I clicked the keys popping open the trunk before lifting a girl in each hand and tossing them in one at a time.
My post-killing-spree high had me in full swing and I felt amazing. I closed the trunk; Later, I’d find somewhere to drop them. I wanted to bask in my victory for a few more minutes.
CHAPTER TWO
Krisan Swahili held her steaming hot coffee in one hand taking tepid sips every few seconds as she typed out her latest story for the Free Press. In the few months since Madisun left town, crime was down, gang activity was down, and the city was generally a happier place. It was giving the police enough breathing room to make some headway. Not that they would ever admit to anything other than their own diligence and budget increases as responsible.
Krisan knew the truth.
Despite only acting as the Wraith for a few days, Madi had made quite the impression on the local underworld. It had kept Krisan in articles for three months. But now, things were starting to quiet down and Krisan was feeling the buzz, the itch for something exciting.
Like people trying to kill me?
She shook her head and let out a giggle. With the last of her Starbucks gone, she tossed the cup into the wastebasket. “Two points,” she muttered as she closed out her article and sent it off to her editor.
The little office she occupied in the corner at the Free Press was cluttered with old magazines, half-read books, and notebooks with pages and pages of barely legible scrawls filling the inside. Sometimes she was in a hurry when she wrote.
Her phone beeped, alerting her to a breaking news story. She brought it up, eyes scanning across the message before she swiped it open.
Over one hundred dead, largest single gang-land slaying in New Orleans history. Police suspect rival gang.
The headline was next to useless. Everything was clickbait anymore, forcing her to read the actual articles. Lucky for her she could read faster than the average bear.
Oh Madi, you really went after them.
The vigilante had said as much when she left town. Still, part of Krisan had hoped the ex-model would find some peace. But no, she was in Louisiana raising hell.
It sounded like things in New Orleans were exciting… far more exciting than Detroit. She looked around her office one more time, wondering if she should double check to see if she had everything.
Why start now?
She grabbed her scarf, phone, and Walmart purse before walking out of the office to her editor. He wasn’t going to like what she had to say, but that never stopped her before.
“How’s my star reporter?”
Krisan grimaced. She’d won one Courage in Journalism award and all of a sudden she was a ‘star reporter.’ She waved her hand, brushing the compliment aside.
“Quitting,” she said matter-of-factually.
His face fell. She could envision the calculations going through his mind. Could he give her a raise? No. The DFP was on the verge of bankruptcy. Despite an uptick of traffic on their website, nothing short of a miracle could keep them from going out of business.
“But… but..”
“I’m sorry for the lack of notice, but, well not really. Have a nice day?” She turned and walked toward the elevator banks. The situation was already behind her and she was already looking forward.
It would take a few hours to close out her lease, pack up for the trip, and make arrangements for the stuff she couldn’t take with her.. She hated flying, trains, busses; really anything that didn’t involve her direct control. However, she would make an exception this time. Madi moved fast and if Krisan didn’t hurry, she’d miss the story.
Would it be cold there? She didn’t really give any thought to the organization that had already tried to kill her on multiple occasions, not to mention the time they tried to sell her into sexual slavery.
She was more worried about packing enough scarfs.
CHAPTER THREE
Vaas cursed as he watched the news unfold on the obscenely large TV that decorated the far wall of the Presidential suite he occupied on the top floor of The Deck, his HQ here in New Orleans. He liked the place, liked the people, like the money and privilege. He didn’t like complications.
“What the hell is this?” he asked his aide.
“Russians, maybe?”
Vaas shook his head. In the two years since they moved into New Orleans, things had gone so well. They practically owned Louisiana, from the governor on down to the local police. He could pick up the phone and have any of his men freed from jail, and anyone else he wanted, jailed. It was a long way up from the kid who grew up on the mean streets of Mexico City.
He ran a hand over his shaved head; the quarter-inch stubble bristled against him as he tried to figure out who could have done this. Russians was a guess, but just a guess. Raker had powers, powers that kept him alive. Whoever killed him certainly knew that and was able to get around them. As for the rest of the men at the meeting? Well, they were all replaceable… in time. Raker though, he was their linchpin. His ability to control people was how they kept the more resistant elements in the city in line. They still had the blackmail on the people he controlled, so even if they did slip his bonds, they wouldn’t be going against ISO anytime soon.
Still… dammit.
“It’s not the Russians. It’s not their style,” Vaas said. The Vory, the Russian mafia, loved the big show; if it was them they would have already called to brag about it.
“Dude! who else would dare attack us?” His younger brother, Peter, was on the leather couch sipping a forty-ounce beer while cleaning his polished silver revolver for the nineteenth time. Vaas ignored him.
“If it wasn’t the Russians…” Manuel said, “Then it has to be the Italians.”
Vaas shook his head again. They’d broken the back of the Italian Mafia twenty years ago. No, this was someone new. Someone powerful. ISO-1 had spent the last three years building up their power base; they controlled people at every level of government. When the DMHA collapsed after the incident in Washington DC, it left the country ripe for takeover.
Not the megalomaniac kind; the get-rich-or-die-trying kind. And ISO had indeed gotten rich. The last numbers back from Mexico rivaled most third world countries GDP. More than enough money to control half of North America and intimidate the other half. There wasn’t a major criminal or legitimate organization on the planet they didn’t have their hooks into.
And they hadn’t seen this coming.
“How many guys you think they used to do this?” Manuel asked.
“At least a hundred,” Peter answered him.
The news reporter on the scene held his hand to his ear and blanched. Vaas grabbed the remote from the table and turned up the volume. The police had arrived before Vaas’ own people could, meaning the scene was going to be reported on. Still, he had a heads up from the local precinct that something had happened.
“This just in. It looks like… I have to warn viewers that what I am about to say is graphic, please if there are young children in the room or if you are sensitive to violence, don’t listen.”
“Come on, get to it,” Peter said, waving his gun around the room.
“Okay, I’m being given the go-ahead to talk about it now,” the reporter said. The man was dressed in a typical black suit, he was in his late thirties. They had set up in the cul-de-sac in front of Raker’s mansion with the front doors framed behind him. “The police are reporting at least thirty bodies within—”
Vaas missed what he said next because Peter started swearing at the TV. He marched over and cuffed his little brother in the back of the head. “Quiet.”
Peter ducked away but kept his mouth shut.
“—It’s unbelievable. I don’t think… they are saying the victims have all been decapitated. That the majority of the bodies are piled in a room where all the doors and windows were locked… The room is riddled with gunfire and explosions. This may be the worst atrocity New Orleans has ever seen—”
Vaas shut the T
V off; he didn’t want to hear any more. His brother opened his mouth to speak and Vaas slapped him in the head with the remote. “Get out,” he yelled at Peter. Hurt but obedient, Peter jumped up and walked to the adjoining suite.
Once Peter was gone Vaas had a moment of silence to think.
“Decapitated…” Manuel said. “That’s… who would do that?”
Vaas shrugged, he had no idea. Whoever was behind it had to have an army with them. It certainly wasn’t the feds or the Saints. They wouldn’t kill everyone in the room… and lock the doors and decapitate them. The thought of what happened to those men sent a shiver through his spine.
“We might need some help here. Contact the Council, see if they have anyone they can spare.”
Manuel nodded. “I’m on it.” He left through the front door a moment later.
Vaas returned to his desk and pushed the volume control back up. He hated to listen to it, but he needed to know everything he could. Whatever organization was behind this had just declared war on the wrong people. No group could hide from ISO-1. He grinned. Maybe he would see to the execution of their leaders personally.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Hellcat was every bit as fun to drive as it appeared. The engine roared when I applied even a little gas, the seat hugged me like glove, and the steering responded to my every touch. I had to say, I loved that car. The post killing high had worn off a few hours before, it didn’t leave me drained this time. Sometimes I’ll feel awesome afterword, sometimes like I ran a marathon. The unpredictability of how it affected me was a little frustrating.
“The only time it drains you is when you use your powers but don’t kill enough people to make up for it,” Sara said calmly from the passenger seat. I freaked out, slamming the brakes with both feet while twisting the wheel. The tires screamed as the car slid to a halt. I closed my eyes for a second and waited.
Please oh please go away.
She was gone when I opened them. That was the third time I had seen her since Joseph bequeathed me his powers. Was it a coincidence? Or was I losing my mind? I do miss her, every dang day. I miss all of them. I don’t know, maybe my conscious is playing tricks on me. After killing all those people I keep waiting for the guilt to set it in. But… it hasn’t. I have emotions, clearly, but I can’t muster any compassion for these animals.
My hands are shaking on the wheel and I flexed them a few times to regain some control. The car idled but I had I had to take a moment to keep my hands from shaking before I took off again. The engine rumbled as I slowly accelerated back down the quiet suburban road.
Having driven these streets a million times as a teen I could find my old home with my eyes closed. Despite being in the city for the last month while preparing for my war on ISO-1, I hadn’t returned home yet. Tomorrow, things would get real. I wanted to see the house, even if it was burned down, one more time.
The lane we lived on had a number of tall, shady trees lining the streets, blocking me from seeing the house as I drove down the street. I think the thing I looked forward to most was Mom’s garden. Even if the house was still sitting in it’s burned out state, the garden would be there. Who knew, maybe someone bought it and rebuilt it, then they maybe had saved the—
I slammed on the brakes, skidding the car to a halt and jumping out the second I had it in park. I ran to the empty lot; neatly bulldozed. Leveled, with no sign or trace that I had ever lived there. That Sara had ever lived there. No garden, no foundation, nothing. Not even the place Charles and I buried Stinky Pete, our cat who died when we were eight. We’d cried and cried over that dumb cat’s little box. Dad was so mad when we came home with a gravestone we’d made at school. Of course, he hated that cat.
The dirt was compact. I didn’t leave a trace as I walked across the lot. A crack of thunder sounded in the distance and rain began to fall. As if the world could feel my emotions.
The rain soaked me in seconds. I didn’t care. I pictured the last time I saw Sara’s smiling face—the way she made me laugh when talked on Skype. I walked over to where the door to the garage used to be, the spot we both died in and I fell to my knees, my head dropping to my chest.
The world hadn’t frozen, it hadn’t moved on, it simply erased them from existence. No house, no remains, nothing. As if we were never even alive. I don’t know how long I sat in the rain, frozen in my grief and anger.
It was long enough to start shivering. I took a deep breath and let it all out until I could stand. The water had saturated my leather jacket and soaked me to the bone. I stood up, shook off my hair and made my way back to the idling Hellcat. I was such an idiot. Not taking advantage of the time I had with them. I had dreaded every Thanksgiving, because of things that didn’t matter anymore. Charles’ death wrecked me. It wrecked our family. Sara could have healed it, if I had let her. In my pride and stubbornness, I refused to forgive Dad, Mom… even myself.
I sat down behind the wheel, shutting the door. Rain pelted the car, soothing me with its drumming sound. I may not be able to tell them I love them or ask for their forgiveness. But I can make the people who took them away pay.
I smiled at the thought. Oh they were going to pay, they just didn’t have enough to cover the bill.
CHAPTER FIVE
In Detroit I made a few mistakes, mostly because I was in love with my new-found ability to defend myself. Now, in New Orleans, I needed to even more care. The only thing some people feared was the unknown. I must remain a Wraith to keep them afraid. As a rumor, I was unstoppable.
Which is why I was at the docks five hours after I left my parents’ bulldozed lot. A cup of hot coffee bolstered by a couple of energy shots keeps me alert. I’ve spent the last month scouting out locations, routines, key personnel—everything I could learn about ISO-1. I had wandered the city as a homeless black woman. No one even batted an eye. With a pencil, a map, and a library card I was able to find virtually every location they had in the city. It was how I triggered their big meeting yesterday; I found and took out the dockyard lieutenant. He had been a fountain of intel. Now he’s sleeping with the fish. Fitting justice if you ask me.
The low warehouse I was atop had no protection from the elements, just a small two-foot-tall wall running along the roof edge, punctuated by drains spaced ten feet apart. I was using it as cover, just poking my eyes above to watch. The sun wasn’t up yet, but the activity down on the docks from the Russian-registered cargo ship was my target.
With the rain and wind, it was hard to see, but I didn’t want to risk binoculars; the glint off the glass could give me away and as unlikely as that was, I didn’t want to take the chance. The ISO-1 people are easy enough to spot; they’re all locals, milling about watching the Russians offload pallets of what I presumed were weapons. The last man I killed yesterday had said it was an arms deal.
Four semis were backed up with ubiquitous containers already loaded on the back. A forklift zoomed back and forth, loading in the pallets as fast as the crew unloaded them. I didn’t know a lot about docks, but was pretty sure that having the ship’s crew unload the cargo was usually a no-no.
I called upon a little bit of my power, enhancing my vision and sharpening my hearing as I scanned each person down there. They were tense, nervous, fingering their weapons and constantly swiveling their heads, watching for trouble.
I smiled at that. It was nice to know I was having an effect. Since I was going to be here for a while I had stopped at a Walmart and bought a hiking style rain poncho. It did a pretty good job of keeping me dry while I waited. I was still wet from earlier, but I could endure this. I’d gone through worse.
Much worse.
As the sun finally made its appearance the crew finished their loading. I counted over fifty pallets. Whatever ISO-1 was buying, they were buying a lot of it. When they were done, the Russians locked the trucks and dispatched the convoy: four semis and four black SUVs. The semis had Russians in them, the SUVs were loaded with locals. As each semi pulled out, an SUV moved out
behind them. This was going to be tricky. The docks had several exits, but I was on the roof of the building next to the most used entrance. Sure enough, they came my way.
“Here we go,” I muttered as I stood up and started sprinting across the rain-soaked rooftop. Water splashed against my leather pants as I ran at full speed for the far side. Other than my senses, I hadn’t kicked in any of my other powers. What Sara said in the car had me thinking I shouldn’t use them as much, or as casually.
I timed it just right, leaping over the ledge and falling through the air as the last truck passed under me. I hit the corrugated metal with a bang, rolled and slid to a stop, grasping for a handhold to keep from flying off the far side.
“Ow,” I said as I pulled myself into a crouch. I knew the rear door was locked, and wouldn’t do me any good—not with the SUV babysitting them. However, I didn’t need a door. I crawled along to the front, staying as low as possible, not only to avoid being seen but also to keep from blowing off in the gusts of wind. Despite their design, the containers weren’t waterproof, just tough. Near the front, according to the library book I read, was the weakest part of the container.
Once I was there, I looked for any holes; nothing. That was okay. I brought my own hole maker: a one-handed five-pound sledge and a metal pike. I placed the tip on the bottom of the s-curve of metal and retrieved the sledge from my belt. I waited for us to pass under a bridge and when we did, swung with all my might. The loud bang the sledge produced a dent and the sound was hidden by the loud engine confined under the bridge. As dad always said, nothing worth having was easy.
Another bridge came up and I swung again, this time hard enough to punch a hole clean through. I carefully slipped the hammer back through the loop on my belt and the pike in my pocket. Leave no trace, just like a Boy Scout. Not that I was one.
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