by Jane Brooke
“Yes Jane, our Carol is right. World wide, she speak the Italian, Spanish, French, above all Hindi. They go crazy for her already in India, more billion people there and she could be on all cover of every fashion magazine in world. Many, many millions, Jane, I say no more about the obvious, Ann say more, yes. Claudio think, there in the writing is key.”
“Thank you Claudio, Ann, please be brief.”
Tapping her thin fingers on the pile of binders that were over a foot high with Ash Bai’s written words in them, Ann stared over the top of her black framed nerd glasses, took a deep breath and began to speak.
“We have all read this work of hers, and frankly Jane, none of it is possible in my opinion. This girl is not yet nineteen yet and these five novels, as well as her short stories, more on those in a moment are so savage, brilliant, sexual and above all ground breaking, it just doesn’t seem possible some one so young could have created them. Apparently she has been writing since she has been twelve.
In my opinion she has blasted through the walls of everything the world has ever thought normal in relationships, prejudice, marriage, choice of sexuality, jealousy and possessiveness, etc. She will be savaged when these works finally hit.”
Taking a sip of water, Jane watched Ann, who was clearly excited take a sip of water and continue.
Is she a lesbian, Jane, I think it’s important that we know?”
“I don’t know Ann, why is that important?”
Ann started to giggle, and seldom had she seen her like that. She was usually so demur, but the obvious was the obvious as she swallowed deeply at her and continued.
“Fuck Jane, the girl is a genius, and that word is so lacking describing her talent and already she is under attack for her support for abortion, contraception, women’s rights, world hunger, just to mention a few.
Add the fact that she may be a lesbian, well in my mind, and I know I’m speaking in a strict commercial way, there is no ending to how much money we, she can make, but we have to, if given this gift, protect her.”
“Yes, that’s why her parents came to me, and we will protect her. Please, Ann, we have five minutes, the novels.”
Jane felt like puking, for many reasons. Why not her coming out if some teenager had the guts to break down every door Jane refused to walk through. She felt ashamed as Ann continued.
“Frankly, I have never read anything remotely so honest, so brutal, so futuristic in there thinking. It is her generation Jane, liberal, exploratory in pursuits of sexual needs, no gender definition, no jealously, no prejudice based on antiquated sexual norms, total freedom in love, sex, and the odd relationships her mostly woman create. Girls and girls, girls and men, lesbian and female bi sexual and transgender unions is what she is passionate about.
Simply said, these will be “The Tropic of Cancer” of this generation.”
Jane of course had read them, consumed them, confused by them and, then vaporized by them and of course they we’re the main reason she’d been thinking of finally taking a female as a lover.
They were, as Ann said, so brutally honest. They were almost so futuristic that they had opened her eyes, nudged her forward and made her think of what was possible between people. Humans that neither judged nor held prejudice nor jealously in their hearts and were so simply said, honest with in all matters of sex and love.
At University she had sub majored in music, and well understood that phantoms of genius could appear almost at birth.
Chopin at six years old was already composing polonaises and his mastery of observation, sketching and mimicry had never been seen in any composer at any age. At eight he was playing concerts for the Russian Czar Alexander, and he stunned the world.
Amadeus composed at five, and on and on. As she listened to Carol, she was wondering that within an eco skeleton of such impossible physical beauty, perhaps even in evolution, had God placed so young a rare and almost unbelievable talent in Ash on earth.
That answer soon would be exposed. When it would, nothing any of them could have ever done could have prepared them for the acid rain of fire that would come.
“Ann?”
“So much more, Jane, but that is for another day, let’s see. Let’s just see.”
“Buzz, buzz, buzz.”
Eyes darting at her I-phone, she picked it up and saw a text from her secretary telling her that Ms. Bai had arrived. She gulped her angst, her fear and texted her secretary to send her in.
Jane could hardly wait. They’d all seen the pictures of her, the video, heard her speak, and had been stunned by that little matter. She talked like an eighteen year old, nineteen forties Kate Hepburn, a tinted British accent, all mixed together with a Holly Go Lightly, Audrey Hepburn way. This of course sent the world press on its ear.
Then, the door opened, and in unison, THEY, all hardened veterans by so much beauty in their business collectively gasped as their jaws dropped as Ash Bai strolled in.
24 Hours Earlier
Manhattan District Court 23-Evening
“BURN THE MORANS. BURN THE MORANS. BURN THR MORANS.”
The Rabid crowd of three thousand plus mostly females chanted and screamed as they, cordoned off by police on foot and horseback waved placards many reading: BURN THE MORANS. KILL THEM...LESBIAN RIGHTS. BURN FOR KAREN AND CATHY.
Parked around the court house were a dozen satellite news vans and their camera crews and reporters reporting on the melee surrounding them as KNBC news reporter, Mary Riley yelled into her microphone.
“It’s complete madness here at District Court 23 as we await the verdict on the Moran murder trial. Two hung juries so far and two years of pain for the families of the murdered lesbians Cathy Smith and Karen Mills, the young lesbian, couple that were brutally beaten to death outside of a Gay bar in Queens. Mick Moran, the vicious New Jersey gangster and his two sons, Frank and Bert and not for the first time, have been on trial for their lives and hung juries have not put them in the gas chamber yet. Three years ago, they also went to trial for allegedly killing two gay men in an alley in Beth Sturtevant. After two witnesses were found in the streets dead, the case was abandoned by New York Attorney General Tom Brady. With one witness already missing in this trial, well we are waiting for justice now to be delivered. WAIT...WAIT...The verdict is in, HUNG JURY...OH MY GOD...”
In a cataclysmic eruption of screaming and wailing, the crowd went insane as they pushed and shoved and tried to clay their way past the police barricades to the steps of the court house.
Minutes passed and then there they were The Moran Clan, Father Mick, Sons Frank and Bert, surrounded by police and their team of expensive lawyers, waving and smiling as they pushed their way through crowds of press towards a black limousine parked at the curb.
SET with in a pair of telescopic CROSS HAIRS, the female entirely dressed in black stared through her binoculars from the roof top of a hotel across the street as the Moran’s moved toward their limos. A black wrap around head phone was touching her lips, as well as small head phones and on her head, was a black knit skull cap. Lowering the binoculars, she whispered into the small mouth piece as she stared at the setting Sun.
“WE are a go. Room 716, yes.”
“Affirmitive.” The man’s voice filtered into her ears from her ear pieces.
“WE go dark exactly at 8 PM. CORRECT?”
“AFFIRMITIVE.”
“See you later.”
“CAUTION PLEASE”
“YES, of course.”
SILENCE
Bending, she opened her black back pack, placed the binoculars next to her two silenced Berettas, lap top and other things she would need for her business of the night, zipped it shut and, then placed it on her broad and powerful shoulders. Taking a deep breath she turned her eyes to the now winter full moon just rising on the perimeter of Manhattan. Her
pulse was calm and of course it always was just before the killing began.
Moving to the edge of the sky scraper, she untied a black nylon rope from a black chrome buckle on her tool belt. Quickly, she tied it off in a double rope length Navy Seal slip knot to a railing and, then spooled both strands to the alley floor that was set behind the hotel. Without hesitating, and as if a graceful cat she grabbed both strands, leaped off of the edge of the building and whistled down the strands until the rubber soles of her black work boots touched silently onto the alley floor.
Staring straight up, she gave one strand a tug and, then smiled as the rope floated down and spooled around her feet. Gathering it up, she folded it, slotted it on the black chrome grommet on her tool belt.
Quickly she moved to a black1500 CC high performance Moto Guzzi Motor tour racing Cycle. Slotting the black helmet on her head, she lowered the bubble black tinted visor over her face as the small micro phone still touched her lips.
With her black gloved finger, she hit the button on the power full motor cycle.
“VROOOM VROOOM VROOOM.”
The bike screamed as the fat back tire smoked and she roared down the alley, down shifted at a street and, then giving the bike full fuel she slashed down the street to her next destination.
Death was on her mind.
At EXACTLY 7:30 PM, a lone demon dressed entirely in black and with black back pack on her shoulders, slowed her Moto Guzzi into an alley behind the super deluxe ten-story “M Hotel”.
Idling the bike, she killed the engine. Taking off her helmet, she secured it to her back pack and unzipped her back pack. From it, she withdrew a set of Navy Seal infrared night seeing goggles, which she slotted on her forehead. She withdrew a small syringe, with a rubber bubble attached to one end. A blue liquid filled the syringe.
“Up date Please.”
In a black Escalade, windows tinted, a massive man, two Glock hand guns in leather shoulders holsters on his broad shoulders followed the black limo holding the three Moran’s in it. On the seat next to him was an open lap top. On the screen were grids and graphs and the technical information for the New York Power Authority’s electrical grid information.
“ETA, five minutes. IT”S a go. You ready?”
“Yes...So ready.”
“Stand by.”
Inhaling a deep breath she felt her pulse calm. Re shouldering her back pack and with Seal night goggles illuminating the night in green images before her, and with the syringe in her gloved hand, she crept down the alley. At the street entrance, she stalled, and peered around the edge of the hotel walls. Milling around were the coming and goings of the car hops, valets and elite finely dressed patrons of one of the most stunning hotels in Manhattan.
Minutes passed and then she saw the Moran’s limo pull up to the curb, and moments later the black Escalade was there, giving her two blink of its head lights as it passed her.
“In ten, nine, eight, seven.”
The countdown words drifted into her ears from the head phone. Her body tensed, as she heard. “Three, two, one.”
INSTANTLY, the entire block went dark, as she began to move as Mick, Frank and Bert Moran were just entering the lobby. She moved like a black panther, her world illuminated in green down the street and, then some meters behind the Moran’s as she was in the lobby, where terrified patrons were moaning and complaining about the total darkness they were now consumed in.
On the center of the Lobby, she saw the two Moran brothers looking frantically around. One had a hand gun drawn as Father Mick, obviously spooked looked around, seeing nothing. As the spook in black passed him she spritzed the back of Micks head with the blue liquid, which he barely felt.
Moving quickly, she dodged the patrons, made her way past the elevators, found the stair case, and as an athlete, she quickly made her way up seven floors of stairs. She opened the door, and moved quickly down the hall, until she found room 714. Slotting the Key card in the pre bought suite under a false credit card, she opened the door, slid in, closed the door behind her and whispered.
“IN.”
Instantly she heard the electrical grid begin to hum, as the lights for the entire hotel lit to life.
She smiled, and still with so much work to be done, she moved to the marvelous bed of the opulent sweet, placed her back pack on to it and unzipped it. From the pack, she took her lap top, a thin leather case, and a Navy Seal Paint (ID MISSLE HIT METER) laser measure from it.
Next to it, she layered on the down comforter her two silenced Berettas set into in their shoulder holsters as well as a muffled power drill and various black carbide drill bits. Gingerly and carefully, she withdrew a small glass jar and it made her smile, for in it was something special; something as good as a bullet at killing a man.
Firing her lap top, she brought up the construction and hotel lay out plans for her suite as well as the suite next to her. With a photo graphic memory intact, she took the Navy Seal laser Paint Meter, saw the grids, measurements and grafts of the suites details, moved to the door, attached the laser meter to the door. She punched in the information in to it, just as the Seals had done so often painting some Iraqi guy for a visit by a Predator Drone.
She hit the button and watched as the red laser struck across the wall, freeze framing a spot on it. Reaching in her pocket, she took a red marker, walked to where the laser point had stopped, and placed a dot on it.
Taking the Seal device, she moved to the general location of the red dot, attached the laser to the ceiling, punched in the coordinates pressed the button and, then watched as the second laser line Bulls eyed the original line. She smiled, as she centered the red marker tip just a few inches from the original and in the cross hairs, placed a red dot on it.
Quickly she moved to the bed, took the state of the art muffled drill, locked a pre destined extremely long sized drill bit into it about the size of a dime, and plugged the plug it into the wall.
It took her less than thirty seconds dill a hole through the wall and into the next suite. With her goggles lying on the bed, she peered into the hole and saw the master suite bed room and bed in the other room.
“Perfect.” She hummed
Dismantling the drill, she placed it back into her back pack and pulled out a set of black leather motor cycle togs. Trousers, long sleeve shirt, black leather jacket, all black; she was ready.
With drawing a small jar of Spackle (LATHE MOLD SEALENT) she then pulled out a small device, a rod with what looked like it had a small collapsible umbrella attached on it. She flicked it several times, and as she did the tiny umbrella opened, the collapsed closed.
“Perfect.” She again whispered.
She was a perfectionist.
From the black back pack she withdrew a black cylindrical tube about a meter long case. Pulling on it, she elongated it to two meters.
Moving back to her secret hole, she inserted the tip and, then stared through at and seeing the bed of the suite, she smiled.
Turning and on a knee, she withdrew from her back pack what appeared to be a small fly fishing reel with what looked like light two pound, twin lines mono filament fishing line wound into it. Attached to the end dangling in the air of the tip of the double line was a small six inch finned dart, the girth of a sewing needle. She had designed it and had a man in Antwerp she knew who made implements of death make it for her.
Slotting the reel into the undercarriage under the tube at the back, she then slotted the small dart/needle with the black collapsible fins into the back of the tube, the twin lines dangling from the back of the dart as she did.
Twisting around, she pulled from her pack a bottle of compressed air, attached it behind the feathered dart, sealed it to the end opening of the tube and, then smiled at herself as she whispered “Perfect.”
She was, very pleased with herself.”
“There in the elevator now. ETA two minutes.”
“Affirmative.” She whispered.
With her Seal night goggle still on her head, she withdrew the tube, turned to the bed, and pulled a small tube bag from it. From the bag, she withdrew a small collapsible carbon fiber tripod, extended the three according legs and placed it in front of the tiny hole. Attaching the two meter tube to it, she located the tube tip to the hole, made adjustments to the tripods legs, until the tube was centered, tip in the dime size hole.
She smiled to herself, backed the tripod back a meter and, then turning to the bed again, she pulled from her back pack a two meter long flexible co axel cable that had a small camera fish eye lens attached to the tip.
Attaching it to a port on her night goggles she lowered the goggle to her eyes and hit a switch as she poked the fish eye lens into the hole. It fit perfectly and unless one was looking for such a thing in the other room, they would never know it was there.
Humming to herself she heard a door in the room next door open, close and, then peering into her Seal goggles she watched as the laughing, back slapping and clearly jubilant Moran’s walked into the suite.
She was an OCD inflicted perfectionist freak and to the moment everything was on point, so she withdrew the fish eye lens and took off her infra red Seal goggles, balanced them on the tri pod, turned to the bed and flopped on to it giggling.
She was a bit manic, but she was always like that just before the violence came.
Seeing her most favorite thing in the world laying on the bed next to her twin silenced Berettas, she smiled as she reached her fingers out, took the small jar and leered mesmerized at what was inside of it. Bringing it to her eyes, she smiled as she whispered.
“Soon my beauty, soon, be patient, your work is almost at hand.”
Laying the small glass jar on her naked stomach, she looked at her Seal watch, pressed in an ‘Alarm Code’ smiled, closed her eyes and fell asleep. It was 9 PM.
