After the third orphanage in Germany, she was moved to one in the United Kingdom . . . some kind of exchange . . . or so she was told. Now she realized that it was likely Pohl acting as an early benefactor to see how she would adapt and grow.
And adapt and grow she did. She abandoned her German accent as she learned English and excelled in the education that was offered. So many of the orphans around her were busy following a path that would leave them dead in a warehouse. Instead of joining them, Olivia found a better way.
Someone had whispered in her ear once, “This is the life you were given, not the life you’ll lead. It’s temporary.”
Olivia believed it.
By the time she was ten, she was at Richter. She’d won the lotto.
“Richter will teach you skills so you never end up like your mother. This education is free to you. The award system will help set you up so when you leave Richter you will have money to start your life.” Thousands of pounds were offered for every language she learned. Incentives for marksmanship, hacking computers . . . more money . . .
By the time she was fifteen, she’d learned that even if she found trouble, and there were times she did, Richter wasn’t going to kick her to the street. She was placed in solitary, which was pretty close to what it looked like in the prison system. No outside contact, dark room, food, but nothing more.
A voice through the door always said the same thing. “If you’re going to step out of line, don’t get caught.”
Another lesson.
Little did she know every lesson she’d learned prepared her for the lonely life of an assassin.
After Richter and years of isolation, Olivia found she liked people. And with every opportunity to find friendship or connection . . . she did. Then she witnessed their lives, their loves . . . their families. Their ambitions and desires.
And then her hellish nightmares smothered her in hot lava, laughing at her . . . calling her a hypocrite. How could a woman who’d stopped hearts from beating be anything but a monster? The people around her . . . if they knew, they would turn on her. Or worse, someone would use them to pull her back into a world she wished she could forget forever. So she pulled away . . . didn’t allow any true connection to anyone.
All legitimate employment was pushed aside, and abandoning the money in charity boxes never happened.
She lived simply. No cars, no insurance, no trail. She rented a month at a time, moved around a lot. Her lovers were limited and never held on long enough for any real connection. As Sasha had pointed out, handholding in the moment was the only handholding that took place.
Olivia looked at her palms as the thought passed.
Leo.
She pushed aside memory lane and opened the safety deposit box. She removed three passports, all the cash and credit cards, and a handgun. From her purse, she removed the remainder of the cash Neil had given her, and the identification she’d used to leave the States, and folded them inside before closing the box and returning it to its place in the wall.
After exiting the bank, Olivia pulled up the collar of her jacket as she walked around the city acquiring what she needed. Cell phones, the kind one used as a pay-as-you-go customer. She went from store to store, buying one or two at a time until she had enough. She bought a laptop and an antitheft backpack that would keep electronics, bank cards, or cell phones safe from someone standing beside you and stealing your shit.
Which was what she did at her first opportunity.
A middle-aged couple stood in front of a sex shop display window, fascinated by the Eiffel Tower–shaped condoms. Olivia moved beside them and struck up a conversation.
“I love visiting Amsterdam for this very reason.” She spoke English with her German accent.
“This is our first trip here,” the woman said.
“Americans?”
“Yes,” the man replied.
Olivia stood close to the woman, placed her hand in her pocket, and turned on the device that would detect any electronic strip in the woman’s purse, including credit cards and identification, and recorded it for later.
“I have heard Amsterdam is often referred to as Europe’s answer to Vegas. Is it?” Olivia asked.