Stories by Kiera Dellacroix Read online

  A week later there was a second draft in his payroll envelope in the form of a personal check. He had also been given a significant raise on his company draft. He didn't complain, he knew he had been bought.

  --------

  Bailey let herself in the door and made straight for the office where she kept her personal computers. Sitting down, she shook a cigarette out of the pack that resided on her desk, placing the smoke behind an ear as she leaned over the floor safe situated under her chair. After a few seconds of manipulation, she was staring at a small black book that she had hoped never to have to use. Fishing in a desk drawer produced a lighter that immediately sparked to life and after indulging in one long, less than satisfying drag of tobacco, she turned to her computer and called the first number.

  II

  Like a dream in the night, Who can say where we're going?

  - B. Ferry

  Josh sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands and prayed to anybody or anything that would listen to make his fucking wife shut the hole under her nose. Everyone had warned him, but he had gone ahead and married the bitch anyway. A moment of silence took him by surprise. Was it possible she had a stroke? A giddy wave hit him at thought. He looked up to be disappointed; the bitch was staring at him with her hands on her hips. He sighed.

  "Are you listening to me?" the bitch said.

  He looked at her standing on the other side of the table and for a long moment he really wished she were dead. She had been such an attractive girl when they had married and looking at her now it was an impossibility to see the woman he had fallen in love with. The bitch looked as though she had gained a hundred pounds for each of the two years they had been married and he had met very sad and bitter old ladies that had nicer things to say.

  "Well, I hear the noise, I always hear the noise, but listening to you?" He smiled disarmingly. "No, I'm trying my best to figure out how the three hundred pounds of nagging cow flesh in front of me ate my lovely wife and took her place."

  He watched with no small measure of satisfaction as her faced turned crimson with anger. The bitch turned on her heel and, with all four cheeks and several chins jiggling, she stomped off down the hallway to vanish from sight. He smiled to himself but it faded quickly, the bitch would be back, no doubt fatter, louder, and meaner. With a long suffering sigh, he got up and poured himself a cup a coffee, his cell phone ringing as he stirred in the sugar. Fumbling through his jacket with one hand to retrieve the phone he made his way back to the table. With the cup in one hand and the phone in the other he stood in front of his chair, noting with a frown that the call displayed as a private ID.

  "Hello."

  "Hello, Josh."

  The freshly poured cup of coffee fell from suddenly numb fingers to crash and shatter on the floor as he sat down hard in his chair. He knew immediately who it was; it was impossible to forget that voice or the face that went with it. He had once seen that face with an expression of supernatural indifference, as the body it was attached to cut down nine men with a katana in the time it took for him to take a breath. He knew he should have been number ten. The event had been so quick and shocking in its violence that he had been too frightened to move and when the woman in black seemed to flow up to him, it was all he could do to close his eyes.

  He remembered standing there, fully expecting to feel the blade when an Irish accented voice whispered in his ear. "You were never here Josh, walk away, someday I might need a favor."

  When his eyes finally opened, she was gone and as soon as it dawned on him that he was actually going to live, his arms smuggling days had died a quick death. That had been six years ago, and today that same voice was on the other end of the phone.

  "Josh, I need a package."

  "Uh…. Of course."

  He shook his head violently from side to side in an effort to get his act together, knowing that it would be foolish to give her anything less than his full attention.

  "Josh?"

  "I'm sorry, specifics?"

  "Two Browning Hi-Powers, chambered for .40 Smith and Wesson. No serial numbers. Full performance and accuracy packages with textured back straps, Novak low profile night sights, Hogue grips, matte black finish, and ten magazines. One of them needs to be tailored for left hand use and both need to be tapped for suppressors."

  "Anything else?"

  "Two suppressors and two Galco Quick Slide holsters, black, with matching ammo carriers to accommodate eight of the magazines."

  "Ammunition?"

  "Yes, a case of hollow point subsonic. Brand not important, the best you can get."

  "Delivery?"

  "I'll need the package personally delivered, Josh."

  The conversation came to an uncomfortable standstill.

  "Problem?"

  "N… No, when do you need it?"

  "Two days."

  "Where do you need it?"

  "Security desk of C-Corp, Atlanta, Georgia."

  "I can do three days at four thousand."

  "Deal. Take care, Josh."

  Josh stared at the phone for a long time before hanging up. He needed to get moving, it was a two-day car trip to Atlanta and unlike his wife, this was one bitch he couldn't afford to disappoint.

  --------

  Bailey hung up the phone and snuffed out her cigarette. Standing, she started removing her clothes and dropping them in a trail behind her as she made her way to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. She had two days to Monday and the company would want to know who was replacing Johnny. She had some ideas, but they would have to wait. He had been the Director of Operations and the only person in the last few years she had been able to admit she rather liked. With a groan, she realized that she would have to call a meeting, hating the thought of being in a room with all those people. A situation she knew she wouldn't be dealing with at all, if she hadn't been forced to kill him.

  As she slid into bed, she hoped she didn't dream.

  --------

  Martin Satterfield found himself standing before his boss at the butt crack of dawn Monday morning. He hated Mondays and mornings, and to top it off he had the feeling that his boss was hiding something. Terry McKraken was currently on the phone, so Martin studied him while trying not to be obvious about it. Terry was a large man that carried himself with a military bearing. He had a hawk-like face and cruel brown eyes. His black hair, which was cut in the ever-popular jarhead look, was beginning to gray at the temples. He liked Terry for the most part, although the man's ego wouldn't fit in the Pacific.

  "I'm sorry, Martin. You were saying?" Terry asked as he hung up the phone.

  Martin brought his attention back to the matter at hand. "I really think you might have blown a call here. I don't see how Clinton fits the profile for elimination and any asset we have could have done that job. Would I be mistaken in assuming that this is somewhat personal, sir?"

  Terry thought about the question. You're damn right it was personal. He knew exactly what he was doing; this was no error in judgment. His eyes rose to take in the image of his newest protege. Martin looked every bit the WASP, a poster boy for the Young Republicans. He stood six feet tall and had a runner's body, blue eyes, and a wealth of dark hair that he parted on the side.

  It pissed him off a bit that one of his underlings would question his motives but he also realized that he had taught Martin by the book, the man was trained to find flaws and point them out. Yet Martin spoke almost as if he knew just what he was up to. Had he let some vital piece of information slip out when talking to the man?

  Martin's enthusiasm and competence had thawed his usual arctic demeanor and as a result he had grown to like his assistant in the short time since he first walked into the office. They had talked at length on many occasions about a wide variety of subjects both professional and personal. Once again, he questioned himself and wondered if he had said a bit too much about his relationship with the operative in question. He became slightly agitated and it showed in his r
eply.

  "Be careful, Martin," Terry snapped. "I appreciate your opinions and value your appraisals, but don't overstep your bounds."

  Terry relaxed and sat back in his huge leather chair. "As far as Clinton is concerned, there are factors here that you're not privy to and as for The Wraith, I had no doubt that she would execute flawlessly."

  "Yes, but as you are well aware these Ops are delicate to begin with. If we don't control as many of the variables as we possibly can, then something will almost always go wrong. The Wraith has been inactive for over three years, it seems a dangerous tactic to bring her back at this stage," Martin replied.

  "Listen, Martin, all decisions are made after careful consideration and every avenue is explored to make damn sure that the route we decide upon is the best one to accomplish the end result," Terry said and looked at his assistant carefully, trying to gauge his reaction to the mostly honest words.

  He did indeed know that she could perform; the trick was getting her to perform. No easy feat. She had changed his whole life the day she walked out and he had spent the past three years cultivating the plan that would bring her back into the fold. A smug smile came to his face. Mission accomplished.

  He spared another look at his assistant and again wondered if the young man knew too much. Martin was a quick study and a tireless worker but he didn't believe that he had said anything that would have tipped him off. Still, he was uneasy that he might have given him too much information. He considered the idea of having him retired but he genuinely liked the man, he was completely dependable for almost any task and was an excellent listener. He had bounced many ideas off of him with the hopes that he would see its merit or flaw and each time was rewarded with accurate and insightful commentary. Without a doubt, Martin was the best assistant that he had acquired since landing a Directorship. Besides, if Martin were to retire, he would have to go through the arduous process of finding a suitable replacement.

  Raking another critical look over the man, he searched for any hint of deceit but found only the enthusiasm that had attracted him in the first place. Even so, he knew he would have to keep an eye on him. Martin was zealous indeed, and perhaps far more intelligent than originally suspected.

  "Listen closely, Martin," Terry started. "I'm proud of what I do, as unsavory as it might seem. I've been doing it for over twenty years and I hope I can keep on doing it for another twenty."

  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Do what you've been taught and don't lose sight of the mission that this organization was activated to perform."

  "I didn't mean to offend you," Martin stammered. "The reason I brought it up at all is because I'm somewhat familiar with the operative's record. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not insinuating that you have anything but the best of intentions, but you yourself gave her inactive status three years ago, up until that time there had never been an inactive list in existence. In my opinion, that makes the operative a liability, and as you yourself have taught me, any liability that can be identified should not be put upon the field." He looked at his boss and waited for a response.

  The Deputy Director for the organization that called themselves The Secondary was a breath away from telling the young man that he had no idea what he was talking about. It was becoming increasingly apparent that Martin knew or at least suspected, far more than he was letting on. He hid it well. Terry glared at the pompous little bastard and decided that he would have to replace him; he knew more than what was appropriate for a man in his position. It was a damn shame. He swallowed his disappointment, stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked Martin straight in the eye.

  "I elected to have her participate because in my professional opinion, she was more than capable of obtaining the objectives. As it turns out, I was right. Do you feel the need to contradict or second guess me any further, Mr. Satterfield?"

  "Sir, once again, I apologize if it seemed I was ques...."

  "I make decisions based on fact and necessity. I alone decide the particulars of all current and pending operations, so the next time you feel the need to give yourself a shot at my job, remember how many lives hang on the syllables you speak," Terry interrupted and turned to the window, looking out at the light snow that had begun to fall.

  "You may go home for the rest of the day, Martin. Thank you."

  Martin stared at the back that was presented to him and reviewed the last ten minutes of conversation. Finally, he nodded slightly as if he had confirmed something to himself and turned to walk slowly out of the office.

  III

  I've got to be free, Free to face the life that's ahead of me

  - D. DeYoung

  Some time later, Martin sat at home in his den reviewing the conversation he had engaged in earlier in the day. Terry had definitely blown a call, of this he was certain. He knew more than the man gave him credit for and upon testing the waters, the almost disturbing reaction by Terry confirmed what he had suspected; The Wraith was not a willing participant in the game.

  Recently, he had read a very abridged version of her file that had been less than educational. The only information obtainable from the contents that were not blacked out or deleted altogether were her sex, age, and place of birth. However, mission reports were not so heavily edited and after a little research into the past, he had ascertained that she was no doubt a spectacularly effective operative. Her statistics were the stuff of legend.

  He rose from his chair and wandered into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. He had gotten the distinct and unnerving impression that he had fucked up with Terry to a degree that he could not atone for. He was aware of the consequences and it was reasonable to suspect that he might even now be slated for retirement. With that thought in mind, he decided that preparations needed to be made. If it came down to the worst-case scenario, he was painfully aware that he was vastly overmatched. He would need an ally, a powerful ally. A possibility entered his mind, but oh man…the consequences if he was wrong. He needed to see her file to gain a realistic idea of what and with whom he was dealing with. A woman who could turn her back on an entity that took no prisoners would be a formidable power. Furthermore, a look at her unedited file might confirm his suspicions that Terry had blown more than a call. Indeed, it was quite possible that Terry had made himself a target.

  He ambled back to the den and sipped at his coffee thoughtfully. He could read the file this evening, after he was sure Terry had left for the night. There were advantages to working for a man who had an ego as large as all outdoors. The file resided in the top drawer of his desk, instead of in secure storage where it should have been. Terry locked his desk and his office, but he kept a spare of set of keys to the desk under his monitor stand. The door would usually present an insurmountable problem, but again Terry's ego came into play. Several weeks ago, Terry had handed him a keycard so he could hurry on to a meeting, and after rushing into the meeting and giving Terry his briefcase, he had neglected to return the keycard. It was only later in the day that he realized that he hadn't given it back; he was never confronted on it so he decided to keep his mouth shut. Obviously, Terry had a spare. He smiled to himself; Terry was the kind of guy that had to have a mistake bite him in the ass before he admitted to it.

  Pleased with his plan, he finished his coffee and headed for the bedroom deciding a nap was in order. He checked the TV listings and set his alarm, secure in the knowledge that even James Bond watched 'Jerry Springer'.

  --------

  "So let me get this straight, the police don't even consider her a suspect in Clinton's death?" Terry rumbled into the phone.

  "No, sir."

  Terry was one wrong answer away from a complete meltdown. "Please enlighten me. Who the hell do they think is responsible? I mean, for God's sake the man was high profile in the Atlanta business community. You would think his murder would be a top priority with the local PD."

  "Sir, they have a suspect in custody, a local druggie whose prints were
found on the murder weapon. In addition, blood stains on the suspect's clothes match that of the victim, they have no reason to suspect our player was involved. My sources within the Department tell me they are convinced they have the perpetrator in custody."

  "Her prints were supposed to be on the weapon. Where's the ringer?"

  "Mr. Fisher has not reported to work in six days. At this time his whereabouts are unknown, sir."

  Terry took a couple of deep breaths in the attempt to ease the painful digestion of this information. Three years of planning shot to shit, he had gotten her to play but not by his rules. He had underestimated her. Goddamn it! He had no doubt that Fisher was dead. He had played the family card to get her in the game, but it wasn't enough to keep her on the field. She had seen to that. Fisher was to have applied her fingerprints to the murder weapon and having gone through the trouble himself of adding her prints to the FBI's print index three weeks ago, she should have already been in contact with him.

  How in the hell had she known about Fisher? At what point did the roof fall in on him?

  He had thought his plan perfect. Framing her for the murder of the man who oversaw the operation of her company had appeared to be the perfect scenario. Going fugitive was a possible option for she was perfectly able to avoid capture, but as long as he had her family the odds of that were slim. She wouldn't risk a confrontation with the police for the mere fact that she had honor. It would be unacceptable for her to harm anyone who was an innocent and she would recognize any member of law enforcement as just a naïve tool. He knew without a doubt, that prison wasn't a possibility for her. Faced with the threat of incarceration alone he was sure she'd have no choice but to return the sheltering arms of the organization. The moment she became aware of being a suspect, a homecoming to The Secondary was almost preordained.

  She had turned the tables on him. She had committed the murder, but somewhere along the line she had removed herself from being a suspect and had eliminated that idiot Fisher, who should have been the nail in her coffin.