Danger Close

by Allen Manning

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  A "Nine" Millie Espionage Thriller

  CHAPTER

  1

  Miami. The city was blessed with beautiful weather and filled with beautiful people all year round. The party scene was a haven for the rich, and Jordan Blaise was rich. New money, a millionaire who came upon his fortunes within the past few years. It was this wealth that afforded him the clothes, jewelry, and cars that helped him fit in with the crowd. The attention he got as a wealthy young man in Miami was a vast improvement over his paycheck to paycheck days as a wage slave.

  Saving up for a car during the market crash of 2008, Jordan found himself in the perfect position to use that nest egg to take advantage of the recovery, entering the market at its lowest point in over a decade. He saw his investments climb before discovering the rush of day trading. Jordan spent the next few years clawing his way to financial freedom, finally earning the lifestyle he once envied while working a day job.

  Now he sat behind the wheel of a Lamborghini, with two beautiful women riding with him. The blonde in the passenger side had her head and one arm out the window, laughing and shouting at the suckers they passed. A raven-haired woman with emerald green eyes sat in his lap with one arm wrapped around the back of his neck, and the other steering the powerful sports car as they sped down Florida’s famous A1A. Her floral perfume filled his nostrils as he breathed in deeply.

  Jordan kept his foot on the gas and wrapped his hands around the woman’s slim waist as he let out a loud victory howl, feeling the wind whipping through his hair.

  “My life is in your hands,” he said, closing his eyes.

  The trio of daredevils flew down the highway, shouting in glee as the fast paced thumping beats blared from the speakers.

  Finally, he grabbed the wheel and took a series of turns, until they reached his rented beach house. He pulled the car up front and killed the engine, still laughing and cheering with his two dates. The night air cooled, but still held on to the humidity. A thin sheen of perspiration covered his body, from the thrill of their ride.

  The trio staggered into the foyer of the large house, and Jordan struggled to find the lights. When he finally hit the switch, the warm incandescent glow highlighted the marble floors and designer furniture in the living room.

  “Ladies, make yourself at home. I’ll get us some cocktails.”

  Jordan made his way to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator. He searched the cupboards, looking for suitable glasses, giving up and picking three mismatched tumblers. Pinching the glasses between the fingers of one hand, he snatched the neck of the bottle with the other and headed back into the living room.

  The women were in the guest bathroom, giggling and talking in low voices. With a goofy grin, Jordan placed the drinks on the coffee table and headed over to the stereo. He docked his phone in the charging station, picking up the playlist where they left off in the car.

  Jordan pulled a small bag of white powder from his pocket and dropped it next to the glasses. He unbuttoned his shirt and took off his belt, dropping onto the plush sofa, sinking into the soft cushions.

  The door behind him opened, and one of the women walked over. He kept his eyes shut, listening to her stiletto heels clicking on the floor as she sauntered to him. The long strides told him it was the taller of the two, with the long raven locks falling in loose curls around her shoulders.

  She slid her hands down his chest, settling on her knees, behind the couch as she nibbled on his ear.

  “Where’s your friend?” Jordan asked. “I’ve got some party favors here.” He gestured to the cocaine and champagne on the table.

  The woman leaned in close, letting her hair drape over his shoulder. “She’ll be right out. I let her know I would help warm you up.” She bit his earlobe and pulled away, plucking the soft flesh.

  Again, the floral scent filled his senses. “What’s that perfume you’re wearing?”

  “It’s Jasmine.” She snaked her hand into his t-shirt and gently raked her fingernails across the thin curly hair on the milky flesh of his chest.

  “It’s,” he searched for the best word to describe the pleasant smell, “downright intoxicating.”

  “Well, we need to make sure your senses are nice and sharp for this.” She reached behind her back and pulled the drawstring from her bikini top and pulled it over her head, letting the turquoise and white garment hang in front of Jordan’s face.

  He felt the woman’s bare breasts pressing into the back of his neck as she laid her top loosely across his chest, like a necklace. He spread his arms out along the back of the couch, pressing his head back into her chest.

  “I’m ready when you are,” he said, barely containing his glee.

  He felt her breath on his cheek as she leaned in.

  She whispered into his ear, “You got too greedy, Blaise. Rebecca Flair sends her regards.”

  “Wha—”

  She pulled the bikini top, wrapping the ends around each hand. It slid up his chest, wrapping it around his neck. Pulling the ends together, the woman turned to place her back against the couch and leaned forward, with the drawstrings draped over her shoulder.

  Jordan gasped, struggling to slip a finger underneath the ligature to relieve some of the pressure. A thin piano wire embedded into the fabric sliced through the first few layers of his flesh as blood trickled down, forming a spreading crimson stain on the collar of the millionaire’s two-hundred dollar t-shirt. In the throes of death, he kicked off of the coffee table, forcing his body up and over the back of the couch. The assassin rose to her feet, supporting the weight of his upper body by the garrote around his throat.

  After a few more futile moments, his body went limp, as a gurgling raspy breath escaped his swollen parted lips. The mystery woman released her grip letting Jordan’s body hit the floor. She turned to face him, tilting her head to make sure her target was dead. Satisfied with the outcome, she walked over to the beach bag on the other end of the room and pulled off her wig, revealing short cropped oak brown hair.

  She dropped the wig into the bag and pulled out a short blue dress, slipping it over her head to cover her half-naked body. The woman straightened and smoothed the fabric and ran her fingers through her hair, checking the mirror to give it some semblance of style quickly. She blew a kiss at her reflection and scooped the bag up and pulled out her phone.

  The woman took two pictures of Jordan’s body, making sure his face was in focus and framed in the shot. On her way out, she grabbed the keys to the Lamborghini and left through the front door.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Plano, Texas. The droning buzz of insects filled the warm humid air. A young woman stood in the center of an abandoned house, broken bits of plaster, trash, and other detritus covered the floors. Her breathing had only now slowed to a reasonable level as the adrenaline left her system. Her arms and hands ached, and the strength in her legs waned.

  Massaging her wrist, the young woman looked at the scrapes and marks on her once terra-cotta skin. Years of staying indoors faded the color, but the intense training toughened her flesh, along with the muscle and bone underneath. Her name was Millie. At least the only name she remembered.

  At her feet was a body. Eyes still open, the woman on the floor was covered in her own blood and lay in a large pool of the sticky red fluid. She tried to kill Millie, tracking her down to this small abandoned house to strike. Or more accurately, Millie had led the woman to the house to spring her trap. She spotted her assailant on her tail earlier that afternoon and had hoped to escape without having to engage.

  Millie’s training gave her the skills to detect the woman stalking her through the small Texas town hours earlier. Unable to break free to disappear, she knew it was only a matter of time before the hunter found an opportunity to take her shot. Millie had to take control of the situation, so she found a run-down neighborhood with a few
foreclosed houses in disrepair. Millie made a show of digging around the house, to pull up some grass suitable for use as makeshift bedding, before heading inside.

  The fight was over in a flash but had taken its toll on her. She disarmed her attacker the moment the other woman entered the house, forcing her to fight hand to hand. Millie banked on the fact that her pursuer focused more on firearms, and less on the up close dirty work that she had been taught.

  The dead woman lay in the middle of the run down house, blood no longer pouring from the puncture wounds in the side of her neck. Millie still held the galvanized nail she used to deliver the killing blows. She let the sharpened bit of metal fall to the ground, settling into the layer of garbage. The woman carried a Walther P99 pistol, which she never had a chance to employ in the fight. Her keyring had only a single key fob with a Mercedes Benz logo, and a small USB flash drive. Millie couldn’t find any identification or any other weapons. She shed her now blood-stained t-shirt and used it to wipe her hands clean, as best she could. She managed to keep most of the blood off of the tank top she wore underneath.

  Pushing herself back to her feet with shaky arms, Millie ran her fingers through short, sweat-soaked hair and pocketed the keyring. She walked over to the pistol and press-checked it, finding a live round in the chamber. A breeze pulled the smell of the grass and bushes into the house, mixing with the salty tang of blood and sweat. The scents pulled Millie’s thoughts into her past.

  She pushed the memories to the back of her mind, heading outside to find the would-be assassin’s car. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in oranges and reds. She could feel the temperature of the air dropping, but in the Texas weather, she knew it would hold on to much of the heat throughout the night.

  Inside the Mercedes, the other woman kept a messenger bag in the back seat. Millie retrieved it and shut the door before slipping into the driver’s seat. She placed the pistol into the center console and dug through the bag. Jackpot. Millie pulled out a fat roll of cash, mostly twenty dollar bills, but more than a few Ben Franklins hung out in the roll as well. She dug deeper into the bag and found a burner cell phone and a file folder with a few hard copies of what looked like pages about Millie’s training and possible whereabouts.

  They found her. They were hunting her now.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Nine Years Ago

  A nine-year-old girl, paralyzed by fear, sat on her knees in the middle of a dusty road. Her face was streaked with the tears that cut through the layers of dirt on her cheeks. She didn’t remember when, or why, but she stopped crying what seemed like a lifetime ago. The young girl twisted her head slowly from one end of the street to the other. The sounds of gunfire and screams from the people in her village barely registered, only muffled shadows of what they were moments before.

  Half an hour earlier, a fleet of pickup trucks rolled into the town, full of men armed with assault rifles, pistols, and shotguns. Without provocation, the army of marauders kicked down every door, pulling out anyone inside, before looting the houses, shops, and the church. The soldiers started burning the ransacked husks and rounded up the people, separating the children from the others. Without hesitation, the attackers gunned down anyone that put up a fight.

  The little girl sat in the middle of the street, watching it all play out around her. She hadn’t been making any noise, sitting still while they moved from building to building. She saw them load the kids into the backs of trucks, driving away one by one as each reached capacity. They pulled adults from the second group, looking for the weakest of the village. Lined up in front of their own burning houses, they were executed by firing squads. Were they the lucky ones?

  “Hey, there’s one more,” one of the armed men said, speaking Spanish.

  “How did you idiots miss her?” another asked.

  He slung his AK-47 over his shoulder and walked over to the girl on the road. A few of the men in the crowd stepped forward to beg and protest. Each one fell as the soldiers struck them with their rifle butts. The man in charge of the marauders shouted over his shoulder for the others to maintain order, as he hooked a hand under the girl’s arm, hoisting her up with an almost angry jerk. He shoved her forward as one of the villagers that had been struck stood up again.

  “Kill them all. None of them would last a day in the camps,” The lead soldier said. He grabbed a handful of the girl’s long black hair and shoved her to one of the remaining pickups.

  She flinched as the ear-piercing crackle of automatic gunfire split the air. The man opened the passenger door of the truck’s cab and tossed her into the seat, shoving her into the middle as he climbed in. The driver got in on the other side and started the engine.

  They discussed the best place to take their captive, with one suggesting that the rest of the trucks were only a few minutes ahead. They would be able to catch up quickly.

  “I don’t want to babysit this brat for six hours,” the passenger said. “Turn left up there. We’ll take her to Sofía.”

  * * *

  The pickup bounced and rumbled over the rough roads for almost an hour. The man in charge had directed the driver to pull off the main road a while back. The truck’s occupant’s had been tossed about until they reached a clearing. The ride smoothed out, and a path led up to a ranch off in the distance.

  “Pull over. Outside the gates. Don’t go inside,” the man in the passenger seat said, directing the driver to park the truck.

  He pulled the girl out of the cab and shoved her forward. She almost fell to her knees, staggering ahead. She saw a woman approaching but quickly dipped her eyes back down watching the ground at her feet as the man prodded her ahead.

  “We’ve got another one for you, Sofía,” the man said.

  “This is not what we agreed upon,” Sofía said, speaking heavily accented English.

  “You said girls. Five hundred each,” he replied in broken English.

  The girl didn’t understand the exchange, keeping her eyes averted.

  The woman bent down and pulled the scared child’s gaze up with a finger under her chin. Sofía dressed like a school teacher, wearing a white button up shirt tucked into an ankle length dark blue skirt. Her eyes softened when she saw how scared the girl was. She gestured to another woman, also dressed as a teacher. “Wait over there, please.”

  The scared little girl nodded and shuffled her feet. The second teacher met her halfway, before leading her back into the safety of the compound’s wooden post fence. The first woman turned to address the two men.

  The driver held his rifle by its sling over his shoulder, letting his eyes wander everywhere but on the woman talking to his boss. The man in charge had his weapon hanging across his chest, hand resting on the grip, with the other placed on top of the rifle’s fore end. Their discussion was terse, as they spat back and forth in short angry sentences, switching between Spanish and English.

  Sofía pointed back to the truck and waved the two men away. The leader of the kidnappers adjusted his grip, holding his AK in a low ready position. He took a step forward, posturing as he spoke, nodding his head toward the little girl. The muzzle of his weapon rose, and the girl had difficulty following what happened.

  Sofia brushed the rifle muzzle toward the ground, while her other hand flashed to her waistband. She circled her hand to the front, against her hip, and dropped her elbow, sending two sharp cracks. Two red spots puffed out from the man’s shirt, and the sudden chaos sent the girl scurrying behind the other woman for protection.

  With practiced ease, Sofía brought her hands together, gripping her pistol in both hands. The weapon spit out a spark, followed by a third thunderclap, as a hole appeared in the man’s forehead.

  In less than a second, she shot him three times. He was dead before his body hit the dirt. The second man looked on in wide-eyed horror. Every possible option he should take raced through his mind. He kept his weapon slung and turned to run for the truck. Sofía followed with measure
d steps, never breaking her stride as she put three rounds into the fleeing kidnapper between his shoulder blades.

  She covered the rest of the distance and shot him in the back of the head. Sofía turned and walked back toward the girl, pulling a spare magazine from behind her other hip. She released the empty magazine, pinching it between her pinky and ring finger, before reloading her Officer’s model 1911.

  She spoke to the other woman and pointed to the two dead men. The second woman ran off to bring a group to clean up the mess. Sofía knelt in front of the girl and tilted her head to look her in the eye, again softening her expression to ease the tension. She spoke to the girl in Spanish, asking what her name is, saying that her’s is Sofía.

  “¿Cómo te llamas? Yo me llamo Sofía.”

  The child looked up at her perceived rescuer, and a fresh stream of tears began to flow from her eyes. She shook her head, either unwilling or unable to speak, much less give her name. In the trauma caused by the attack on the village, she could only recall the horrific scene of the grown-ups in her town viciously gunned down, playing on a loop through her mind.

  “I had an aunt named Millicent,” Sofía said. “You remind me of her. She was my favorite aunt, but I always thought her name was a bit too long for my tastes. Can I call you Millie?”

  Execution Style

  The Manning Brothers

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