reflected his or her personality. Isabelle’s were well-manicured, as expected of a politician’s daughter, and very feminine, too. Her nails were painted white, which contrasted nicely against her caramel skin tone.
    But what really interested him was the shape of her hands: they looked resilient. This further supported his growing realization that there was a hidden strength in Isabelle.
    “ Who are you?” Isabelle suddenly asked, interrupting his thoughts. “What do you want?” Nine remained silent. “What is your name?”
    Nine shrugged his shoulders. “I go by every name and no name,” he said at last.
    “ At least tell me why you are holding me at gunpoint!” Nine offered no explanation. “Is it something to do with my father? Is this political, or are you after a ransom? You want money, is that it?” Nine shook his head.