Lady Death

choose a different path.
But he’d made his choices. He had to live with them. The foursome at the table would have to live with theirs too. He wished them the best.
The hostess escorted him to a table in the center of the room. He asked for one in a corner. She took him there. He eased into the chair with his back to the wall, eyes on the front of the restaurant.
He didn’t want his back exposed any longer.

3
Raven scanned the menu again but saw no reason not to order the chef’s special. Prime rib sounded fine indeed.
A shadow fell over the table. He looked up as Sven, the bartender, approached with a tray. He supported the tray on his right hand.
“Compliments of the house, sir,” Sven said. He sat the martini, a glass of ice water, and a teaspoon on the table, along with a folded napkin. Raven thanked the bartender, who turned and fast-walked to the bar.
Raven unfolded the napkin. He smiled. Sven was a good man.
The woman at the bar is asking for you. Dark hair. Pink dress. German accent. I distracted her while you got your table.
Raven placed the napkin on the table and set the water glass on top. The condensation would smear the words.
He spooned water into his martini, stirred, and sipped. The waitress arrived and he ordered the special. No salad, no appetizers. The waitress departed. Raven sat back and watched the dark-haired woman in pink.
She sat alone, perched on the barstool with crossed legs. Her left leg dangled. She wore black stilettos with red-tipped toenails. She moved the toes of her left foot with nervous tension.
When Sven passed her every few minutes, she asked him a question. He kept shrugging his shoulders. She looked toward the front of the restaurant, then glanced around. She looked over her left shoulder in Raven’s direction and stopped short. Raven smiled at her and raised his glass.
She slid off the barstool, Cosmo in one hand, small pink purse in the other, and approached the table with purpose. She looked defiant. Almost angry. She was upset with him or had a nasty case of Resting Bitch Face.
Well, she is German...
“Mr. Raven.” She stopped a few feet from the table.
“Miss Jafari.”
“May I?”
“Sure.”
She slid into the booth opposite him. She sat straight, her face stoic.
His guess at blonde hair and blue eyes had been off. Tanya Jafari’s thick black mane washed over her freckled shoulders. She did have blue eyes though. Lines in her face showed she wasn’t in her 20s anymore. Raven pegged her for mid-30s.
“You made a fool of me,” she said.
“How?”
“I’ve been sitting here asking about you for fifteen minutes. I look like a stood-up schoolteacher who can’t figure out she’s been stiffed.”
Raven laughed. “At least not in a good way.”
“Enough.”
Raven raised an eyebrow.
“Did you do what I asked?” she said.
“Why are you talking to me like you’re a commanding officer? I’ve done nothing since I returned home except lose a little money at roulette.”
“Why are you being hostile?”
“I’m tired, Miss Jafari.”
“People like us only rest when we are at war.”
“And which war are you fighting, Miss Jafari?”
“I’m not fighting wars any longer. I want to stop fighting. I need to get out of the Islamic Union.”
“They are a tough lot, yeah. I understand.”
“Will you help me?”
Raven swallowed some of his martini. He studied her face. Plenty of lines indicated tough experience. Her eyes looked weary. Her bare arms were well-muscled, and her figure didn’t appear affected by long-term sitting. She was, or had been, an operator. Western intelligence knew the Islamic Union was unique among jihadist organizations. They eschewed Muslim practices to get cells to blend into Western nations. Recruiting western personnel furthered their goal.
“I usually don’t help people like you,” Raven said.
She sucked in a breath. “But you—”
“Why do you think my reputation for assisting those in need extends to terrorists?”
She leaned close. “I told you I want out.”
“How many people have you killed?”
“Only one and it was too many.”
“How did you get involved?”
“A boyfriend recruited me.”
“Your boyfriend in Germany?”
“It’s a long story. Do you want to sit here all night?”
The server arrived with Raven’s prime rib.
“No,” he said, as the hot plate was set in front of him. “I want to enjoy my dinner.”
The server said, “Will your guest be having anything?”
“A separate check,” Raven snapped.
Tanya spoke an order in a voice tinged with anger. The server nodded and departed.
Raven’s mood changed as he cut into the soft meat and speared a piece of fried potato on his fork. The prime rib was perfectly pink with not a lot of fat around the edges or the center. It was always a hit or miss meal with him. Too many places served prime rib with more fat than meat and you left 90% of it on the plate.
“Mmmm,” he said, swallowing. “Very good.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“You have a bit of a complex, don’t you?”
“I need your help, Mr. Raven.” Her face softened. “Please. I can’t go back now.”
“Marked for death, are you? Assassins in pursuit?”
“Exactly.”
“Funny they haven’t found you yet.”
“I’m good at what I do, Mr. Raven.”
“Do?”
“Did.”
“Uh-huh.” He ate some of the mixed vegetables on the side of the plate. They crunched as he chewed. “Tell me what you have to trade.”
She scooted closer, lowering her voice. “The identity of the White Widow.”
“Never heard of her.”
“She’s in charge of the Islamic Union.”
“They let a woman give the orders?”
“She’s the wife of our late leader.”
“Our?”
“Goddammit, Raven—” she stopped, lowered her voice. “It’s a hard habit to break, okay?”
“No mister this time?”
“Are you going to listen to me?”
“I eat, you talk.”
She swallowed a mouthful of her Cosmo. She set the glass down hard enough to swish Raven’s martini.
“Don’t spill my vitamins,” Raven said.
“You’re impossible.”
“No, I’m hungry.” Raven ate some more.
Tanya Jafari stared at him with hot eyes. Finally, she cleared her throat, shifted, and looked at the table.
“The White Widow is a woman named Francesca Sloan. She’s British. Recruited the same way I was, through