“We’re in a bit of a hurry, Mr. Satterfield. Where is the file?” Richards asked again.
“Huh?” Martin said fuzzily.
Richards nodded to the man holding Martin in his chair and he reached down to pry Martin’s right arm away from his body and forced the hand down flat against the nearby dresser. The man’s left hand snaking over his shoulder and down to squeeze Martin’s crotch painfully, causing him to reflexively open his jaws. Wasting no time, Richards stuffed a racquetball in his mouth and placed the muzzle of his pistol on top of Martin’s hand and pulled the trigger.
The man holding Martin let go of him and stepped back, leaving him to fall out the chair and writhe around painfully on the floor.
“Search the room, quickly,” Richards ordered.
Richards again reached down to pick Martin up by the hair and slammed him back into the chair. He put his pistol in the waistband of his pants and grabbed Martin by the neck with one hand while the other brutally dug the racquetball out his mouth. Squatting down on his haunches, he reached around to the small of his back and produced a military style knife that he waved briefly in front of Martin’s eyes.
“The file, Mr. Satterfield. I promise I’ll make it quick,” Richards stated earnestly.
Blinking the tears out of his eyes, Martin took in the expression on the man’s face. He believed him. He had never thought of himself as a coward but he had already passed the limit of his endurance. Just the thought of the man carving into him with the knife was enough to make him to want go to sleep and not wake up. He tried vainly to muster up some hope or some courage but none was forthcoming. His eyes traveled around the room, taking in the man dumping the contents of his bag all over the bed, to the man who hadn’t moved from his position at the door. Finally, his eyes came to rest on the man squatting in front of him who seemed anxious to start cutting on him with the knife. He took a deep, surrendering breath and was about to speak when, over the bald man’s shoulder, he saw the man at the door jerk violently. With widening eyes, he observed what appeared to be a sword blade protruding through the closed door and out the back of the man’s neck. Suddenly, the blade was gone and a tremendous gush of blood bathed the surface of the door as the man slid face first to the floor.
Richards didn’t have to follow Martin’s gaze or turn around to know what was happening. The widening of Satterfield’s eyes told him all he needed to know.
“Oh shit,” he whispered.
They had run out of time. The Wraith had arrived.
Knowing the knife was useless Richards tossed it to the floor and rising from his haunches, withdrew the gun from the waistband of his pants. He looked to the door and immediately dismissed it as option for escape. The door opened inwardly and the corpse of his man was leaning heavily against it. He would be far too vulnerable if he attempted to move the body aside. His mind scrambling for options, he made a quick hand gesture to get the attention of his surviving associate, who had his gun in his hands and pointed steadily at the front door.
The man caught the hand signal and saw Richards point to the door that led to the adjoining suite. As soon as he moved, Richards dropped to one knee and pointed his own weapon at the front door.
The second his man opened the door Richards knew his mistake and he knew it was over. In his peripheral vision he caught sight of a woman waiting just inside the adjoining suite. She made two blindingly fast sword strokes. The first sent his colleague’s gun, and the hand that it was in, to the floor and the second came up and down across his throat. He was moving to train his gun on her the second the door had opened but he knew with an almost calm certainty that he was going to be too late. He watched in a sort of hopeless detachment as she stepped to the side to avoid the arterial spray of his dying colleague while raising in her left hand the gun that he knew was going to kill him. He was three quarters of the way around when the silenced bullet entered his right eye.
The whole affair had lasted maybe thirty seconds and had produced very little noise. Martin had taken in the whole scene with eyes roughly the size of volleyballs, his asshole firmly gripping the chair below him as The Wraith walked all the way into the room and turned a look in his direction. The photos in her file had not even remotely prepared him for the presence she projected. Her raven bangs were tied back in a tail while the rest of her waist length hair fell loosely around her shoulders. A pair of Wayfarers covered her eyes and she wore casual slacks and flat soled boots, in addition to a baggy sweater that was almost concealed by a gothic appearing poncho that hung to her knees. The entire ensemble was black, giving him the eerie impression of a female grim reaper. He watched as she cradled the katana in the crook of an arm while she removed the silencer from her weapon and both disappeared under the poncho. He opened his mouth intending to profusely shower her with gratitude but stopped when she raised a gloved finger to her lips. Taking the blade in her hand again she walked over to the bald mans body and knelt to remove the headset from behind his ear. She traced the wires to a cell phone, which she looked at for a moment before she slowly powered it off and tossed it aside.
As she stood, Martin watched in horror as she strode over to him quickly with the bloody katana in her right hand and with her left hand reached out to grab his T-shirt by the collar and unceremoniously tear it from his body. He felt his bladder let loose and he sat there helplessly in his own piss as she tore the shirt into strips. She used one of the strips to clean the blade of the katana, tossing the others on the dresser next to him. Once clean, she lifted the back of her poncho and slid the sword into a cunningly designed sheath that held the sword diagonally against her back and held the hilt in place with a leather snap just below her waist. Once secured, she walked over to the bed and started stuffing his things back into his bag. She left out a pair of slacks and a sweater and taking his bag, walked into the bathroom where he could hear water running for a few seconds before she reappeared and dropped the bag at his feet.
“Here, clean your face,” she said handing him the wet washcloth.
“Th... thank you,” he stammered, reaching out with his good hand to take the offering.
“Let me see your hand.”
Martin gingerly held out his injured hand while he finished wiping his face with the other. She reached out with a surprising gentleness and took his damaged hand in her own.
“This is going to hurt, don’t scream. Bite on the washcloth if you have to,” she stated.
At this stage, he had no dignity left to salvage and without hesitating, he stuffed the wet and dirty washcloth completely into his mouth. He chewed on the rag aggressively as she reached for one of the strips of his T-shirt and with her pinky finger forced the material through the hole in his hand and out the other side. She retrieved another strip and wound it tightly around his hand. She held the bandage in place with one hand while she reached up and removed the elastic band from her ponytail with the other. She took the band and slid it over his palm to hold the bandage in place. Once done, she reached down and pulled off his shoes.
“Get out of those pants and into the ones I left out for you,” she said stepping back a few paces and presenting him with her back.
He stood shakily on wobbly legs and undid his slacks with his left hand. They fell to the floor around his ankles and he stepped out of them. With a second’s hesitation and a quick glance at her back, he pulled his wet underwear off as well. He grabbed the slacks off the bed and sat his bare ass back on the chair, after a few seconds of struggle he had both his legs in the pants and upon standing managed to pull them up to his waist. That accomplished, he realized he was at a helpless stage.
“Uhm…” he started not sure of what to say.
She turned around at the sound and walked over and clasped his pants into place, prompting him to hurriedly reach down and pull the zipper up himself. She reached out to grab his sweater and without being told he held his hands above his head as she pulled it over him, taking care to avoid contact with his right ha
nd. Next came his jacket, and after donning it, he sat back down in the chair and pulled his loafers back on with his left hand. Fully dressed and feeling somewhat more in control of himself he looked at her expectantly.
“You said you had my file, where is it?” she asked.
“In… in my car,” he said still not in full control of his voice.
“Where are the keys?”
“Uh… there in my other pants,” he said with an embarrassed glance at the urine saturated pants balled up close to his feet.
She stared at him through her sunglasses with a blank expression on her face.
“I’ll get them,” he said quickly as he bent down to fish them out and hand them to her.
She picked up his bag and held it open. “Put the soiled clothes and the rest of your shirt in here.”
He complied and she zipped up the bag and shouldered it. Reaching into her own pants she produced a key which she handed to him.
“That’s a key to get in my car. It’s a black Barracuda, you walk straight out of the lobby and it’s parked up two rows over to your right. Keep your injured hand in your jacket pocket. Get in on the passenger side and wait for me. Understand?”
He nodded.
“Good, I’ll get your bag, what kind of car am I looking for and where do I find the file?”
“It’s an orange Gremlin, the file is in a document bag under the passenger side seat.”
She stared at him. “You’re on the run in an orange Gremlin?” she asked unbelievingly.
He started to speak but she held up a hand. “Never mind, be on your way. I’ll be along shortly.”
Putting his right hand carefully into his jacket pocket he started for the exit but hesitated at the sight of the corpse leaning at an unnatural angle against the door.
“Use the door in the other suite, Mr. Satterfield.”
He turned with a blush that faded quickly as he had to step over the body that was lying just inside the adjoining suite. Feeling a little sick, he made his way out of the suite.
Once he had left the room Bailey shook her head and policed the area to make sure nothing of importance was left behind. Once satisfied, she walked into the other suite to retrieve her bag and proceeded to the hall to hang the ‘Do Not Disturb’ signs on the doorknobs of both suites. Instead of the elevator she chose the stairwell to give Martin a little more of a head start. Emerging into the lobby, she walked casually out the front doors and into the parking lot.
Unbelievably, the dreadful little car was parked almost directly in front.
“Jesus,” she murmured as she walked around to the passenger side and unlocked the door. Leaning in, she reached under the seat and retrieved the case the file was in. She locked and closed the door and walked the four rows over to her own vehicle where she opened the door and casually tossed both bags and the file into the back seat. Sparing a quick glance around, she pulled the katana from under her poncho and placed it on the rear floorboard.
“Well, Mr. Satterfield. You’re either extremely stupid or extremely clever,” she said as she sat down behind the wheel and started the car.
“I… I don’t understand,” Martin said confusedly.
“Your car is pretty impressive, it’s a bloody wonder you made it a mile out of town,” she said in amusement while navigating out of the parking lot and onto the street.
“It’s my mother’s car,” he said lamely in his defense.
“Whatever,” she said. “You’ve some information for me, I’d like to hear it now.”
He shot a puzzled look at her, momentarily confused. “Oh yes,” he started. “Your mother and your brother are in the UK in a town called Southampton under the last names of Bennigan.”
“And how sure are you of this?”
“Fairly sure, I stumbled onto the information less than two months ago. I only recently made the connection with you.”
The car pulled up to a light and she turned in her seat to look at him. “You’d better be sure, Mr. Satterfield. Or I’ll bury you in that hideous little car of yours.”
She kept up the stare and, even though he couldn’t see her eyes behind the sunglasses, he had no doubt, no doubt at all, that she meant exactly what she said. Thankfully, the light turned green and she turned her attention back to the road.
“Holy shit,” he thought to himself as he sank as far as he could into his seat and tried to disappear.
———
Richards had made contact as soon as his team arrived at the hotel and his call came as a relief to everyone as the silence was beginning to add to the already high tension permeating the room. As soon as the call was routed to the overhead speakers, Terry came abruptly out of his chair and began to pace restlessly around the room.
“We’re entering the lobby now and will maintain an active line,” Richards informed the room.
For the next three minutes everyone was treated to the sounds of Richards and his team getting on the elevator and their footsteps as they made their way to room 416. The only other sounds were Richards’s rather heavy breathing and a quiet rustle that Terry surmised was the drawing of weapons as they stood in front of the door to the room.
At the sound of the door opening, Terry stopped his pacing and glared at the ceiling where the speakers were situated. He heard the unmistakable sound of a heavy blow and a body falling to the floor. He held his breath.
“The file, Mr. Satterfield. Where is it?” Richards asked.
Terry expelled the breath from his lungs and allowed himself a little bit of a smile at Martin’s expense; the little shit was caught and it was time to pay the fiddler.
“We’re in a bit of a hurry, Mr. Satterfield. Where is the file?” Richards spoke again.
“Huh,” Satterfield said hazily and Terry’s smile got a fraction larger.
Terry listened to the sounds of a quick scuffle and a silenced gunshot, which resulted in muffled screams of pain and the distinct thud of a body hitting the floor.
“Search the room, quickly,” Richards said.
Terry knew the little bastard would break; he could feel it coming.
“The file, Mr. Satterfield. I promise I’ll make it quick,” Richards said.
Upon hearing the words, Terry knew it was almost over and despite himself the little grin that had been threatening to take over his face blossomed into a full-fledged one. He stopped his pacing and returned to his chair, as he seated himself he began harbor the small hope that they might pull this off. Richards and his team had indeed moved quickly, a few minutes more and it would be over.
“Oh shit,” Richards whispered.
The words struck Terry in the chest like a sledgehammer as the little hope that he was nurturing disappeared like a fart in a tornado. His eyes shut tightly and he visibly winced while slightly doubling over in his chair. Opening his eyes, he reached out and gripped the edge of the table with both hands, focusing an intense concentration on any noise that the connection might produce. He only waited about twenty seconds to be rewarded with the sound of a door opening and another silenced round. An unpleasant splatter followed by the loud and heavy thump of a body hitting the ground made it quite obvious that Richards had just died.
No one at the table stirred in the slightest. A few seconds of quiet, undecipherable clatter were the only clues that the line was still active, and then abruptly, it was disconnected. Terry turned in his chair and closed his eyes; he felt like throwing a tantrum and only by the thinnest of margins restrained himself from doing so.
For a full quarter of an hour he sat with his back to everyone in the room and stewed in his own juices, his thoughts incoherent. No one disturbed him and eventually he turned around to face his colleagues.
“Bob, we need as many people as we can get in Atlanta, dispatch them as they become available. I want twenty-four hour surveillance on Cameron. If she leaves that building I want to know about it. Also, we need to have as many teams as we can standing by to move on her, but I want it made abso
lutely clear that no one, no one, is to engage her unless directly ordered to do so.”
“Understood,” Bob said.
“Any responses on your inquiries?” Terry asked.
“It’s in progress, no word yet,” Bob said.
“Keep me informed.”
Bob nodded and Terry reached out and opened a line.
“Phillips,” a voice answered instantly.
“Mr. Phillips, we have a situation for you in Atlanta,” Terry said to the man in charge of internal security.
“I see, details?”
“Standard clean, Ramada Six Flags, room 416.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, I want a report sitting in front of me in no less than six hours.”
“Understood,” Phillips replied in parting.
Terry stood and walked around to the back of his chair.
“Our situation just became precarious people. If Cameron didn’t have the upper hand to begin with, she certainly has it now. With Satterfield and the documentation that he has no doubt kindly provided her with, she could effectively destroy the Organization by going public.” He stopped and let out a sigh that slumped his shoulders. “Do I need to remind everyone what would become of them if the Organization folded?”
Terry left them to consider the question, striding silently to the door and leaving the room.
IV
She takes care of business,
Keeps a cool head.
—D. Iyall
Bailey drove all the way back afraid to even let herself hope that the information from Satterfield was correct. It would simplify matters tremendously; her family was the one thing that the Secondary had complete control over. Although she tried not to, her thoughts turned to family until eventually her mind became dominated with the questions she had never dared asked herself. Would a reunion be possible? Would her mother be appalled at what she had become? Could she forgive? How would she react to seeing a daughter assumed dead for over fifteen years? In that regard, how would she react to seeing them? Her mind kept running in circles until she realized that she had arrived at her destination completely on autopilot and she wondered idly how long she had been parked in the garage with the motor running. She turned a look on her passenger to see Satterfield looking at her confusedly and probably wondering what the hell was wrong with her.
Engravings of Wraith Page 10
