Target 84 (9 page)

“This is my time for standing free. This is my step, this is my depth in a world demanding of me.”
-
DEAD MOON – “IT'S O.K.”

She's
sitting with a burly-yet-friendly looking man wearing a motorcycle club cut, but her eyes are on the door, the stunner from the wedding. The blonde bombshell. She’s got a wide-eyed, sultry expression. A black widow luring in her prey. Who the hell is she? I noticed her at the grocery store a couple days ago. How could any red-blooded male
not
notice her? What is odder still, to see her the following day in Kentucky, watching me from afar at the new club. I couldn’t be sure it was the same woman, until she showed up outside my motherfucking house hours later. I’m being watched, that much is obvious. By who and why are the ultimate questions and I intend on finding out.

After two drinks she places her hand on his forearm, glances around the bar, eyes only briefly stopping on me, and gets up. The man she's with watches her leave with an expression of irritation and longing. I order another beer and wait. It doesn't take long for the man to sidle up to the bar and seat himself a stool away from me.

"Lucky S.O.B," I mutter loud enough for him to hear. His head swivels my way, his dirty blonde hair swaying slightly.

"You got something to say?" he asks.

"No, no man, you got it wrong. I saw your woman. Hot. She's got legs for a country mile and those pouty lips could make a dead man smile." I laughpurposefully, setting him at ease. He shakes his head at me.

"She'll lay you on her cold throne and roll you like you were dice.
That
woman is wild. She'll rip your world apart," he mutters, staring into his beer.

"Sounds like you have intimate knowledge."

"Yeah, I guess."

I raise an eyebrow at his response.

He chuckles. "Yeah. I
did
," he admits.

"Did?" I ask.

"Did."

"Damn. That's rough. Next round's on me," I answer.

"Thanks, man. I'm Hoot."

"Bentley," I tell him. He shakes my hand firmly and nods.

"That fine piece was Greta, but I'd rather not dwell on her tonight. Where you from Bentley?" he asks.

"Arkansas."

"Long way from home then. What brings you to the lovers’ state?" he asks and laughs bitterly. He has nice eyes. The kind that crinkle in the corners. He's too trusting. His cut suggests toughness but his eyes give him away. He’s all bark and no bite.

"Work."

"Ahh, good ol' work. Slaving away day after day for a slice of the good life someday," he comments.

"Exactly," I answer distractedly.

“You look familiar, man, you visit here a lot?”

“Nope,” I lie. “Just one of those faces.” He eyes me a moment longer before shrugging it off and diving back into his beer.

Greta. I can't believe I got so lucky tonight. I've found out more than I anticipated. She attended Pepper’s wedding. My gut clenches at the thought. She's good. She barely even registered me tonight, but I know she was watching and waiting on me. I've clocked her following me for days now. The level at which she's skilled at stalking uneases me. She's the actor extraordinaire with her aloof act. I don’t like it one bit. She could be working for Torren. If my cover is blown, if
anyone
knows ATF is involved with this deal, I am screwed.

It’s time to do something about her. I need answers. Being a step ahead is likely all I will have going for me so I need to stay proactive, gorgeous woman or not. I’d rather screw her than interrogate her but what the hell, maybe a little interrogation can lead to a little screwing. The blonde goddess needs a little talking-to.

This opportunity seems monumental to me. My dark side has been begging for a release. You can’t just pick and choose in this life. You can’t take the good without the bad. I can’t let the monster out. I can never lose control.

I keep suppressing it like a well-groomed member of society but now I have a reason to give in. I have a way to let the monster out without repercussions. I step out into the dark and draw the nighttime air into my lungs feeling indestructible, as resistant as a roach.

“Bad blood stirring in the boiling pot. Finger on the trigger of a gun.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. It's an old web being spun.

Born from the seeds of anger and hatred. Do it to them like they do.

It's only revenge and the worst of it all. It all comes back to you”

DEAD MOON – “REVENGE”

I push through the doors of the monumental, stone, historic church at the busy street corner. The stained glass windows look dark and dreary due to the weather outside. My heels clack on the marble floor, the sound obscene amid the peaceful silence. The confessionals are to my left. I wait for the one I need to become available, then enter. There is no me. I'm just a container.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I say and try not to snicker. I’m not exactly the religious type.

“Tell me, child, do you believe in God?” The priest asks. His voice is warm and soothing. A deep baritone. I squint through the tiny, grated window to try and get a better look at him. I’m curious.

“Sure, but what I see in my line of work...faith is a tad difficult to sustain,” I answer honestly.

“So then, what brings you here this evening?” he asks, ignoring my plea to ask about my line of work.
Hmm, time to up the ante
.

“Murder, Father,” I answer.

“Why did you murder someone?” he asks. His voice is still neutral, contained. I wonder what kind of things he must hear on a nightly basis from the whackos that live outside the church doors.

“For a paycheck, Father,” I answer lightly.

“For money? You murdered someone for pay?” His breathing has increased just slightly. He’s growing nervous. Fight-or-flight instinct is starting to grow in his belly.

“Yes, Father. I didn’t do it out of anger, though, just for a paycheck.” I almost laugh. I can hear his breathing coming faster and faster. If I’m perfectly still, I’m sure I could hear his heart rapidly thudding away against his ribs.

“Who did you murder for money, Greta?” And just like that, the dirty priest has made a gross mistake. He knew I was coming. He
knew
I was hired. I never told him my name. My reputation, though, precedes me in my particular...community. He must think he’s special if he guessed my name. You don’t just send me for scum. You send me for the people that matter. Still, it was a lucky guess. There are other women, few and far between, available for hire.

“You, Father,” I say, deadpan. I twist the silencer onto the pistol in my handbag quickly and effortlessly.

“I'm s-s-sorry?” he stutters. Fools. All of them. When your time is up, just accept it. Fighting it never changes the outcome when I’m involved.

“I said you, Father. Did I stutter before?" I raise my pistol and wave it at him through the metal grate. "Danny Haskell says good riddance." I point the barrel in the direction of his head and let off two rounds. I’m not one for melodramatic messages but this Joe character had insisted those be the priest’s final words to hear. When I’m certain my friend through the metal screen is no longer breathing, I exit the confessional. I fish my cell phone from my purse and dial the speed dial preset number one. The line picks up after two rings.

“Arrange transport of the body.” I hit end and keep walking. The victims and methods vary but no one will find a pattern. I'm a ghost. I tailor my attacks to the person.

Pearl Lounge. A favorite of mine after a strenuous day’s work is conveniently just a hop, skip, and a jump from the church. A curved copper bar swoops beneath art-glass sconces, backlit by soft blue accent lighting. I focus on the trio standing by the bar. A half-Mexican girl in her late twenties is talking to two guys. They look to be around the same age. The girl is gesturing wildly to emphasize some part of the funny story being shared. The guys look bored. I almost feel bad for her. Getting men to pay attention to you when you
want
them to is a tricky challenge that comes with pushing all emotion aside and lots of practice. I slide in next to the girl and order myself a vodka tonic. One of the guys smirks at me devilishly. I ignore him. Sorry, buddy, but I’m not into jail bait or whiny babies. I may only be twenty-nine but I feel much older. Twenty-one-year-old men hold no appeal.

I watch my surroundings, curious to what other people do with their time. There’s a couple in an impassioned argument in the corner. She’s viciously jabbing her finger across the bar to a leggy redhead who’s completely oblivious. Obviously there’s trouble in paradise there.

After a second vodka tonic I slide off my stool, toss a fifty onto the bar, and make my way to the door. The wind picked up, making the door hard to push open. A mist of rain and fog makes the air sparkle in the street lights. I’m content now to go home. Tomorrow I can head back to Christiansburg.
Home
. The word alone sends my mind spiraling.

Twenty-eight was removed from class. It’s been three weeks since the waterboarding incident and no one has seen him. He shouldn’t have tried to protect me. I was his weakness. I saw it in his eyes. I heard it in his voice. But now
they
know. We aren’t allowed weaknesses. He wouldn’t be the first classmate to disappear but I hope he isn’t gone. I hope he is just taking his punishment somewhere. They
surely
realize how well groomed he is. How valuable he is to them. Do the weak students get sent home? I trust the words spoken to me years ago: “It’s a game, but it’s not a very nice game. Be careful.”

No.

No one goes home again.

I fish a cigarette out of my bag and light it. Leaning against the building, I let myself enjoy the smoke filling my lungs. Eighty-three cigarettes. I’ve smoked eighty-three since I turned sixteen.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Watch the smoke dissipate.

The door to the bar swings open again, the light from inside spilling its yellow glow across the damp asphalt. A man crosses the street a few yards left of me. His movements are lazy but graceful, like a panther’s. He has a mischievous smile. The man is in a one-piece, black, leather racing outfit. He walks to a motorcycle, one of those high-tech racing-style ones wrapped in black fiberglass. He straddles the bike and tugs on a helmet ten feet to my left. The full-face helmet swivels toward me and the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. My senses go on high alert and the tension in my body triples.

There are moments that mark your life. The moments that create a
before
, and
after
in your life. Sometimes you can sense a life-splitting moment nearing. That's the test, or so I tell myself. I tell myself that at times like that, strong people keep moving forward, no matter what they're going to find. I did.

The engine roars to life between his thighs. I flick my butt into the damp road, tuck my lighter in my purse, and turn in the opposite direction. I’m three steps in the direction of my apartment when I sense it.
That
moment. I’d thought for sure I’d already had a
before
and
after
moment in my life. I was clearly wrong.

Headlights blind me. I stop mid-stride, holding up my hand to protect my eyes. There’s a quick flash–the blink of the high beams. My face flushes, my hands become clammy. The vehicle speeds up and heads toward me with intention. Is it the motorcycle? I can’t be sure. I don’t hear the telltale engine roar of a motorcycle. My muscles cramp and panic overcomes me. It’s a strange sensation that I haven’t felt in over a decade. Pain explodes through my chest and back as I tumble head over heels into empty space as my world closes in on me.

“Murder…Gunfire, death is so quiet, ask why, tell ‘em it’s

murder. The sun rise then hide by grey skies, that cry sounds like

murder.” THE GAME – “MURDER”

She’s out cold. Blonde hair cascades over her face as I lower her on the plastic tarp. The building, a boarded-up factory building directly five miles outside city limits with a featureless, two-story façade looming over us, has no neighbors to hear her scream. The place is falling down. Not a piece of glass remains in a single exterior window, but plenty litters the splintered hall floors. The center rooms are barren beyond the concrete flooring. One door in each room. One small window in each door. The once white paint peels off in great strips. Boards lay here and there, and the floor creaks in most spots. It would have to do.

I’d left that poor sap Hoot at the bar, followed her home, and waited. Greta Billings. I’d pulled some strings. Called in some favors and dug a little deeper into her identity. A ghost. A name. A Social Security number attached to a long-dead child, four apartments leased to her, and no credit history to speak of.

She’d gone to the airport yesterday. I purchased a ticket and followed through security to her gate. Richmond. It took no time to switch my ticket. I called an old buddy under the guise of a current case and found out about the abandoned building we’re in now. I knew I’d need a place to question her. A place with no chance of interruption.

Sitting outside her apartment was torture, hours of watching the front door. Finally, though, she left. The shocker hit thirty minutes later when she murdered a priest. I’d followed behind and waited until I could enter the church without being noticed. She’d been entering one of the confessionals. There was a swish of golden hair before she disappeared into the booth. Waiting silently as close as safely possible, I’d heard muffled voices followed by the distinct muted pop of gunshot.

Numb, I followed her to a bar and waited outside until the time was right.

Now what? My plan essentially stopped here as far as planning went. Who the hell is she and why is she following me? In all chaos, there is calculation. Glory and gore go hand in hand. I just need to focus and get answers. Her breathing is shallow. Even. She’ll wake up soon. Everything feels out of place. I glance at my phone but there is no service. Crap. Withdrawing the needle from my bag, I push it into her vein and depress the plunger. Ketamine will give me the next hour to prepare.

I count the minutes in heartbeats. The vast, open room with exposed brick walls contains a toilet and sink with no walls surrounding them. It takes a bit to secure the room but once it’s done, she won’t be going anywhere. Strobe lights have been hung in the corners. There’s a portable speaker just outside the door. A bucket of ice cold water sits next to a chair with a rag. The sun is starting to rise, bright gold against a reddening sky. Nobody gets through life without sorrow and loss. It’s part of the game. I’ve seen a lot more death and evil than I would have ever wished upon anyone, but the most terrifying part of this world is what one person can do to another. Seven billion people in the world and the single most sought-out notion is belonging.

It’s not money or health or any of those other things people
talk
about. It’s knowing where you fit in. Feeling like you’re
worth
something.

I stop at an all-night diner knowing that if I stay and wait for her to wake up the anticipation will eat me alive. A young couple, walking arm in arm, passes by my booth. The man nods and his date smiles at me as I pay my bill. The bell over the door chimes as they exit. I watch the man open his date’s car door for her as I lean against the building and light a cigarette. They have no idea how close they’d just been to a killer. If they stood in my way for a case, if I could justify their deaths for the greater good, I wouldn't give one iota about their love, their past, or their future. Nor would I care about the family and friends who might be devastated by their lost lives.

Smiling, I can’t help but think how my demented thoughts amuse me. They’d have the same thoughts if they allowed themselves. There’s a bit of psycho in everybody. In every human there is good and evil, kindness and barbarity, rage and peace. We exist on a tightrope, choosing carefully what we allow ourselves to feel, what we allow ourselves to act on.

Arriving back at the building, I check on Greta. She’s stirring but not awake yet. I do eight sets of ten push-ups and stop. My biceps and shoulders ache. I drop to the floor and begin my routine of one-handed push-ups. I do four sets of twenty and then triangle push-ups until sweat drips from my face and my muscles are too weak to support me any longer.

Let the interrogations begin.

I push open the door to her room. She’s wiggling lethargically on the tarp. I approach and crouch down next to her. I click the remote light and a dull glow lights up the room. I don’t want to give up my identity yet so I’ve covered my face with a knitted mask. Only lips and eyes show. I need to maintain the upper hand for as long as possible.

“Water,” she croaks, her voice raspy.