Dawn Girl: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller

by Leslie Wolfe

  "Oh, that's fresh. That's totally new," Alex laughed. In an environment in which getting a job depended on how well you replied to some well-known questions by giving some well-known answers, the whole interviewing process seemed to her like a bad joke, told repeatedly. She was amazed at how most people refused to deal with intelligent, innovative people, preferring instead a standard, already-know-the-answer person, showing little initiative and absolutely no spark.

  An old college buddy of hers was currently working as a human resources specialist for a big bank. She had taught Alex a few tricks and explained that recruiters look for specific indicators, such as no turnover of jobs without spending at least two years in the same company, no "empty time" between jobs, and no varied experience—the applicant should only reflect experience in the specific field of the job applied for. Therefore, if Alex wanted to apply for a customer-service position, she had a better chance to get that interview by listing only customer-service experience. Thanks to Leah, and to her own intuition, she was easily getting interview invitations.

  With her curiosity at a peak level, she clicked next again.

  Now that I have your full attention, let's start. Please select all options applicable to you.

  The first page was the most bizarre selection ever put together. There was an endless list of skills and questions, grouped by categories. Next to each entry, there was a small check box, positioned next to an available option. By clicking in the box, a check mark would appear, indicating the respective statement was applicable or true. On the upper right corner of the Web page, a progress bar displayed that this was the first page out of 26.

  "One hour? I might be fast, but I think you guys are trying to hire Superman." She took a long sip of coffee and started clicking.

  ...Chapter 6: Hooked

  ...Tuesday, April 20, 5:19PM

  ...Corporate Park Building, Third Floor

  ...Irvine, California

  "She's online now, sir."

  "I'll be right there."

  ...Chapter 7: The Form

  ...Tuesday, April 20, 5:29PM

  ...Ridgeview Apartments

  ...San Diego, California

  The first category was listed under the title "About Yourself." Alex had options for everything that could describe her, such as height, build, hair color, and style. To her surprise, there were also boxes to check about age, gender, place of birth, race, and other questions considered illegal under current labor laws. She dutifully completed each one.

  The form continued with a questionnaire meant to assess the IQ level of the candidate. Although dealing with the job market quite often, Alex had almost never run into intelligence testing. One thing was certain: this was no ordinary application form, and Alex had a growing desire to meet the people behind this original selection process. Suddenly, she found herself wondering what kind of job would require such a detailed and unique application.

  ...Chapter 8: The Wrong Candidate

  ...Tuesday, April 20, 5:40PM

  ...CentroTech Resources Corporate Offices

  ...San Diego, California

  "What?" The HR director could not understand. "Are you telling me I cannot hire this person? Why? Who are you?" She was getting frustrated, and her voice was showing it.

  The man in front of her, without saying a word, slowly pulled a wallet from his pocket, opened it, and put it in front of the director's bewildered eyes. She recognized a Federal Bureau of Investigation badge. Her voice dropped to a whisper and her head slowly nodded in compliance.

  "As you wish."

  ...Chapter 9: Another Page

  ...Tuesday, April 20, 6:42PM

  ...Ridgeview Apartments

  ...San Diego, California

  New category: Language Skills. This time, she had to type the words herself.

  Please indicate the languages you speak fluently.

  English, Italian, German.

  Please indicate the languages in which you can sustain a minimal conversation.

  Spanish, French.

  Please indicate the languages you can understand or speak a minimum of 15 words or short phrases.

  Weird, Alex thought. She typed: Russian, Polish, Hindi, Punjabi, Arabic.

  Please indicate the countries to which you have traveled.

  "Are they recruiting for the CIA? Is that it? The Agency? Who are these people?" Her own voice, breaking the silence in her apartment, startled her.

  Another page, a new category: Computer Skills. Another endless list of selectable options.

  ...Chapter 10: Friendly Fire

  ...Tuesday, April 20, 7:05PM Local Time (GMT +4:30 hours)

  ...Combat Logistics Patrol, Royal Canadian Regiment

  ...15 kilometers southeast of Kandahar, Afghanistan

  "Hey, Lenny, got a light, buddy?" Ryan's dirty hand, holding an unlit cigarette, appeared first, followed by the rest of his body, as he was coming around the front of the Nyala. The massive armored personnel carrier, rigged with multiple antennae and a remote weapons station, was releasing six dust-covered, sweaty Canadian armed forces.

  "And you call yourself a smoker, eh?" Lenny said, extending his Zippo. "Fuck, man, you never have a light on you, like, never!" He lit Ryan's cigarette, then extracted one for himself, lit it, and took a deep breath of smoke mixed with the dry dust of the Afghan desert. "Ahhh . . . it feels good . . ." Lenny walked to the edge of the road, in the shade of the Nyala, stretching his legs. "What would ya' do without me, huh? Quit? What's it gonna take to get a stubborn Newfie like you to carry his own lighter, huh?"

  "Gimme yours, and I'll carry it for ya', eh?"

  "You better pray this baby doesn't just go AWOL on me one day," Lenny said, clutching his fingers around the engraved Zippo, "'cause it's you whose rotting corpse they'll end up finding in a ditch, got it?" Lenny's thumb was slowly going over the engraving on his lighter, feeling the words etched into the metal: To Leonard, with all my love. From Dad.

  "Got a light, eh, Lenny?" A third soldier was extending an unlit cigarette, requesting service with a wicked smile on his face. Lenny obliged with a deep sigh.

  "I don't get it, just don't. What the hell is wrong with y'all? What would y'all do without me, huh? Good thing I don't have to wipe your lame asses too." Lenny walked away from the road, toward a pile of boulders, not too far out. Farther away from the boulders, maybe half a klick or so, young herders were watching over sheep. They had all turned to look at the convoy. The wind was carrying the stinking smell of sheep, mixing it with the omnipresent, fine desert dust.

  "Where you headin', man? You wouldn't be going to take a leak, would 'ya? Do you need my presence? Do you need help with that? Wanna show it to the natives?" Ryan asked, bombarding Lenny with his questions—each question raising more laughter from the rest of the men.

  "Ah, fuck off, will ya'll? I can water this desert on my own, thank you very much." Lenny waved a dismissing hand right before stopping at boulders, his back toward the road.

  Friendly advice kept pouring in, mixed with roars of laughter. "Don't forget to shake it. That's right. Good boy."

  In response, Lenny's right fist rose above his head in a threatening motion. Then the fist continued its journey, raising the middle finger, combined with an upward motion. Unabated, the comments continued, "You're holding it with your left? That's not right—"

  A shearing sound interrupted everyone and brought instant silence among the group. Lenny turned, half-zipped, crouching to the ground. "What the fuck?"

  A fully armed unmanned combat aerial vehicle, UCAV, was approaching from the south. "Whose is it?" Lenny yelled.

  "American. We're fine, there's no action scheduled here today."

  "I hate these UCAVs; they scare the living shit out of me," Ryan said, serious now. "With a pilot, you can expect some judgment; but with a machine, you never know."

  "Newfie chicken, who would have guessed? They're safe, man, safer than the planes. There are pilots flying them drones, just like t
hey do real planes, only they fly them like toy cars, with remote controls." Jimmy, otherwise quiet, was the group's official geek, always ready to share his knowledge of anything to do with technology.

  "Still hate the goddamn things, man," Ryan continued. "Objects were not meant to fly like that and blow things up. Jesus, what the hell?"

  "But the robot we send into the mine field, you don't mind, do you? It's just like that, you idiot. It's just a flying robot, with a remote control, so pilots don't get killed or captured. You're too much of an idiot for me to keep explaining shit as simple as that." Jimmy waved away Ryan's ignorant concern.

  However, no one really felt safe. The UCAV changed its heading and started descending, approaching them. The men were able to distinguish the onboard sensor array cameras, rotating in search for targets.

  "Take cover!"

  The yell could have come from anyone. A couple of men crawled under the Nyala, whose blast-resistant belly had the potential to provide some protection from air strikes. Lenny was still crouching by the boulders, weighing his chances to make it back to the vehicle.

  From under the Nyala, they could hear the captain's voice. "Bravo One, Bravo One, this is Charlie Three, over. Bravo One, Bravo One, this is Charlie Three. Come in, damn it!"

  The UCAV took a position and launched a Hellfire missile, aimed at the group of sheepherders. The explosion followed shortly, among the men's screams.

  "Charlie Three, this is Bravo One, go ahead."

  Lenny crouched tighter, getting closer to the ground. "Oh, God . . ."

  "Bravo One, we're taking fire from an American drone, over."

  The UCAV slowly circled the area, scanning for more movement and heat signatures. It found a target. Taking position on the new object, it launched another Hellfire.

  Lenny's blood sprayed the Nyala's right front tire. His engraved lighter rolled into the ditch, reflecting the sunlight.

  The UCAV was scanning again for new targets. It had two more missiles left.

  ...Chapter 11: Honesty Required

  ...Tuesday, April 20, 9:40PM

  ...Ridgeview Apartments

  ...San Diego, California

  Page 26 of the recruiting form was loading on the screen. This last page began with a paragraph of instructions.

  Please read each question carefully, and reply truthfully. There are no wrong answers in this section.

  The first question came as a shock.

  Would you consider doing these things in order to reach your goal?

  Alex replied out loud, "Well, depends on the damn goal, now, doesn't it?"

  Lie?

  She started typing—Yes.

  Steal?

  She thought, Hmmm. Maybe—Yes.

  Kill?

  "What?"—No.

  Get someone physically intoxicated?

  Alex laughed, "Buy them beers until they drop? Why not?"—Yes.

  Use false identification?

  Yes.

  Blackmail?

  "Am I going to get arrested, based on what I say on this damn form? Um"—Yes.

  Cheat?

  "I'd rather not cheat on Mr. Right when I find him."—No. "I'll try intoxication first, then blackmail, and if that doesn't cut it, then I'll reconsider this."

  She chuckled, as she continued to fill out the form's numerous fields.

  Finally, a field marked Comments concluded the form.

  Alex looked at the digital clock on the wall. Four hours and 25 minutes had passed since she had started. It was already late, and she had just wasted more than four hours of her time on one single potential employer, instead of applying to at least 50 jobs during this time. She suddenly felt cheated, tired, and completely exposed. Why did I go through with this insanity? What was I thinking?

  She typed a question in the Comments field.

  Who are you people?

  Then she clicked on the large button at the bottom of the page marked Submit Questionnaire.

  A new page loaded on her screen.

  Meet us for an interview tomorrow, at 10:00AM, and you'll find out. The address is 8 Corporate Park, Suite 300, Irvine, California 92606.

  She suddenly felt she was not alone in the room anymore. Shivering, she copied the address on her notepad, turned off the computer, and poured herself a large Martini on top of the coffee leftovers in her mug.

  ...Chapter 12: The Interview

  ...Wednesday, April 21, 8:12AM

  ...Ridgeview Apartments

  ...San Diego, California

  Alex inhaled the aroma of her freshly brewed coffee.

  "Thank God for caffeine," she sighed. She was tired after tossing and turning most of the night, thinking about the 10:00AM interview. She felt awkward at the thought of meeting a prospective employer to whom she had already admitted she was willing to steal, lie, and what not, and she had admitted it in writing too.

  Getting behind the wheel of her car, her confidence started building. What do I have to lose? Her car was much like her apartment, with a variety of objects scattered on the seats and floor. It was a red convertible Suzuki Vitara, the only convertible SUV available for her budget. It suited her personality, and although the Vitara was a small-size SUV, the sporty feel of a four-by-four, manual-transmission convertible was able to bring her spirits up, every time she took it for a ride.

  Taking I-5 north toward Los Angeles, she reached the address in just over an hour and a half. It's not so close to home, but what a ride, she thought, still enchanted by the spectacular views presented by the scenic drive along the Pacific coast. She pulled into a parking spot marked "Reserved—Visitors." Looking up, she saw a three-story building, appearing crisp, clean, and dignified in its white finish, sparkling in the morning sun. Here we go. Good luck, young lady, you're gonna need it, she encouraged herself, while stepping into the elevator.

  The elevator stopped at the third floor and the doors silently glided open, allowing Alex to step directly into the reception area of The Agency. So they have the whole floor. Or floors. Good. She stepped up to the reception desk.

  "Good morning. I have a 10:00AM appointment—" She abruptly stopped her introduction, realizing she didn't have the name of the person she was supposed to meet. Damn. The receptionist didn't seem to mind.

  "Yes. Please take a seat; it will only be a few minutes."

  She sat down on a comfortable leather sofa and began looking around. Written on the wall above the reception desk, in golden letters with a shadow effect, the company name, The Agency, made quite an impression, despite its upright, neutral font. The reception area was spacious, decorated with a lot of taste and a lot of money. On the left side was an incomplete wall made of glass bricks, masking what could have been the corridor leading toward offices. Discrete spotlights were placed here and there to emphasize the effect of the sunshine reflections on the glass bricks. On the right side, large windows allowed the sunshine to light up the room, while offering a spectacular view of a park.

  The reception desk was a piece of furniture like no other Alex had ever seen. It appeared to be custom made, because it followed the shape and angles of the wall behind it. Three receptionists could sit at this monumental desk without even being able to touch one another. The entire visible surface had an impeccable dark oak, glossy finish.

  Showcasing this remarkable desk, the entire office floor was covered in thick, beige carpet, but there was little furniture. Aside from the reception desk and the sofa she was sitting on, there were only two armchairs, with a small coffee table between them, and a cast-iron newspaper holder close to the elevator. Strange.

  The elevator was still there, doors open. She looked closely at the elevator and noticed that no controls were visible next to the elevator doors. She turned her eyes to the receptionist. As if reading her mind, the receptionist turned her chair around and touched a button on a metallic panel, marked "Access" bolted to the wall behind her. The elevator doors closed without a sound.

  "Good morning, Miss Hoffmann
." A deep, powerful voice startled Alex. She stood up, ready to extend her arm for the usual handshake. In the black eyes of the handsome man standing in front of her, there was no willingness to shake hands.

  She replied, cautiously, "Good morning. How are you?"

  "Please, follow me." The man did not wait for her reply; he turned and walked around the glass brick wall into a dark corridor.

  I was right, Alex thought. As the man entered the corridor, a light came on by itself. Neat. He stopped in front of an office, knocked once, and opened the door. He stepped aside, indicating that Alex should enter. Without any introduction, he quietly closed the door and walked down the hall.

  "Welcome to The Agency, Miss Hoffmann." The man behind the desk was smiling widely and seemed friendly and open. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tom Isaac, and I'm in charge of The Agency. Please, sit down."

  She took her seat and looked around. It was an average office, with common office furniture—a desk, some chairs, two filing cabinets—and a window covered by Venetian blinds, partially blocking the sun. Nothing special about it.

  She answered politely, smiling back, "Nice to meet you. Thank you for inviting me." She put down her briefcase next to the chair. Ready as I'll ever be, she thought, waiting for the interview to begin.

  "So, please let me begin by asking, what kind of job are you looking for?"

  Something to pay the bills and have some fun while at it, if possible, she thought. Instead she answered by the book, her training and experience in interviewing taking over.

  "My ideal job is one that incorporates both my education and practical work skills to be the best I can be. Combining my education with a working knowledge of customer operations, my entrepreneurial abilities, computer skills, and administrative skills, I want to utilize my analytical expertise to help people meet their goals. This is exactly why I am convinced that I would be a valuable member of your team."