by M. P. Reeves
"Here to kill me then?" Squeezing the metal frame of the bed, she tried to think of a way out of this mess. Running past them, maybe injuring one and taking his gun. Maybe she'd get as far as...where? Who was she kidding? She didn't know where she was nor was she trained for any sort of hand to hand tussle. Plus these guys were large enough to just scoop her up like a toddler and carry her out if they wanted.
"Stand up." Blondie ordered. His hands clasped in front of his waist in a casual yet commanding stance.
"Maybe I don't want to." A tear ran down her cheek when she blinked, forcing her to look away for a moment to wipe her cheek. Liz did not want to let them see her cry.
"Let’s make a deal. You don't make this difficult, and we won't have a reason to show you how we vent frustration with pretty little rich girls." The shorter man smiled at his partners comment in that lecherous way that made her think of all the varied methods this pair could use to invoke suffering. Despite his expensive attire and matching haircut he was an ugly little worm with a hooked nose, beady eyes topped with bushy brows. He was even missing the upper part of his right ear. Since rape before death was about the last thing in the world she wanted, Liz slowly got to her feet.
When she got within arm's length they grabbed her, binding her hands behind her back with a zip tie. A foul smelling black bag was lowered over her head, it had that chemical new clothes aroma. Maybe they'd just bought it at thugs-to-go or perhaps it was lined with something to kill her. Wouldn't that be an interesting surprise?
One of them grabbed her by the crook of her arm, matching her forward. He smelled like her uncle, expensive cologne mixed with mouthwash.
"Can you believe that upset last night? My team is totally screwed and we're still in preseason." Although it was probably a bit pretentious to be offended by your own murderer, their casual conversation as she took her death walk did exactly that. What jerks. No, a jerk didn't hold the door open for you when you were carrying an armload of groceries. This...this was something else entirely. They were damned souls. End of.
"I don't mind, gives underdogs a chance to shine. Long as my Bears pull through in regular, preseason means nothing to me." Elizabeth made a mental note that it had to have been August. In another life she would be shopping for clothes for her senior year, starting cheer practice, fighting with her brother over the TV during the last desperate weeks of summer. Maybe going on a college visit with her parents. The thought of her dad would have made tears well in the corner of her eyes had she not been severely dehydrated.
"Still, I'm out twenty in the pool." The man complained in an Australian accent.
"So about half of what you loose on poker night?"
"Cold. Damn man, why you gotta be like that?" There was a tug on her arm, forcing her to stand still.
"You going to the barbeque Friday when we get back stateside?" There was a soft ding, followed by a mechanical slide. Elevator?
"Maybe, think I'm gonna invite that little piece of ass who works for the big guy. You know, Crystal?" Pushed forward, her theory was confirmed when the mechanical slide returned and her sensation of gravity shifted. They were ascending.
"I wouldn't."
"Why the hell not?"
The one with the deeper voice laughed. "I've heard she doesn't run with the riff raff."
The other cursed. "Ain't no girl can resist this bad boy for a night out. They all think they can tame me. I let 'em try."
There was a beep, another set of doors, followed by a whoosh of humid air. Elizabeth had been to Florida before on vacation and it felt like Arizona compared to this. It made her woozy, her breathing labored under that sticky foul hood, the copper after taste of her cracked lips on her tongue.
The two men continued to chat as they marched her seventy eight paces-she counted-across uneven ground. It felt like gravel under her battered sneakers then muddy earth after step forty two. Someone jerked on her shoulder before her feet took step number seventy nine.
The bag came off her head.
It was pitch black outside, most of the waxing gibbous moon's light blocked by heavy clouds. She looked up with a sad smile, at least she would meet her end under the stars. Taking one last look at the thousand sun's above her she struggled to find peace in the injustice that was about to occur. So many dreams, futures, never to be had. Closing her eyes, she heard the click of the gun behind her. This was it. Goodbye worl-
The quiet ting of a silenced shot rang out. A soft thud followed to her left.
"What the-" Opening her eyes Liz turned her head to see one of the two agents dead on the ground, a pool of blood quickly growing from the hole in his skull. Moving quickly, the murderer bent down and disarmed his partner. Turning to her, he broke the zip tie that bound her hands. He placed the cold steel his partner had carried into her shaking hands.
The killer put a heavy palm on both of her shoulders, blue eyes boring into her own in the dim moonlight. "Listen to me closely Elizabeth." His voice was different than the gruff jail tone, gentle and elegant. "Travel directly north as fast as you can. Avoid the roads, stay in the wood. In two days you should come upon a rural town. Find Stella's Seafood Shack. Ask for small Juan." With his left hand he pulled a hair from her head, rolling it between his fingers.
"Ow!" With a shaking hand she stuffed the gun in her pants the way she'd seen it done in the movies, frowning. "Why are you helping me?"
The guard dropped the hair he'd plucked from her head on the body, muttering something under his breath. The corpse morphed into her own likeness. From bruised cheeks to broken fingers, the thin scar on her knee she got on the playground when she was seven, even the massive wound from being shot at point blank range. No words can explain how it feels to look upon your own bloodied form. It was surreal and terrifying. So much so that it could not have just happened. She had to be hallucinating...
"Go. Now." He barked, turning his own gun on her.
Without another word she pivoted and ran. Fast as she could, her feet flying through the wood as though a rabid bear was inches from stuffing her in its maw. Branches whipped her arms, lacerating her skin but she didn't care. Every cut, every sting was a reminder that she was still alive. Without the artificial light of streetlamps she was moving through almost pure black void. Not that it mattered.
After what she saw she didn't trust her senses any more than she trusted the man who freed her. What she saw could just be a further illusion. Or this could all just be a sick game to hunt her down and shoot her for sport. The food and water they gave her could have been laced with all sorts of chemicals. Far as she knew she was high as a kite. Her right foot landed in a pocket of soft earth on her stride, bending her ankle inward. With a yelp of surprise she fell forward into wet grass and mud of the jungle floor.
Cursing under her breath, she started to get up but her ankle screamed in protest. It was sprained if not worse. Exhausted, both mentally and physically, Liz rolled over onto her back. Chest heaving, her eyes to the stars above yet unable to appreciate their beauty. Somewhere in her mind she negotiated her possible outcomes and considered throwing in the towel. Broken and battered in the middle of nowhere, her chances for success were highly unlikely. Even more so if she didn't get her strength up. This seemed like as good of place as any to rest, nestled in the soft earth under the guise of leaves. Her eyelids drooped, for once the presence of insects in the air and wiggling on her skin didn't bother her in the slightest. She didn't have the energy to bat at them if she wanted to. Yes. It was time for rest. In the morning, she would move on. She would feel better. Things would be-
Somewhere in the woods not far from her position, a wolf howled.
Elizabeth Waters started laughing, although it ended in coughing. With mud caked hands she wiped her hair out of her eyes, the locks plastered to the sides of her face.
"No no...I am not getting eaten tonight." She mumbled aloud.
Digging deep within herself she mustered the will to go on if only to avoid being reduced
to a pile of chewed bones. It took two attempts to stand before she was able to take her first step forward. Her ankle hurt but was able to support part of her weight, leaving her in a shambling state as pressing on in the darkness towards a place she hoped existed.
.
26
Two left. Joseph Johnson frowned at the silver plated cigarette holder before returning it to his breast pocket. These remote missions typically transformed his supply of high quality Turkish tobacco into an irritated run to a local shop where the only stock items were vile tasting pre-rolled imitations. A frustrating side effect of his very demanding habit. His wife Kate had often scolded him with the typical snark on how smoking kills. She was very wrong, smoking didn't kill. He did. Five packs a day simply allowed him to live with the memories of how he made his living. A brass required shrink had told him thirty plus years ago he didn't really need the cancer sticks, that his mind had worked out some sort of life exchange to balance the cosmos; slivers of his years puffed away to offset the hundreds he'd ended before their natural time. Bull. Shit. He had no time for hippie, one with the earth crap. The world was created by choices. He chose to smoke, so he did. His targets chose to cross the wrong men, so they died. Nothing deeper or more profound than shit happens.
Joseph had planned to leave the outpost today in search of a bodega where he would pay well over 15Q a pack when orders had come in from Marcus Kane. The intel the interrogation team had provided from Elizabeth Waters had been monumental. State side agents had been dispatched to collect the stolen artifact and he was given clearance to see to the elimination of the loose ends as it were. Being the overachiever that he was, the girl had been removed from her cell last night. The specifics of her demise and final local unknown to him, not that he cared how his agents had decided to terminate her. Deniability whenever able was a lovely thing. Joseph was ready to be done with this assignment anyway. The whole situation had been a cluster if he'd ever been in one. Marcus in a rare declaration of need to know, had neglected to tell him that the book that had been in the boy’s residence was a mission objective.
The primary damned objective. Not the woman nor the boy. Just the goddamned book.
If Marcus had actually filled him in on the entire request from whomever-and he had his theories as to the name-pulled his strings, this whole thing would have been avoided day one. His boss would have his old ratty tome and Joseph Johnson would be relaxing at his beach house in the keys. If. Instead, the artifact had been considered destroyed when that uninvited nomad blew the place-and three of his men-sky high. Another high profile incident that cost more than he was willing to admit to bury, damaging both his financial reserves and staffing levels. All because Marcus Cane seemed to think of himself as more than just a mouthpiece for the big man.
Rather than admit his own mistake, Marcus had called him incompetent. Him. The insult rattled around inside Joseph's mind louder than any other pleading shriek or scream he'd endured in his long career. A single word that could not be quelled. Even forcing him to consider a myriad of strategies to permanently bypass Marcus and deal with the puppet master directly. Plans that had transitioned from proposed to prep and would have been initiated, had he not been cursed with unexpected visitors. A pair of gothic euro trash that flew in via Heli. All the signatures checked out, Marcus had given these nameless men full authority to interrogate his original captive in a closed door session. Unfortunately for them, the order said nothing about the closed circuit system that ran through the building. What they had done to that woman...there was nowhere in the realm of science and reason to classify what he had seen that day.
The pair had left shortly after, just about the time his eyes on the world alerted him to the target's pretty little blond girlfriend. Clueless as she was. Ripping down drywall, waving the book in front of the camera like she had her own reality show. Making his job a bloody cake walk. Joseph pulled out all the stops from there; calling in a favor to arrange usage of appropriate facilities, manipulating police reports, procuring bodies, forging dental records...he'd been damned proud of himself. The op was executed with the precision of a master surgeon; the girl-now dead to the world-in custody just like the other.
Except, the other had been moved from prisoner to VIP at the behest of the newly arrived nameless freaks. Those eyes...
All in all, he was relieved it was time to close up shop and head out. In less than ten hours he'd been on the green with not a care in the world save for the direction of the wind.
With a smile, he lit the twisted tobacco pursed between his lips. Screw their occult bullshit and screw Marcus Kane.
There was a knock at the door, a loud single strike. Only one of his field agents was polite enough to knock and yet reserved enough to only do it once.
"Come in Mr. Frost." Joseph called out in an exhale of smoke. Vincent Frost had been his go to man for the last two years, a referral from his contact in a recruiting firm that specialized in placing highly trained government personnel with private units after their service term expired. From the moment Hector had slid his file across the desk, Joseph knew he had to have him on his team; an ex-navy seal holding both a civil engineering and psychology degree, documented speaking six languages with the fluency of a native, and - best of all - no next of kin. Steady and dependable, his ideas were well thought and executed with a surgeon’s precision. Frost frequently reminded Joseph of himself fresh out of the service.
"Sir." The six and a half foot Frost nodded at him as he entered the room. Vincent's hard lined face was offset by his expensive haircut and suit giving the overall impression that he was a handsome man. Italian leather loafers carrying no sound on the concrete floor. Unbuttoning the center of his black jacket, Frost lowered himself quite graciously into the black leather office chair across from him.
"I believe I requested a status from both yourself and Mr. Anderson." Joseph spoke in a cloud of smoke, the nicotine already working to steady his hand.
"I haven't seen the rook since last night. Probably drank too much in town." Frost's monotone response did not carry the frustration Joseph knew was lurking beneath the surface.
"If I recall, you have never been a fan." There was no reason for him to really preface that statement, his synapses were still firing on all cylinders. Vincent had in fact chastised the actions of Charles Anderson, independent contractor from Australia, on multiple occasions. Each time Joseph had logged the complaint simply with a nod. Rivalries among merc's was a frequent part of the business. Everyone wanted a bigger cut.
"Reckless loudmouths are a liability." There was a simple truth to his words. Mr. Johnson took a long pull off of his cigarette while he considered his response. Dereliction of duty, especially in the pursuit of personal pleasure, was grounds for termination as far as he was concerned. No government in the world could match what he was paying his agents, they were all-even Vincent Frost-considered easily replaceable.
"On that I tend to agree. Address as you see fit." The single bullet suggestion unsaid.
"Thank you sir." The slightest twinkle of happiness seemed to break through Vincent's stoic blue stare.
"We're done with this shithole anyway." Pulling a manila folder from his top drawer he slid it across the desk to Vincent Frost. "Looks like Marcus got his government connections to clear a new drill site, they're worried about nomads interfering."
Vincent picked up the folder, opening the cover. "Expected duration?"
"Six months, year tops. Just till you get things up and running."
Frost looked somewhat surprised. "Flying solo sir?"
Joseph sighed, putting out his cig in the marble ashtray on the desktop. "I'm an old man Frost, being in the field chaffs my balls. I'm headed stateside."
"Golf and grandkids?"
"Damn straight. Oh don't make that face, some day you'll want to settle your ass down too."
"Unlikely sir. And what of the...special interrogator?" Joseph had been wondering if Frost was going to voice
similar trepidations.
"You can do better than her Frost." The trill of his cell phone cut off Frost's response. Joseph brought it to his ear without hesitation, laying on a polite hello. A greeting that was matched pleasantly by Crystal, his boss’s right hand bimbo of choice. The half-smile her lovely voice had brought to his face faded as she spoke quietly and factually, ending the call before he had a chance to respond.
"Problem sir?" Reaching into his breast pocket, Joseph pulled out the cold engraved metal that held his salvation. Last one.
"A damned big one." He flicked the lid, the flame dancing as he brought it towards him, "and I'm outta smokes."
27
Elizabeth sat crouched down in the bushes outside of Stella's Seafood Shack. It was a dive if she'd ever seen one. Looked like someone had taken an old gas station, gave it a coat of bright orange paint and turned it into a restaurant. To confirm her theory, four pumps still sat out front although they were covered in rust and one was bent at a forty five degree angle. The writing on the sign was in both English and Spanish, decorated with a picture of a smiling cartoon shrimp wearing a top hat waving at potential customers. Two vehicles were parked out front, three in the back, all at least twenty years old with varying degrees of rust and damage.
While she sat and observed only one vehicle stopped at the premise, a light blue truck with a broken right headlight. An elderly man exited the vehicle and went inside, emerging a few minutes later with a brown paper bag that more than likely contained take out. The scent of the eatery carried on the wind, as much as she detested seafood the deep fried aroma made her salivate, stomach turning in protest of her sedentary position.
After the truck left, she hobbled across the parking lot to the entrance. A bloody dirt smear tarnished the handle as she pushed open the door with her hand.
The inside was in better shape than the exterior, although the same eyeball searing color scheme had been used. Bright orange walls, neon green trim and blue chairs arranged by metal bargain tables. There was a counter lined by bar stools, topped with two display cases; one for deserts and another full of ice and clams, shrimp and lobsters. Soft music crooned in Spanish from a 1980's style FM radio with an aluminum wrapped antenna. A waitress in a pair of jean shorts and tee-shirt with the same goofy dancing food logo as the sign out front was humming along with a smile, wiping down the counter.
