Only the good die young.
The night had been straight out of a David Fincher movie.
Last seven months of her life had all lead to this: finally bringing all the pieces of the puzzle together. The more secrets she uncovered, the more she questioned her own sanity. But tonight had been a final proof that there was, indeed, a war brewing in London and the Rutherfords were at the heart of it, the French and the Russians on either side.
When Elene rested her head against the cold glass of her Uber window, a million thoughts were racing in her mind. She was never meant to see that dark-side-of-the-moon level of shady fight club, her invitation as Spencer’s plus one had only extended to the party upstairs, certainly not the “entertainment” underneath it.
Maybe if not Cassie, and her causing a perfect distraction, Elene wouldn’t have been lucky enough to sneak in. Pretending to be a part of the entourage, one of those girls who worked at a bar to charm the men into spending more money on drinks had been enough to fool the suspicious security.
She checked the time on her phone: 2:40. Too late to call her boss, but hell, this was a special occasion.
“Nigel, I know I woke you up, and I know it’s really late, but you won’t believe the story I uncovered... It’s about the Rutherfords. Yes, the Rutherfords.”
Nigel had been her mentor, her guide, her confidante, her boss at BBC since the day one. The man had taught her everything she knew, molded her into a successful journalist that she was today.
But, Lenny figured, she could trust Silas and Cassie with this information, too. The first thing she’d do as soon as she’d get home, she’d upload everything on a flash drive and hide it at a secure location that she’d later reveal to those three. Just in case. If something were to happen to her, at least the investigation wouldn’t die with her. The look that Lara Rutherford gave her after Lenny practically ambushed her with questions, hinted the journalist off that she was now in dangerous territory now. The second thing she’d do? Get to typing. To hell with sleep and rest. As If she would be able to get any, until she wrote about all that she’d witness tonight, and all that she had investigated about three mobs during the past seven months.
The Uber driver dropped her off in front of her building. The second she stepped into the hallway, she knew something was off. The lights didn’t turn on, and the elevator wouldn’t work. She pressed the button repeatedly, but to no avail.
Elene turned around, ready to take the stairs, even though her feet were killing her in these heels, and that’s when she saw a figure outside. Despite the fact that the lights were out, the moon had been just bright enough for her to make out the face.
“You...” she said, going back to the street, approaching the figure, who, in return, stepped forward, “You were at Lara Rutherford’s party.”
There was no answer. Only the sound of silenced bullets piercing the brisk, late-summer air.
The first bullet hit her chest, and it felt like someone ran a red-hot poker through her heart. The shock waves brought the journalist to her knees, and she couldn’t breathe. As she gasped for air, Elene Dadiani thought of her parents, and how they’d have to live with a loss of another child. She’d thought about the truth that would be buried with her.
The second bullet had been more merciful. Right in between the eyes, and the life left her body before it even hit the cold, hard concrete.
In the end, Elene Dadiani died the way she lived.
Alone, but brave.
