Stories by Kiera Dellacroix

by Dellacroix, Kiera

  "Terry, how did Cameron become The Wraith?" Bob asked curiously. "That information wasn't in her file and I'm also curious as to how she became classified within the Organization itself?"

  Terry turned back to the table. "On her third assignment she was teamed with an operative who was on the retirement short list. The target was legitimate but intelligence was purposefully misleading so I could prove her worth to the Director who as you know, has never been fond of involuntary operatives. The short list operative was intentionally wounded by a third operative who Cameron was unaware of," he explained mildly. "She not only killed the target, she eliminated a security staff which consisted of thirteen, all at point blank range and out in the open with no support. In addition, she killed the operative she was teamed with upon discovering he was wounded and couldn't escape if she attempted to save him. Needless to say, the Director was beyond impressed and immediately segregated her from the rest of the Organization."

  "As for her identifier, it came from a news report in the country where the incident had taken place. An elderly woman was witness to the hit and told both the authorities and the local media that the attack had been carried out by a singular entity. A lone female, a wraith. Which by definition is an apparition that one sees just before death," he shrugged casually. "The name seemed fitting."

  Bob nodded. "I see."

  "Alright, the Satterfield situation should be our priority at the moment. Let's deal with it first." Terry reached for the phone and opened a line.

  "Richards," came the voice from the speaker.

  "Ben, we have you on speaker here, what's your location?" Terry asked.

  "Hyatt Regency, Atlanta."

  "Good, here's the situation. We've got a possible way of locating Satterfield. You'll need to be ready to move on it immediately if it pans out."

  "Is there a window?"

  "I'd say if it doesn't pay off in the next thirty-six hours it's not going to happen."

  "Very well."

  "Furthermore, we've got a hostile involved. In the event that you have to move, an encounter with the hostile is a probability. You'll have to close on Satterfield as quickly as possible."

  "I understand. What exactly am I dealing with as far as the hostile is concerned?"

  "A rogue."

  "One of ours?"

  "Yes."

  "Identity?"

  "The Wraith."

  The conversation came to a complete standstill for a long moment.

  "Fuckin'A, do I get back up?" Richards finally asked.

  "You're it at the moment, all others have been recalled and will be dispatched as they become available."

  "What exactly are the chances of an encounter?"

  "Unless you can close on Satterfield quickly and deal with the situation an encounter is almost guaranteed. The Wraith will be moving on Satterfield at the same time you are."

  "So it's a race."

  "Yes."

  Another long silence.

  "Do you understand the situation, Mr. Richards?" Terry asked finally.

  "We'll be ready," Ben said.

  "Good luck, Mr. Rich…" Terry started but the line was already dead.

  Terry closed his eyes. "Goddamn it," he whispered. "Alright, lets break this up. Bob, I need you to make those inquiries. The rest of you study the file; we still need a game plan. Unless we get movement on Satterfield, I'll see all of you in this room at 6:00 tomorrow morning."

  Terry collected his briefcase and made his way out of the room and back to his office. Upon entering, he walked straight to his chair and put his head on the desk in front of him.

  --------

  Martin entered his motel room and threw himself face first onto the bed, lying there until the aroma of a Big Mac and fries overwhelmed him. Rolling over, he put both pillows up against the headboard, sat up and leaned into them. Grabbing the remote off the nightstand he clicked on the TV and reached for the bag of food he had brought in with him.

  Happily munching on his burger and fries, he coughed spasmodically when he heard his name come from the television.

  "… Martin Satterfield, a high-ranking State Department employee wanted on charges of high treason. Earlier in the day, authorities attempted to arrest Satterfield at his residence and met resistance as he fled on foot and ruthlessly gunned downed Ted Dillon, Satterfield's next door neighbor who had stepped outside his home at the sound of gunfire…"

  The sound of the television faded out as he stared thunderstruck at the screen displaying his government identification photo, a completely forgotten mouthful of half eaten food dribbling out of his mouth and down his chin. His eyes began to tear as it dawned on him that he had never stopped to think his situation all the way through. High treason and murder was not something that would be forgotten in a month or two. I'm fucked! If the story was being broadcast on the local news in Greenville, South Carolina, it was a pretty good bet that it was being broadcast nationally. Everyone in the country now had the potential to recognize him.

  He berated himself. Did he really believe that this would be a problem solved in a few days and he could happily go about his life again? And just what the fuck did he think he was doing anyway? The Cameron woman would probably kill him on sight. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

  He got up from the bed, walked to the bathroom and closed the door. He sat down on the toilet and put his head in his hands, slowly gathering his composure and exploring his options. If he was to remain on his own it was only a matter of time before he was caught. He didn't have the money or the resources to long elude capture. Would Cameron help him or would she dispose of him as soon as she had what she needed? Her file indicated that she was very efficient at tying up loose ends and isn't that exactly what he would become, a loose end?

  As far as he could see, he really had very few alternatives. Bailey Cameron was his only option and his only hope of survival. He knew he was out his league, but Cameron had survived over a decade in an occupation that left no room for mistakes. The decision was pretty simple; he would have to place his trust in her.

  He got up and left the bathroom to collapse in bed. It was around a two-hour drive to Atlanta and he wanted to be there by 10:00am. God, what if my mother watched the news tonight? He thought as he drifted off to sleep.

  III

  They were all in love with dyin',

  They were drinkin' from a fountain,

  That was pourin' like an avalanche,

  Comin' down the mountain.

  - G. Haynes

  Bailey took her time getting up and about; being more than a little nervous about facing Piper. In fact, she had gotten very little sleep the night before. No matter how hard she tried, her thoughts kept returning to the time she had spent yesterday in her company. She was a little unnerved that the woman had invaded her personal space so easily, as at no time in her adult life had she let anyone that close to her person. Knowing she would have to make an appearance, she walked into the other room and got a cigarette from the pack on her desk in an attempt to shake the nervousness. Upon lighting it, she realized that she hadn't had a cigarette in the morning for as far back as she could remember and she took a moment to examine that fact from all angles. It wasn't just nervousness. She was a little stunned to realize that she was anxious and looking forward to being around the woman again. Puzzled, she shook her head and walked out the door to the elevator, telling herself that she was making a big a deal out of nothing.

  She exited the elevator and traveled the short distance to the turn that led to her office. Rounding the corner, she found herself immensely disappointed to see that Piper wasn't there. Scowling, and dragging her feet a little, she walked past Piper's desk and opened the door to her office, coming to an abrupt halt as her eyes tracked to the foreign object. There was a single red rose in a vase sitting squarely in the middle of her desk. Shutting the door and making sure that no one was hiding in the corners, she let a ridiculously wide smile take control of her feature
s. She walked over to her desk, dropped into her chair, and for a long time just sat there studying the rose as she tried to analyze what she was feeling. It took her a while, but to her surprise she found that she was happy. After wondering what happiness felt like for the last fifteen years, it was a bit of an epiphany to realize that all it took was a petite redhead to give her a flower. It was a feeling she decided she didn't want to lose.

  She booted her computer and opened up her mail program, chewing on her lower lip nervously while she typed for a few minutes and sent out the first dinner invitation of her life. Once the mail was on its way, she leaned back with a little grin and stared at her flower. Torn from her musings thirty minutes later by the ringing of her cell phone, she glanced at the ID before she answered and scowled; not liking what she saw at all.

  "Wraith," she answered tonelessly.

  "Uhm… Is this Bailey Ann Cameron?"

  "Who's speaking please?"

  "M… Miss Cameron, this is Martin Satterfield…"

  "How did you get this number?" she interrupted.

  "It…it was the number on your file, I… I really need to talk to you. I am…I mean I was…Terry McKraken's assistant," Martin stammered.

  "I see, and what can I do for you, Mr. Satterfield?"

  "They tried to kill me yesterday, I… I have your file…the original… and I know…"

  "You know what, Mr. Satterfield?" she interrupted again, hearing a deep breath being taken on the other end.

  "I know where your family is, Miss Cameron," he said in a rush. "But I need your help."

  "Run that by me again."

  "I need your help."

  "No, the other part," she said with controlled patience.

  "Uhm... I know where your family is," Martin repeated feeling stupid. "They're going to kill me, Miss Cameron. They've already tried once."

  "Where are you?"

  "In Atlanta, uhm… at the Ramada Inn Six Flags, Room 416."

  "Stay put, I'll be there shortly."

  "I will, thank you, Miss Cameron," Martin said relieved. "I…"

  She pressed end before he could finish and had stood up from her chair when the cell phone rang again. She looked at the ID and broke into a run for the elevator.

  --------

  A glance at his watch told him it was 11:36am. Terry had been listening to his staff throw the problem of his current crisis around for the last five and half hours. He squirmed a little in his seat. He had spent the entire night bent over in his chair with his head on his desk and as a result his lower back and shoulders were cheerfully providing him discomfort. He was considering the menu choices in the cafeteria when a short alarm tone and a voice coming from the overhead speakers brought him violently out of his seat.

  "Gentleman, your line just went active," Toby said.

  "Do you have a location?" Bob asked excitedly.

  "Stand by," Toby said emotionlessly.

  Terry glared at the table surface with his breath coming in short staccato bursts for what seemed like an hour but was actually about ten seconds.

  "I have a number and extension, one moment," Toby said.

  Terry's hand flew out for the phone in front of him and rapidly punched in a series of numbers. It was answered immediately.

  "Richards," came the voice over the speakerphone.

  "Stand by, Ben," Terry said as casually as he could.

  "Ramada Inn Six Flags. Room 416. 4425 Fulton Industrial Blvd. Atlanta, Georgia," Toby said.

  "You get that, Ben?" Terry asked.

  "Yeah, we're on it."

  "Hurry, Ben. Keep an open line on arrival," Terry said.

  "Understood," Richards said obviously running as the line cut off.

  Terry sat down hard in his chair and started praying.

  "Good work, Toby," Bob said.

  "Yep," Toby said in departure.

  The room went deathly quiet as all thirteen people sat in their chairs and waited to hear from Richards.

  --------

  Martin had been pacing restlessly around the confines of his hotel room since the conversation with Bailey had ended. Although the room temperature was pleasant, he was sweating profusely. He looked at his watch for the thousandth time in the last ten minutes, feeling trapped and not quite sure why. His stomach was cramping in the most uncomfortable of ways; giving him the impression that he could simultaneously vomit and shit his pants. A theory he came close to proving when the door suddenly opened and three men entered his room. He stood rooted in place while a harried looking bald man wearing a telephone headset behind one ear strode up to him and without preamble struck him painfully across the face with a pistol. He fell to the floor only to be picked up by the hair and sat down forcefully in one of the wooden chairs that graced his hotel room.

  "The file, Mr. Satterfield. Where is it?" Ben Richards asked anxiously.

  Slowly regaining his focus and trying to ignore the pain radiating from the blow he had been dealt, he scanned the room in an attempt to ascertain his current situation. It only took a second for him to realize that he was up to his neck in the really bad smelling kind of shit, the kind of shit that an ulcerous leper would leave in the bowl after being on a weeklong diet of boiled eggs and vinegar.

  One man stood in front of the door with his eye to the peephole and another stood behind him holding him in his chair by the shoulders. To his dismay and a rather severe loosening of his bowels, he noted the silenced handgun, unscathed from its recent collision with the side of his face, in the hand of the bald man standing menacingly in front of him.

  "We're in a bit of a hurry, Mr. Satterfield. Where is the file?" Richards asked again.

  "Huh?" Martin said fuzzily.

  Richards nodded to the man holding Martin in his chair and he reached down to pry Martin's right arm away from his body and forced the hand down flat against the nearby dresser. The man's left hand snaking over his shoulder and down to squeeze Martin's crotch painfully, causing him to reflexively open his jaws. Wasting no time, Richards stuffed a racquetball in his mouth and placed the muzzle of his pistol on top of Martin's hand and pulled the trigger.

  The man holding Martin let go of him and stepped back, leaving him to fall out the chair and writhe around painfully on the floor.

  "Search the room, quickly," Richards ordered.

  Richards again reached down to pick Martin up by the hair and slammed him back into the chair. He put his pistol in the waistband of his pants and grabbed Martin by the neck with one hand while the other brutally dug the racquetball out his mouth. Squatting down on his haunches, he reached around to the small of his back and produced a military style knife that he waved briefly in front of Martin's eyes.

  "The file, Mr. Satterfield. I promise I'll make it quick," Richards stated earnestly.

  Blinking the tears out of his eyes, Martin took in the expression on the man's face. He believed him. He had never thought of himself as a coward but he had already passed the limit of his endurance. Just the thought of the man carving into him with the knife was enough to make him to want go to sleep and not wake up. He tried vainly to muster up some hope or some courage but none was forthcoming. His eyes traveled around the room, taking in the man dumping the contents of his bag all over the bed, to the man who hadn't moved from his position at the door. Finally, his eyes came to rest on the man squatting in front of him who seemed anxious to start cutting on him with the knife. He took a deep, surrendering breath and was about to speak when, over the bald man's shoulder, he saw the man at the door jerk violently. With widening eyes, he observed what appeared to be a sword blade protruding through the closed door and out the back of the man's neck. Suddenly, the blade was gone and a tremendous gush of blood bathed the surface of the door as the man slid face first to the floor.

  Richards didn't have to follow Martin's gaze or turn around to know what was happening. The widening of Satterfield's eyes told him all he needed to know.

  "Oh shit," he whispered.

  Th
ey had run out of time. The Wraith had arrived.

  Knowing the knife was useless Richards tossed it to the floor and rising from his haunches, withdrew the gun from the waistband of his pants. He looked to the door and immediately dismissed it as option for escape. The door opened inwardly and the corpse of his man was leaning heavily against it. He would be far too vulnerable if he attempted to move the body aside. His mind scrambling for options, he made a quick hand gesture to get the attention of his surviving associate, who had his gun in his hands and pointed steadily at the front door.

  The man caught the hand signal and saw Richards point to the door that led to the adjoining suite. As soon as he moved, Richards dropped to one knee and pointed his own weapon at the front door.

  The second his man opened the door Richards knew his mistake and he knew it was over. In his peripheral vision he caught sight of a woman waiting just inside the adjoining suite. She made two blindingly fast sword strokes. The first sent his colleague's gun, and the hand that it was in, to the floor and the second came up and down across his throat. He was moving to train his gun on her the second the door had opened but he knew with an almost calm certainty that he was going to be too late. He watched in a sort of hopeless detachment as she stepped to the side to avoid the arterial spray of his dying colleague while raising in her left hand the gun that he knew was going to kill him. He was three quarters of the way around when the silenced bullet entered his right eye.

  The whole affair had lasted maybe thirty seconds and had produced very little noise. Martin had taken in the whole scene with eyes roughly the size of volleyballs, his asshole firmly gripping the chair below him as The Wraith walked all the way into the room and turned a look in his direction. The photos in her file had not even remotely prepared him for the presence she projected. Her raven bangs were tied back in a tail while the rest of her waist length hair fell loosely around her shoulders. A pair of Wayfarers covered her eyes and she wore casual slacks and flat soled boots, in addition to a baggy sweater that was almost concealed by a gothic appearing poncho that hung to her knees. The entire ensemble was black, giving him the eerie impression of a female grim reaper. He watched as she cradled the katana in the crook of an arm while she removed the silencer from her weapon and both disappeared under the poncho. He opened his mouth intending to profusely shower her with gratitude but stopped when she raised a gloved finger to her lips. Taking the blade in her hand again she walked over to the bald mans body and knelt to remove the headset from behind his ear. She traced the wires to a cell phone, which she looked at for a moment before she slowly powered it off and tossed it aside.