((Check the OOC thread for info, rules and applications. That's right here.))



The young woman was yanked roughly out of her sleep by her companion sitting next to her, the hand on her shoulder shaking her until she sat bolt upright, blue eyes darting about, blurry and confused, for a moment, before coming to rest on the one who’d woken her. They pointed from the seat next to her past, and towards the window; the plane was touching down. Back in the good old U.S. of A, it looked like. With a groan and more than a light touch of reluctancy, she sat up and rubbed the last of the sleep from her eyes. She was wearing the same clothing that she’d been wearing when they’d performed their job: a black tank-top that slipped a tiny bit down her shoulders, with a wide, slightly low collar and a simple, nonsensical design on the front. The tattoo down her arm, reading “In Nomeni Patri - Et Fili - Spiritus Santci”, was clearly visible, black script running smoothly across pale skin. A pair of tough, black leather fingerless gloves adorned her hands, each bearing a small, silver cross on the outside edge of the wrist. She had a skirt on today, for the first time in a long while, a punkish style design coloured black and white. Underneath, she wore a pair of cut-off, well-fitting jeans that ended a little bit below her knees, where they loosened slightly before abruptly finishing. A fairly normal outfit for her; perhaps strange for someone in her profession, but she liked it, and it didn’t hinder her.

After a couple of second she felt more mildly awake, and pale hands quickly fiddled with the slight mess of crimson hair, trying to get it from bed-head and back to straight. Fortunately, her hair wasn’t the sort to get messed up easily; not to mention, her idea of her normal style was a bit of a mess, anyways, so it didn’t much matter. Instinctively, she reached towards her ears, intending to take out her earphones and wrap them back around her iPod; however, she found, with a note of bewilderment, that they weren’t there anymore. “Uh..Bella?” Her companion smirked a bit and tapped her knee, directing her attention to the floor in front of her seat; her earphones were resting there, the wire connecting them to the iPod in her lap draping down in a tangle. Apparently they’d fallen out in her sleep.

Finally, the place came to a full stop, and the five people were eventually able to exit the plane (ridiculous metal death traps, Bella had always thought; it just seemed unnatural to her that anything that massive and heavy should be able to keep itself in the air), and begin making their way to the terminal to meet their pick-up. To look at them, one probably wouldn’t think they fit in well together at all; their ages ranged, their appearances were, in a couple of cases, radically different; not even their clothing styles were similar. However, once one looked closely enough, they could see that this group most certainly belonged together: all of them had an air of assured confidence about them, in the way they laughed, the uncanny sharpness of their eyes, the quiet strength that was apparent in their movements and bodies. Most young adults nowadays seemed to almost have a sort of drowsiness hazing them; this group was clearly ahead of their kin. However, in spite of all this, in spite of the fact that a keen eye would be able to see that they were exceptional, they drew no stares. In fact, it was almost as if no one noticed them at all, even those directly in front of them and around them. Of course, what else could be expected? They lived their lives working to be unnoticed.

Once they got to the terminal, Bella stepped a little bit ahead of the others, her lips turning slightly into an annoyed frown as she was jostled by a passing group of tourists. She muttered a few of her favourite, choice curses after them, and immediately began to scan the crowd; unfortunately, her height made it a bit difficult. Getting up onto her tip-toes (which was never an incredibly fun feat when wearing combat boots), she tried to scan over the heads of the throng of people for the familiar silver hair. Nothing.

She was still looking, blue eyes flickering back to her companions with a Sorry, no idea, sort of shrug, when she felt a sharp tap on her shoulder. She started, body tensing, eight different ways to immobilize whoever-it-was without being noticed by the crowd flicking through her mind in a brief moment before she turned and saw: their pick-up. The wizened old man chuckled as she straightened up to stand at attention, her face flushing very slightly. “Bella, Isabelle... I’m disappointed. You should have seen me coming ten minutes ago. Very sloppy.” The young woman’s mouth turned down into a slight frown, shame showing clearly in her eyes. “Geoffrey...I...” However, before she could finish her apology, the old man laughed and clapped his hands firmly on her shoulders before pulling her into an embrace. “Always so formal, Bella, dear! You’ve all just completed a task, and endured the horrors of the public flight system; You’re entitled to relax. Don’t take everything so seriously.” At this, her face simply flushed worse, but she smiled just the same and returned his hug; a moment later, they released each other, and Geoffrey turned to the others. “Well, let’s get going, then. Your payment’s at the house.”

It was an approximately forty-five minute drive from the airport back to the home where they all lived, the five of them piled into a van while Geoffrey drove. As they drove, Bella kept her eyes turned towards the window, watching the flash of sun on glass as they passed underneath skyscrapers and crowded hordes of people, heading off to God-knows-where to do God-knows-what. The weather was gorgeous that day; the sky was a clear, perfect blue dotted here and there with fluffs of white cloud cotton, and the air that rushed past her from the open window felt pleasantly balmy on her cheek. The kill was behind her, another low-life was gone from the world, and payment and relaxation was ahead; nothing could have ruined this moment for her.

At length, they reached the house: it was a large, pleasant-looking building, more of a mansion than anything else. They were passing it off as a group home, where the kindly old man had taken in a group of street-kids, to give them a second chance at life. The walls were a simple, attractive off-white, and ornate windows looked out from rooms inside. There was the small main building, which branched off into different wings; one could see them, and if they pressed their face against the windows, they could see beautiful, modern, but sophisticated and simple decoration and furnishings inside. There were no windows on the lowest level; there was a basement, but basement windows were out of the question. That was a secret place; people couldn’t know what happened there.

Geoffrey led the group inside and to the living room area, to several large briefcases placed neatly on the coffee table; a large, plasma TV was mounted on the wall opposite the couch, but no one was watching it at the moment. Some foreign music channel was on.

The group of five assembled in a line on the opposite end of the table as Geoffrey took a seat on the couch. There was a case for each of them, signed with the insignia of the one who had hired them. With a smile and more than a little bit of obvious enjoyment, the old man flicked open a case, and turned it around to face them. “Fifteen-hundred for each of you. I know it’s not much, but this wasn’t much of a case. No real difficulty. Enjoy it; that was good work out there.” The loud “Woot!” from Bella hurt his ears a little bit.

Half an hour later, Bella was sitting in her room, already flicking through some of her favourite websites: infowars.com, realnews.com., several under-the-table blog and forum sites run by suspicious groups of people who did nothing but read newspapers and watch the news. Mostly crap, but every once in a while, you’d find a good tip here. Geoffrey had mentioned that he already had another job lined up for them, and that this one was going to be big; he was letting them rest for a bit before he got them started. However, Bella didn’t want rest. She wanted to find another one. Well...she wanted some Wendy’s, too. In a minute.

A successful mission always left William with far too much energy, which was not very becoming of one who favoured subtlety. Ignoring his urge to over-exert himself and hit the gym, he found himself a comfortable chair and after about three minuets, he managed to force some compliance in to his legs, and collapsed into it.

Counting money always relaxes me,

So he removed the fifteen hundred he had just gotten from his mission with Bella and began to count it. There was no way the stack was light, but he drew entirely too much comfort out of this. He horded himself over the money like a hyena, as was his way. Old habits die hard.

You know the old saying, "Time goes slower when you watch the clock?" Well, this rang all too true for William. He felt as though time had stopped. It always got this way before a mission, and he had been informed he would be sent out again. Soon. For now, he was ordered to rest. Easier said then done.

He stood abruptly and walked to his room, depositing his earnings in a small, hidden, floor safe. He was collecting quite an amount. Although he could most likely retire very soon, he never would. He would never have enough. He was quite the pack rat. Whether he needed the money or not, he would collect it just the same. Just to take comfort in the fact that he had it.

Collapsing onto his bed, the events of the days past came rushing back to him. It was one of his first missions with Bella. She was... more interesting a character then he had thought when on mission. She always impressed him. Kept him guessing. It was at this point that he entered a sort of "Eyes wide shut" mentality. While he was wide awake, he may as well have been asleep.

I'm going to need a bigger safe.

Growing more and more restless, William decided he needed to get out.

I bet Bella is just as restless as myself. Maybe she has an idea...

He approached her door and knocked an old rock tune into the wood.

Continuing to knock a beat into the door even as it was opened, Will found himself second guessing his intrusion as Bella opened to door to a "Hey, uh, come in?" He was put at ease when she mentioned the job. He liked the fact that she noticed how well he did. Most would just assume he did his job. She seemed to notice he went a little above and beyond.

"Haha, thanks. Excellent shot by the way. Seriously. I've never seen a shot like that made before. Ever. Were you AIMING for his eye?"

He walked over to her and found himself enthralled by the article she had pulled up. Noticing the fact that he was silently reading over her shoulder came a little later then he would have hoped.

"Hey. I know it's kinda out of left field and everything... but I was just wondering what you were up to. I am finding it difficult to sit around here. You wanna head out for a bite or something? On me. THIS time."

It didn't take long for him to find his bearings and become conscious of what he was saying around her. A skill he picked up from his father. He never stayed shy for long. People remembered shy people. Ironic.

She was up and moving bright and early. The woman had business to attend to today. She had thus far slid into a wife beater that hugged tighter to her chest than it did the rest of her, and a pair of somewhat loose jeans that had a dragon design down the back of the right pants leg. They fell over DCs, that were predominantly black with black and white camo designs over the heel as well as the tongue. Daniesha grabbed her studded belt, wrapping it through the belt loops. She rolled her shirt up her navel, revealing small scars that laced slightly up her waist. Two were large, like slash marks, and the others were hard to really find; but were from childbirth. As she slid the leather end through the silvery buckle, her dark eyes raised to a man entering.

"A thug's true nightmare never sleeps." The deep voice whispered quietly. Mario was a tall and very broad looking man, with muscles being quite obvious over his body. He had tattoo ''sleeves'' down his arms and was topless, showing the angel wings that spread across his chest from an angel tattoo that went from the center of his chest towards his navel. His honey-colored eyes looked over the woman and he sighed. "You shouldn't-"

"Mommy!" A cry came. It was young. Innocent. It made Daniesha yank her head up and a smile came over her glossed lips.

"Hey Leo baby." She whispered, falling gracefully to her knees to wrap her long light brown arms around his little body as he ran into them. The boy put his little arms around her neck, nuzzling his face between her neck and shoulder, seeking her warmth. Daniesha closed her eyes and stroked his back with her hands. "Good morning little love. How's my favorite man doing?" She pulled back, looking down into his sweet brown eyes.

"Good." He made a toothy grin. Daniesha leaned in and kissed his cheek, putting her finger on hers and waiting for one in return. When Leo's little lips touched her cheek, she stood and smiled down to him.

"I have to go. I love you babe." She grinned. The boy frowned.

"You have to?" Leo whispered. He finally nodded. "I love you too."

Mario stepped forward and picked up the child, putting him on his shoulders; Leo bursting out in laughter and glee. You see, Daniesha met Mario about five years back, when she was a prostitute. She had offered herself, and he had paid for her services. But the man didn't have sex with her. Instead, he drove her to his home, fed her, clothed her, and gave her a long speech about how much better she could be than some street trash. They had become great friends; so when she became pregnant and needed to get off the streets, he was there for her. And Mario had become her best friend on Earth. The man she trusted. And since he had been there since birth, he was almost like Leo's father.

Daniesha smiled one last time before slipping out of the kitchen, moving for her bedroom. She reached into a ragged wooden dresser and pulled out to hunks of brass that slipped into her large front pockets. Then, she grabbed two fingerless gloves- black leather with white camo lacing- and slid them on. And then she combed her hair, a bit smoother than a black woman's hair because she took both exceptional care of it, as well as she took to her Filipino father when it came to quite a few things. After that, she pulled on a gray beanie over her head, folding the extra length back a bit so that it didn't shroud any of her features. Then she reached to the very bottom of her drawer, pulling out a switchblade, and sliding it into her pocket next to the very dangerously customized brass knuckles.

And she walked in long powerful strides out of the door and into the morning...





The door was a pasty white. The paint was peeling off at the top and the bottom looked as though a dog had scratched or gnawed at it. Here and there in the center, someone had keyed their name into it, but it was hard to recognize. The brass doorknob had soft silver scratches on it, and a dark little lock below. A poor house, Daniesha could tell. She had stood on the porch for a few minutes, collecting herself. Today she was hunting a man named Rico Sanchez. He was apart of the gang, the 76's, that had murdered her brother. And she had chosen him. He was a father of two kids that he didn't give a shit about. He slept with underage girls, abusing whores who already had it hard on the street. He was a sick one... She clutched in her right fists, brass knuckles. Along their edge, the edge that would hit, were many jagged teeth and metallic chips, like rows upon rows of saw teeth. It was made to rip the flesh from a person. And today, she'd be testing it again, staining those teeth red again.

Finally, that very door burst open, the bottom of her shoe slamming into it with a powerful kick. And it swung inside, the top hinge snapping. She heard a scream inside, a half-naked whore running through the living room with a blanket clutched to her chest as she spotted the wild woman. Dynasty now.

Dynasty didn't waste time. She saw Rico sitting in his boxers, getting up and stumbling over a beer bottle on the floor. He grunted, cursing beneath his breath before scrambling over the floor looking for his Glock. But he wasn't fast enough. Not at all. Dynasty put her foot on his wrist, and he growled at her, his other hand grabbing her ankle and trying to bring her to the ground. Dynasty merely jerked her leg back and shoved it forward again, kicking the man in the side of his chest. Rico yelled at her, groaning in pain as she repeated the motion before kneeling to him, her left hand tracing over his throat.

"Get the fuck up." She growled quietly, standing up and waiting for him. Rico finally crawled to his feet.

"You stupid perra!" He called out, readying his fist back. He slung it forward powerfully, but Dynasty ducked and slammed her left fist into his stomach, knocking the wind from him. But she wasn't done. She raised her knee and slammed her heel into his toes, making him yell again. He had about doubled over as she turned sharply and thrust her right fist forward. The brass knuckles caught his cheek, and tore the skin right off; leaving an inch-wide rip that stretched about three inches in length diagonally up his cheek, blood suddenly flowing down the white and pink flesh that was apparent beneath his Hispanic skin. The man fell back onto the coffee table, screaming wildly as he clutched his cheek. Curses rolled out of his mouth and he tried to crawl back up. As soon as he was back on his feet, she hit him again, this time the other cheek, giving him a matching gore mark. He didn't fall back, but instead raised his fists wildly, trying to defend himself though he was unfocused and weak now. She brought her leg up and stomped it into his chest, knocking him back onto the sofa. And before he could get up this time, her left hand dipped into her pocket and she crawled over his body. A glint of silver, and a last wheezing gasp; and she had shoved the switchblade ever so perfectly into his body, into his heart.

Dynasty drew it out and put the knife back into her pocket, turning and running like hell to the door. In the far distance she could hear the cries of a police siren coming to find the dead gangster on his sofa; to wonder about the saint that had put him down. But Dynasty was no saint. She was just as devilish as any, a thorough-bred sinner like any other.

As she ran, they came closer, and she turned into an alley, but only to turn and notice a real scene. A thug on his phone.

"Rico's dead?!" He cried, turning and looking around for a description of the woman who was now hiding.

Shit.

He raised his phone and dialed a few more numbers, dipping back into the shadows himself. It wouldn't be long before the cops and thugs littered this street, and a small street war broke out. And Dynasty was counting down the minutes, wishing she had packed her gun with her like she usually would've...

The flight was pleasant , Cheyenne had been following the group silently; the job was done although it had just been a simple thing - she felt like she needed out. Dressed in her usual attire, skin tight, washed jeans - a white, ripped wife beater matched with her favorite black leather boots and brown suede D&G belt. She was a woman who loved the finer things in life, nevertheless she had taken the suitcase up to her room and placed it on a desk which was a little unorganized, filled with sheets of paper and various types of pencils. Looking at the suitcase she contemplated about opening and counting the money - but she trusted the old man, the 15k would be there - exactly to the very last note. Walking over to a cupboard, in a corner of the room - she nudged it ever so slightly to the right, revealing a safe hidden behind it.

After fiddling about with the dial, she opened it with a little bit of force. She had stashed up all her valuables in there as well as the money she'd waste later. Picking out a 1k role she divided it into 500$ each and tucked them away into her jeans pockets. Bending over, she took the case with the money and placed it carefully in there. Gently pulling on it's steal door, closing it with a bit of force - shutting it off by pulling the cupboard back to it's original place. The sun was up and shining through the curtains, flickering strands of light onto the walls of her room - as she walked up to the window, she opened it for just a few moments. Breathing in the fresh air which felt like a revival of her sense after such a long flight.

A last look out of the window towards her priced possession - a Yamaha YZF-R1 2009, her favorite model - the shape, the sound and the speed it got up to, the simple thought of it all made her quiver in excitement. She had bought this road rage fueling beast only a few months ago, eager to take it out for a nice long joy ride - but unfortunately business came in between her and the bike far too often. The cool air had filled the room, whirling around the chocolate brown hair of hers, she took it all in once more before closing the window with a faint thud. Sensing that the time was right for her to take it to the road, she moved over to her desk, swiftly crouching down to grab the black helmet which was sitting just underneath it.

Picking up the keys from her nightstand she looked around the room, a last check before leaving. Her eyes fixating themselves upon the duel Katana blades, which were silently sitting there, awaiting another command. Maybe it was just plain weird but she swore those two had a mind of their own, she could feel it whenever she had to attend to business - killing somebody. Shaking her head slightly, helmet under her arm she decided to leave the blades where they were, unless she wanted to cause attention - not as if she wouldn't get enough already. She grunted a little as she closed the door - a rather aggravating thought had popped up in her mind.

The striking similarities towards a certain actress - hence she would rather wear a helmet everywhere she went, if she could. Shaking off the thought she made her way towards the exit, waving at one of the cameras within the buildings entrance - "I'll be leaving for a while, don't worry old man, I'll try staying out of trouble!", she blew a little kiss towards the camera before leaving the building, heading for her bike outside to the left of the car park. Staring at it, she couldn't help but walk pass it stroking it gently, from the top of the visor to the end of the black leather seat. The bike itself was coated in a glossy 'Jet Black' and the only chrome on it, being it's wheels and pipes.

Opening the seat compartment she lifted a bag out of it, throwing a quick look into it. It was her biker suit, putting it on she zipped it up at the front, sliding the helmet on, she swung her left leg over it, positioning herself comfortably upon it's seat. Sticking the key into the ignition, doing a soft 45 degree circle with it, she couldn't help but giggle a little in anticipation. Her right hand placing itself over the ignition button, left clutching onto the left handle - as the sound of a deep roaring diesel engine revved up a few times, a devilish little smirk crept up her lips before she sped off, out of the mansion onto the road ahead.

She was something like a speed demon unleashed upon the road - the adrenaline kicking in - it was giving her cold enjoyable shivers down her spine. Turning onto a highway she was heading for a rather large shopping complex, she was going to blast her money on some new clothes. Speeding through traffic, overtaking several other vehicles, she slithered through the many cars, trucks and lorries. Taking the next exit off of the highway she could already see the mega complex in the distance - surrounded by an even larger parking lot, in ways it looked like a football stadium. Finding a parking spot, she killed the engine and jumped of the bike. Taking the helmet and suit off, she tucked them away into the seat compartment, before grabbing the keys and heading into the Shopping complex. The names and top brands of the trade were all represented quite well, her lips curled up to a little smile as she heard a rather familiar tune, softly playing over the internal speakers.


Hold my hand, feel the sweat, yes you’ve got me nervous yet
Let me groove, let me soothe, let me take you on a cruise
There’s imagination I bet you've never been there before
Have you ever wanted to dream about those places you’ve never known


A few memories resurfaced - well about the last time she got laid, it was a one night stand but hell was he gorgeous. Tall and handsome - but most definitely no dating material. A big old sigh, she had a strict 'No contact with one night stands' rule - but it took her a lot of will power to throw his number away - upon the thought though - she chuckled. Walking on Cheyenne had started to hum the tune of the said song, as she entered a Roberto Cavelli boutique, a sales representative already watching her every move (after watching her for like 10 minutes) finally decided to approach her. "Oh Miss A..." Oh no he just didn't. She had lifted up a finger towards him, with a motion pretty bluntly stating 'shut the f*ck up'.

"I am not the person you are mistaking me for" she said while turning around to face him properly, her eyebrows arched and frowning upon the man who genuinely was a little scared of her now. "Pardon me, madame - I see that it was solemnly my mistake , again I am ever so sorry"

"It's fine" she replied shortly before walking off towards a display of rather expensive looking black leather - clean cut, high heeled boots.

Immediately she snapped her fingers for the rep - "This pair in a size 5!", while pointing towards the pair she wanted. The man nodded and a little later reappeared with the boots she wanted. She didn't bother trying them on, walking over to the counter the man followed her a little bewildered. She certainly behaved like a woman who had it all - "That'll be 699,95$, will you be paying by card or cash?", very sure that she was going to get out some sort of platinum card the man looked stunned when she jerked out two stacks of money out of her pockets. "I'll be paying in cash, thank you", she laid out 700$ before grabbing the bag with her boots in it. "Here is your receipt madame - please visit us again" he smiled at her - throwing the receipt into the bag, nodding at him she left the shop with a pretty satisfied grin.

'Something to eat.', was the only thought now bouncing around in her mind - she wanted something spicy and she wanted it now. Walking around for a few more minutes, her eyes settled upon a place called "The Raja" - smirking she greeted the waiter at the front, who showed her to a free table. Some eyes watching her while others didn't pay no attention, she sat down, the bag next to her - looking into the menu card. "I want a fresh squeezed orange juice, a Corma chicken curry with a light salad and fried rice." followed by a "thank you", the waiter nodded as he wrote down her order then disappeared into the back of the Restaurant. Hands on the table, slightly tipping away to the song which got stuck in her head earlier, she looked out of a window situated just across of her.

When the waiter appeared with her meal she smiled at him, briefly thanking him, nipping away on that lovely platter of food, she couldn't help herself - food was another thing she loved although someone looking at her wouldn't necessarily say she was a good eater.

With the Waiter paid and tipped, she picked up the bag and exited the Restaurant - completely content now. Nothing could ruin her day, when she nearly got run over by a guy - she really wanted to retract that statement - it seemed like she jinxed herself. The guy armed with a small handgun, had taken a hold of her. Pointing the gun at her temple,with her back pressed against him, the other arm around her throat - pressing down harshly making her struggle for air, though she was still holding onto her bag with her precious boots.

"ANYONE! If anyone gets closer to me - this girl will end up with a bullet in her head!! You assholes should back off!" the man shaking a little, apparently he was being chased down by a few police officers. "I swear I'll kill her!" he screamed at the officers who had tried to get closer to him. One of them tried to calm him down - even tried to talk to Cheyenne who looked very annoyed and ready to burst is head into pieces. A petty thief - he had tried to rob a store, but failed miserably, an amateur.

She thought about the situation for a moment , one eyebrow raised a little - she pretty much forgot how much faith she had in the police, which was equal to nada. Without further hesitation she grabbed the mans arm, jerked it downwards over her own shoulder, causing him to topple first than twisting his arm further more, she had thrown him over her shoulder. Him laying now on the ground she pressed her knee down into his elbow joint with such force that the man yelped out in pain - releasing the gun out of his hands, letting it fall to the ground.

The officers looked at each other for a while, when they did finally realize what had happened they grouped up over the man, one of them asked Cheyenne if she was alright - she just waved the question off - she was fine. 'I think I better get out of here before they want something like identification from me' walking away from the scene as quickly as she could.

Outside she sighed again - 'Darn it, what the heck is it with me attracting trouble like this." she shook her head slightly before she sighted her bike, mounting up on it with her gear on, she made her way back home. She was sure the old man would have gotten wind of this situation within the moments it had happened - nothing did go by unnoticed by that man... creepy. Pulling up in front of the mansion, she got off - gear still on, made her way to the entrance - the door wasn't locked so she just went in and hurried to her room - trying to avoid anybody right now.

Euphemia Cartwright didn't need to count her money to be satisfied with this latest job. Pay or no pay, it always made her feel good to eliminate a wrongdoer, though getting the equivalent of an average joe's half-yearly salary for every time she did it was quite a treat.

She hadn't participated in much of the physical action, mostly watching her colleague's backs and looking on as a colleague got in a fantastic shot. The bullet had entered through the back of the skull and sent the brains splattering everywhere, which wasn't supposed to be a pretty sight, but Euphemia found it enchanting and exciting.

No, she scolded herself as she walked up the stairs to her quarters, exploding brains are not cool, nor are cuts, burns, broken bones, or...

Ugh. It was no use. Trying to push her macabre fantasies out of her head only made them come back stronger. She knew her thoughts were evil, but she couldn't help it: she craved blood. It was fortunate that she only ever spilled criminal blood, but doing it just for kicks, rather than purely because it was right, was evil.

"Ah, I probably just need to rest my own brain," she decided, plopping herself down on the bed. Everything went perfectly according to plan, I've done society a favor...I won't be so critical of myself after a few hours on Youtube...

She pulled the clip out of her bun and let her deep brown hair fall over her shoulders, threw off her blazer, pulled her laptop out of its case, and turned it on. As soon as she'd gotten to the home screen, a window popped up saying that her computer might be infected with spyware.

"Impossible," she muttered. It would take a talented mind to break through all of her firewalls. She didn't like to be cocky...oh, who was she kidding? Of course she did. She was bloody brilliant, and if someone had installed spyware on her PC, that could mean trouble.

"Crap..."

She didn't want to tell Geoffrey about it, though he'd probably know soon enough--the man knew bloody everything!--but she still didn't want to keep all hushed up about it, just in case it turned into something serious. Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself off of the bed and stepped out into the hall, knocking on a door: Cheyenne's. Euphemia usually came to her first when she had problems.

"Um, Cheyenne, I don't mean to bother you, but I think there's something wrong with my computer," she called in.

-------------

The room was very dark, very small, and very crawling with rodents and vermin, the only light coming from a small, square computer monitor. Rosella's manicured but bloody fingers moved gracefully over the smooth, flat laptop keys as she tunneled into her sister's hard drive, pulling up all of dear Euphie's search and browsing history. "Interesting...very inter--SHUT UP DOWN THERE!" she interrupted herself, shouting over the screaming of her victims downstairs. "Can't trust my goddamn accomplices to keep those kids shut, can I?" she seethed, pushing a lock of frizzy, wild red hair behind her ear.

In the lower levels of the old, abandoned squat she and her dastardly team had claimed as their own, two of her cronies were amusing themselves torturing and doing other not-nice things to the teenage victims they'd captured, while Rosella took a break from that to see what her sister was up to. One of her accomplices was in the room with her, looking over her shoulder as she sat crouched in a swiveling office chair, hunched towards the screen.

"What do you make of this, Crawford?" she asked the man, turning a bit so as to give him a view of the monitor. "My sister's search history is full of the news stories about the kidnappings that we've committed. The news and the police don't know it's us, and I don't think she does, either, but if she keeps digging into the matter...or worse, if she involves her crazy crimefighting team...it won't be hard for her to find out."

"I don't see why you're so worried about your sister. Plenty of people are following the stories. It's kind of juicy news when about twenty people go missing in a week," Crawford pointed out. Without warning, Rosella withdrew a Soviet revolver from her desk drawer and shot him in the thigh. He staggered backwards, slammed into the wall, and that was the end of that conversation.

She worried because when she came face to face with Euphemia, it would be a brutal showdown. Euphie didn't know it yet, but Rosella was well aware, that one would have to end up destroying the other eventually. Sighing, she shut down her computer and descended the creaky staircase to the main part of the building.

"Fix yourself up, Crawfowd. I'm going to have some fun," she decided, taking her gun and a knife from the desk down with her.

3 August 1968

She left one city, and now stood out away from the clay and brick buildings baking in the desert sun. Near the city walls she stopped, and could hear the sounds of the riots from the city center, where buildings are being torched, and the hated men and women dragged from their homes and beaten and slain in the streets. Blood flowed there. Here, the sun, though it began to slip below the horizon, staining the sky scarlet and ochre, a pervasive, un-quarantined dye; here, the sun burned fiercely with the fire of ten thousand warriors of God, the ardor of the worker ants, and the persistence of a Sufi mystic.

Tahira Ali could not think. Something filled her head, echoing all around her, thundering, thundering, thundering, and heat swelled within her—she needed to leave this place. She hurried through the empty streets, the city gate looming above her, distant, but o so near, and in it she sensed safety, haven. There! She had only one hundred metres. . . seventy-five. . . she would escape this dreadful city! God willing, she mumbled thoughtlessly, the phrase tacked on more of habit than true belief. Yes—indeed, there was the gate.

But then, as she drew nearer to it, she found that there was another man there, a white man, an American whom she had seen earlier that week inside the city, and he too, was making way to leave. The guard at the gate was gone. He was not there, perhaps drawn into the fray at the center of the city. The American was a taller man with sandy colored hair; his white face turned an embarrassing red of many tales of the desert sun.

She hoped to slip by him, and slowed her step, her eyes on the ground. She did not dare look the American in the eye. Still, she felt his predatory gaze on her as she came within spitting distance of the stranger. “The government’s all tied up, idn’t it?” The American spoke to her, his voice a strange drawl she did not recognize and struggled to understand. “All on account of them durn Europeans, Arthur Stone, Carlos Hodgson. . . they’re jes tryin’ make life miserable for the rest of us. . . But it ain’t right, what the People’s Congress is tryin’ t’do. They’re over thar, butcherin’ the people in the streets. You gettin’ yerself right away from that mess, huh? I don’ blame ye.”

At the mention of Carlos’s name, she felt the suffocating rage return, and she blinked furiously, trying to keep the tears away from the American. “Yep, that’s right,” the American said. “They’re destroyin’ us all. Carlos Hodgson was a bad, bad decision.”

She flew at him, the knife coming to her hand as though it were a pencil, and he looked up at her, eyes widening, and the American stepped back; they made impact and she brought down the knife, and she brought down the knife, and she brought down the knife, and the American’s red, red blood spurted into the air, and he opened his mouth to scream or to ask something or to whisper her a secret, but then a strange, gurgling sound came from him, and then he stopped moving, and she kneeled back in the sand, staring at the American.

What was this now? What had she done? She stood there for hours, the sun drying the blood quickly, but none came to peer or investigate, for there was more death inside the city. When she could bear the heat no longer nor the sight of the body baking in the sun, she turned to go, the anger not gone but merely pushed aside, replaced for the moment by a deep sorrow. But she found there were no tears to cry.

December 1968
Germany

It was like the bazaar just before prayer times, an influx of people swarming from every direction, craning their necks to see some spectacle beyond her line of sight. She felt herself pressed inward along with the crowd, buoyed by their general movements, though so many of them towered over her, she could not see. They spoke a language, but she understood no words. It sounded like harsh, guttural shouting to her.

„Aussehen! Der Kardinal! Und die amerikanische Senator!“ It was a wild, wild language.

„Ich habe gehört, Senator Normandeau wurde nominiert für den Präsidenten. Von den Vereinigten Staaten.“

„Ist es wahr? Kardinal Doshi könnte Papst! Er ist unter il preferiti.”

She closed her eyes, but could not think; another man brushed by her with no regard to the space she occupied. His body odor wafted in the air as he moved, and she coughed involuntarily, spurning another grumbled complaint from someone else. Finally, mercifully, someone moved, and she found a space in the crowd, able to see the procession advancing down the boulevard, and the spectators on the other side of the street, as loud and unruly as the ones she contended with.

Moving slowly down the street was a fancy motor vehicle, of the kind she had had only glimpses of, hidden behind gates in the private streets of white men’s mansions. Leading the way were two men, one older and one younger, though the word was relative. The older man, who seemed not quite white, wore the robes of a priest, Tahira Ali knew them well and bitterly. He seemed to be speaking to his companion, a man of Solara’s age, with carrot colored hair speckled liberally with gray. He wore a Western style suit, and though Tahira Ali was no judge, it seemed expensive to her eyes.

„Sie sind hier für eine Friedenskonferenz. Und andere Führungskräfte."

The two men walked with purpose and dignity, the motor vehicle trailing them as they strode down the center of the boulevard. The sun shone in front of them, and the priest shielded his eyes, a shadow falling across his distinguished features. Suddenly, voices erupted all around in deafening cheers and she stooped low, cringing at the auditory disruption.

“He’s murdering the children of God!” she heard a voice say clearly in Arabic, and felt herself shoved forward, emerging almost from the crowd, just enough to see the furrow in the priest’s brow and the enlightenment in the eyes of his companion, and the people began to applaud vociferously, and she drew her gun and did not think but pulled the trigger again and again.

When the men on either side of her realized what she was doing and moved to stop her, it was too late. They were torn helplessly between crossing the barrier and aiding too many fallen men whose blood already leaked out of them so fast, so damn fast, faster than blood should leave a body, and chasing after the tiny figure already disappearing, shaken, into the crowd, where she lost the gun and her orientation.

In only moments, the procession had turned to chaos, but Tahira Ali had neither the will nor the way to observe the aftermath of her destruction. She was already away from the city with its houses identical in style to the white men’s mansions at home and its language of harsh, guttural sounds. Her al ayrhabeiyah was so much more beautiful. It was a language of life.

13 December 1968

To have fallen so far and so fast, the last six months were quite literally a blur in her mind, a sea of terror and violence and death she wanted nothing more than to eras, but the fury, the fury ignited by some passion within, blinded her to the necessity of ending this rampage, and she had struck again and again. No amount of confession and prayer could cleanse her soul now.

In six months she had traversed eight countries, many of which she had not learned the names of, and in three of them, in three of them she had murdered, with the very hands that so fearfully clutched the blood-stained knife. Her clothes hung loose on her frame, and she must have looked a fright to any who saw her, yet those thoughts were out of her range of comprehension.

All around her she was in a sea of people, and none spoke a word of French she could understand. This was another barrier, another wall that separated her from these people, the women and the men mingling in the crowds. This country, she knew, or had reasoned, was France. Here, perhaps, she would have peace. Or, more likely, she would be drawn once more into the murderous frenzy that had already taken so many lives.

By nightfall, there was no one in the streets of this place, a smaller village, and Tahira Ali stopped across from a church, desire pulling her to enter, but fear keeping her from approaching the doors. She sat in silence, wishing for all the world someone would come to end the curse of loneliness, but that was a wish she had already crumpled and thrown into the trash, long ago. After an hour or perhaps two of patient silence, she was rewarded, when the priest exited the church, a woman with him. Perhaps she had left after a particularly lengthy confession.

The woman and the priest remained in the doorway for a time, oblivious to the tiny woman hidden from them, just across the street, her minuscule figure obscured in the shadows. For them, she might have been just another shadow. She watched, emotions rising unbidden, as the priest and the woman in the doorway reached for each other, and then drew close, kissing passionately. The rage manifested itself again, and she barely restrained herself, the knife hand shaking, until the priest withdrew into the church.

When she left the church, the woman lay dead, her blood spilled into the street on the church steps.

23 December 1968<br /> Washington D.C.

“Something must be done about Tahira Ali,” said the FBI official, mispronouncing her name. “It has already been four and a half months. Why has no one found the damn woman? We need to publicize this fugitive. . . more than she already has been. We need to offer a larger reward. We need to create a task force. Whatever it takes. If she murders once more, we will be just as guilty for not stopping her. We have a warrant for the murders of the Americans?”

“Judge Doherty signed it this morning,” said the lawyer from the prosecutor’s office.

“Good,” said the FBI official. “If anyone sees her anywhere, they can call us in and we’ll make the arrest. It doesn’t matter where she is. There’s no statute of limitations on murder. And if I’m not mistaken, Director Hoover has approved her addition to the Ten Most Wanted List. She’ll be the first woman. The news goes out tomorrow.”

5 January 1969<br /> New York City

She descended the stairs from the airplane, frightened and overwhelmed by the scent of Lysol and body odor and a woman’s sickeningly sweet perfume, the Americans conversing loudly in rapid English too fast for her to follow, the vastness of this space, called an airport, or so the nice man had told her.

“Let me walk with you, Fatima,” said the nice man, for that was the name she had given him. “I’ll escort you to the street and you can call a cab there. Walking might be a bad idea, especially if you’ve never been to America before.”

So they navigated through the throng of passengers, separating only at customs, and she handed over her documents to the customs officer, who gave them a cursory glance and waved her onwards, where she rejoined the nice man. She held onto his arm, uncertain of what to do in this strange city. When they emerged into sunlight, the nice man pointed to the skyline, and she looked, her breath taken away. What tall buildings! They seemed to stretch forever into the sky, daring God to look down from heaven. And so many buildings and people, in one city. New York seemed a thousand times bigger than home.

“That,” said the nice man, pointing to two particularly tall towers that appeared not quite finished, “is the World Trade Center. It won’t be done for several years. Less if we’re lucky. Those will be the Twin Towers. They will stand forever, in testament to the greatness of the Big Apple. Groovy, eh? Well, I’ll leave you here. You can call a cab to take you to your hotel, if you already have a reservation. If you’re just visiting family, you might want to find a pay phone and call. Good day, now.” The nice man tipped his hat and walked off at a brisk pace.

She wandered the streets, alone in the crowds, unsure of herself or her place. When she was sufficiently lost, she turned a corner and caught her reflection in the glass of some store. It sparkled inside for a moment, and Tahira Ali realized it was a jewelry store. She entered, a bell ringing softly as she opened the door. A young American woman appeared at the counter and smiled a false smile, dripping acid with her fake polite words. “May I help you?”

She did not respond, but was distinctly conscious of her threadbare clothing and sleepless eyes. Instead, she admired the necklaces, her fingers lingering over the glass where several gold chains were interlaid against a mannequin.

“Do I know you?” the attendant asked snobbishly, cocking her head with a dignified frown. “You seem familiar, somehow.”

Before she was forced to answer, the little bell chimed again, and another American, a man older than the female attendant, strode inside. The attendant smiled as soon as she saw him. “Mike!” she exclaimed, stepping from behind the counter, embracing the man in a hug. “Have you heard? All these murders! What if that maniac came here? To America?”

“Hey!” the man shouted strangely. “It’s her! That murderer! Omigod, Irina, get outta here! A murderer on the loose, in New York, of all places! This will be the end. . . Irina, GO!”

Tahira Ali had inched up against the glass display. The gun was in her hands. She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again, her hand on the trigger. Bam. The man went down, swearing. Bam. Another shot to the man. Suddenly, he was silent. The girl, the girl. Tahira Ali looked up and in her blurred vision saw the attendant trying to drag the man with her towards the door, the expression on her face no longer full of condescension. Bam. Bam. Bam. She too went down, and fell across the man with a strangled cry.

Outside, she heard voices, and Tahira Ali found another door, climbing unsteadily over the counter, in her confusion, leaving the gun behind. The door. She pushed it open and stumbled, suddenly enervated, into the street. Two more, she thought numbly. Two more dead.

Present Day

Invited, he told her. Invited to a conference with Usama bin Ladin. "It is an honor, Shaykhah," he said, giving her that title usually reserved for Islamic scholars and feudal lords. "Few women, if any, other than his wives, are ever permitted an audience. And you--you never requested an audience. He has requested you. We leave in one hour, on this plane, should you choose to come. The Director wishes to speak with you. He has been waiting a long time."

What did she know of Usama bin Ladin? Another name, an Arab man or a converted Moslem, she supposed. But looking intently at the man who had found her, the only one in so long, she saw an Arab dressed like the whites she remembered from long ago. He wore those pants, the denim ones. Jeans, she thought, but was not sure. And a collared shirt. His hair was cut short; there was neither beard nor mustache to speak of, and certainly no head covering. From a distance, he looked white. Closer, she thought, he looked like her mother.

Finally, she nodded, and she joined the man, who showed her to a private cabin in the back of the airplane, and shut a curtain separating her from the messenger and two other men, both of whom clasped AK-47s in their dark hands. From behind the curtain, though she could not see the others, she heard their voices, and the familiar cadence of Arabic, which she had not heard spoken in some time.

"Camp Mumeet," one of the men said. "The Director said Camp Mumeet."

"And that is where we are taking Tahira Ali?"

"Of course, brother. Let me see. . . four hours journey. When we arrive, it will be quite the meeting."

Tahira Ali had no need to listen anymore; she found a pile of books, scholarly tomes on Islamic jurisprudence, shelved against the back wall of the cabin. Above them, on its own special shelf, and wrapped in a hand painted cloth, sat a Qur'an. She ignored the Qur'an, and lifted the first book on the lower shelf.

"Al-Wahhab's Argument for Institution of Sharia". Flipping through it, the book was of marginal interest, an old man demanding that Medieval Islamic law be imposed on all nations. The text, however, was beautiful, the Arabic script designed by a distant, perhaps dead typesetter. Tahira Ali smiled sadly. How she longed for simple beauty. More, she longed for love, the passion of Rumi. But there was not a Sufi text to be found.

1998
Johns Hopkins University
George Peabody Library
Baltimore, Maryland

She looked like another student, sleepy eyes scanning small print in a pile of books in front of the laptop near her end of the desk, glasses perched precariously on the end of her nose as her fingers turned another page, reaching for a highlighter. The second-floor librarian recognized the woman, Natalie Schultz, as she peered curiously from her reference desk, half-hidden behind rows and rows of bookcases, some with books stacked to the ceiling.

The George Peabody Library was an older building, made entirely of stone, and the ceilings arched to nearly one hundred feet, dusty chandeliers moving slightly, swaying with the cobwebs latched onto their ornamented reliefs. A portrait of Daniel Coit Gilman, Johns Hopkins University’s first president, stared impassively down at the cramming students, some frantically typing or speed reading, and others sleeping with their heads on the old wooden library desks. The scent in the air was musky, and hung heavy with the hundreds of millions of pages of the nearly 300,000 books filling the library’s six floors.

The librarian frowned at Natalie, certain the woman had received her doctorate six years ago. Natalie had been a fixture of the library then, memorizing as many of the books as she could, spending hours each day here, even on Saturdays. She had even slept here on occasion. But she hadn’t returned in years. No matter, the librarian supposed, turning elegantly, and fixing her eagle eyes on an undergraduate student, fidgeting with a pile of four books.

Natalie yawned and pushed her glasses up on her nose. With one look at the pages of the tome in her lap on the merits of the Spanish Inquisition, she had the contents memorized, a gift that had cursed her all of her days. How she hated being able to remember every gritty corner and letter of a book, every blade of grass and where the sun was, and not being able to recognize a single face. Photographic memory and facial recognition problems combined created an interesting combination psychologists enjoyed probing and Natalie wished death upon.

“Suspect is entering library,” the earpiece crackled in her ear, and Natalie winced involuntarily at the sudden auditory intrusion. “He’s wearing a red Baltimore Orioles sweatshirt and dark blue jeans.” Natalie nodded, forgetting that Luke, stationed outside, wasn’t able to see her from her spot inside the library. She didn’t look towards the door, afraid the man would spot her. Instead, Natalie turned another page in the book, bending the paper back and forth between two fingers, alternating between a massive chunk of text explaining a manual compiled by Tomás de Torquemada detailing the rituals of Judaism and an image of the Edict expelling all Jews from Spain.

To enter the library, one walked into a massive hall, flanked on either side by five balconies and pillars, revealing each of the library’s six floors. The center was empty and reached up to the heights of the decorative dome. Natalie was seated to the side on the second floor, looking over the balcony. She saw from the corner of her eye as the man in the Orioles sweatshirt and jeans strode into the library, looking just like her, like another graduate student mired in the stress of master’s theses and dissertations.

He was white, with short brown hair and a square face. Another invisible face, as far as Natalie was concerned. She was content to wait, and, after all, that was what she had been instructed to do. His name was James Harrington, and he was laundering money from Fidelity, the insurance giant, or so the company had claimed in the criminal complaint it filed. This was brought to the attention of the FBI, and with so many Baltimore agents already assigned to one too many things, the Special Agent in Charge dumped it on the field office’s newest agent and another senior agent just returned from vacation. He was the one in the café outside, sipping a latte, while Natalie waited inside the library for James to log onto one of the library’s new computers and check his account transaction records via encrypted connection. The agent outside wanted to let his temporary partner make her first arrest, and had trusted her to it. Natalie swallowed nervously, tapping a pen against the image of the Edict, suddenly worrying it wouldn’t go over well.

But then James Harrington stepped under the arch across from her side of the library and logged on to the computer, typing in his account number and PIN. Natalie saw the familiar logo of the banking company appear, and James smiled thoughtfully, surveying the balance of the account. It now held over five million dollars. There, Natalie thought. There was the evidence. On the screen, with her glasses, Natalie could see the account number of the company account the money had been laundered from.

She closed the book softly, letting out an oof as she shouldered the other seven books on the table, and walked past several stacks of books, finding the shelf she’d taken them from. Taking care to arrange them alphabetically by author surname, Natalie admired her work, then remembering what she was here for. Right. She wasn’t a graduate student anymore. She was an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Just to be sure, she reached a hand into the pockets of her khakis and felt the reassuring leather of her new credentials.

Natalie skipped down the back stairs of the library, her blonde hair flipping up and down with each movement, and then she was on the first floor again, well out of sight of James Harrington. She skirted behind several bookcases, picking up another book for good measure, this one an older copy of Immanuel Kant’s Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals in the original German, Natalie’s native language. She strode lazily around the stacks, coming up behind James from behind another bookcase.

With Kant propped open in her arm, she advanced until she was standing behind and to the side of the suspect, his cologne a stench in the air between them. Natalie breathed quietly through her mouth, lazily turning the pages. From here, she saw the numbers perfectly across the screen. Good. That was what they needed. Natalie pulled out her badge. “FBI,” she said, quietly, but loud enough for the students at this computer cluster to look up. “James Harrington, you’re under arrest.”

James quickly exited the window and logged off, spinning around and standing. “What?” He uttered a nervous laugh, the confident guise broken. “What are you talking about?”

“Please turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

James didn’t oblige her. He ran for the library door, across the center of the main hall. Natalie unholstered her Glock, also new, and chased after him; on her way out the front door, she tossed Kant on a table as gently as possible, startling a med student. From upstairs, the librarian watched with an aristocratic air of bemusement. So that was why the star student had returned. Not for studies, but for her new job. Undercover. The librarian chortled.

Natalie burst through the library doors to see Luke with a firm grip on James's collar. The man had stopped struggling. Luke pulled out a pair of handcuffs and snapped them across James's wrists, smiling wryly at Natalie. “Looks like he made a run for it, eh?”

Natalie turned red, pacing a few steps in each direction against the October wind, as Luke read James his rights and shoved him inside his unmarked car. He slammed the door, and then opened the passenger door for Natalie, gesturing her inside. “Ready to head back to the office?” Natalie nodded. “I thought so.” Once they were in the car, driving away, Luke smiled at her. “Don’t worry,” he said, “you’ll get the hang of things soon.”

Natalie could only hope he was right.

[b]Present Day
Metropolitan Detention Center
and
FBI Headquarters
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington D.C.

Eleven years later, sprawling out on the drab gray carpet covering the floor of an interrogation room, surrounded by mountains of paperwork and her laptop, Natalie Schultz flipped through pages of a trial transcript, memorizing each page with a look, determined to contain all thirty thousand six hundred and twenty-seven pages within her mind for later review and mental indexing.

She had looked up James Harrison the other day, just to satisfy some perverse curiosity, and found that he had been paroled two years ago, and was currently still in Baltimore, Maryland. Her first arrest, or, more accurately, the first arrest she had participated in. Natalie had had to testify at the trial that what she had seen on James's computer screen was in fact his account with the number of the company account, and that James Harrison was in fact the one accessing the account.

The previous week, Natalie braved the May pouring rains to testify against an arrested Al Qaeda financier, operating out of New York. Zacarias bin Muhammad had been her life for the last six months. Now she could go home tonight at a normal time and watch Hannah Montana re-runs with her daughter, Sofia. But for the time being, she had another ten thousand or so pages to go through. An approximation, but nevertheless, an enormous amount of paper. Natalie looked at her watch and smiled distantly. She could get through another five thousand pages by six. Then she would pick up Sofia from ballet.

Suddenly, Weird Al Yankovic began to sing from the tinny speakers of her cell phone, and Natalie grabbed for it, shaking it hard before she answered. "Natalie," she chirped.

"Agent Schultz, get to the situation room. Now." Then the connection ended.

Natalie frowned. She hated when that happened. Unexpected developments always pissed her off. She gathered the mounds of paper into a neat pile, dumping it unceremoniously into her shoulder bag along with her laptop. The Doritos went into the trash. Natalie looked around--nothing. Good. She headed for the door, opening it, and startling a rookie detective and his prisoner on the other side.

"Did-didn't know you were in there, Agent Schultz," the detective stammered, but Natalie was already down the hall, the prisoner staring in bewilderment at her puke green cardigan sweater and sixties floral skirt. She didn't notice.

In the Situation Room, Natalie found a small taskforce assembled, a chair left near the head of the table for her. Nice of them to leave her a spot in the crowd, she thought, and plopped noisily into the government-issue seat.

"We've been keeping watch on a group of vigilantes, known as the Eleven," said a representative of Interpol, a name tag giving away the agency. "And it is an opportune moment to bring in the FBI. We are creating an international task force to manage this threat. The Eleven seeks to eliminate criminals and other. . . undesirables . . . in a violent but efficient manner. This is a violation of international law. Therefore we are intervening. Interpol has requested a few FBI agents to be reassigned to this task force from their present duties to combat the Eleven."

Great, Natalie thought. That was probably why she was here. They were going to reassign her. Again.

But the Interpol agent never mentioned her name. Instead he read the names of five violent crimes agents, two of whom Natalie had worked with before. One was a prick. The other was just a loose cannon, not that he was actually a cannon of course. Why am I here, then, Natalie wondered.

"We want to hear from counter-terrorism expert Special Agent Natalie Schultz on vigilante organizations at this time."

Natalie's eye twitched. No one told me about this. But she stood nevertheless to polite applause and made her way to the center of the room.

"Oftentimes when levels of crime and terrorism or simple oppression or other unstable conditions arise, individuals will join together to exact their own form of vigilante justice against those whom they deem responsible. In the past, we called them heroes. Today, we call them criminals."

A light headed feeling tightening itself around her temples, a little unnerved Cheyenne let the bag fall beside the bed before she herself laid down upon the soft satin covers. The frail scent of vanilla lingering around her room, those incense candles were always so wonderfully soothing when she was stressed out. Laying there in peace, the only thing annoying her now was that ever pounding headache getting stronger and stronger. Huffing slightly, she turned around in bed. Reaching for the nightstand - it had some paracetamol tablets stored for these kind of things.

Cheyenne had a slight case of migraine and she just didn't have the patience nor time to just go to sleep and wait for it to go away by itself. Someone might just say she was slightly addicted to it, since she'd take it for every ache in her body. Breaking two 500mlg capsules out of it, she swallowed them dry, she was used to it. Slowly rolling from her stomach back onto her back, she exhaled sharply before closing her eyes for a few moments. A few more minutes and she would finally get some rest - Jet lack surely was a bitch.

Heavy footsteps halloing through a dark corridor, the dirty Grey of the walls only barely visible thanks to the dim light bulbs hanging from above. The air sticky and hot, making it hard to breath. Cheyenne found herself in that dark place again. Fear creeping up from behind her, the hair on her neck standing on its ends, heavy beads of sweat rolling down her forehead only stopping by her eyebrows. She was in a hurry - the footsteps came closer, she wouldn't stop running otherwise they would get her... What happens to someone who just took out a Syndicate Boss?

She had heard cruel things, some said they would chop her body into pieces while she would still be conscious. Starting with her fingers, slowly working up her hands and arms until she would die from the heavy blood loss - or maybe she would just simply faint due to the pain inflicted. Though she didn't plan on sticking around to find it out for herself, she would rather get out of here in one piece. They had warned her, this job was seriously dangerous - but how did they know? How did they find out and how were they able to track her down just like that?

Many thoughts, racing through her mind - nothing in particular, but only one thing very clear in her mind. Getting out of there alive! That was all she wanted. They had caught her - she was disarmed and nearly executed if it hadn't been for that idiot man who forgot to unlock the safety of his gun. She smirked slightly - if it hadn't been for his mistake she would have had a bullet in her head. She had used the opportunity and knocked the men out cold when they had least expected her to move. She wasn't much of a mega good shot but she wasn't bad at it either. She had a gun on her hip - but she would have been safer if she had the katanas by her side.

She didn't know for how long she had been running, this underground system was one hell of a labyrinth and to be honest, she hadn't had the slightest idea where she was going. For all she knew she could have been back underneath the compound where those gangsters were searching for her. Though one thing had finally occurred to her... the footsteps behind her seemed to have died out. Wiping away the sweat pearls which had accumulated themselves just under her chin she sat down on the spot. Her breath heaving, fighting for air as if there was no tomorrow. Planting both her hands onto the cold floor next to her, head lowered, eyes closed - she tried to slow her breathing down. She tried to calm down when a o
pair of hands firmly grabbed her by the shoulders and heaved her up...

A distant voice ripping her out of her dream - she was more than thankful since the scene coming was not something she wanted to recall.

"Um, Cheyenne, I don't mean to bother you, but I think there's something wrong with my computer,"

"Urgh..." muttering something inaudible she opened up her eyes, squinting - as they tried to focus upon the ceiling. Euphemia was outside of her door asking her for something.

"Yea, just come in!" she called out only with half her voice present. That dream from before - she could still feel the touch of that man on her shoulders. A cold shiver running down her spine just thinking about it. She sat up straight in bed, motioning for her to come and sit by her bedside.

"So you've done something to ya Laptop...again?" she managed to let out a half sarcastic smile before she looked at the computer. "Well let's see" as she grabbed the Laptop and placed it on her Lap. Her eyes widened at what she found - "Someones been through your recent history and files Eupha..." with a slight concern in her voice, frowning she dug deeper. Turning off the wireless connection Euphemia was on - she looked up from the Laptop screen towards her. "I think you are better off using my router from now on - it's passworded and whenever someone tries to make an incoming connection, it blocks it unless you accept it."

Pushing the Laptop away from her and into Euphemia's hands. "The password to access my private router is 'JJLMEWO3901DEF' - here I'll write it down for ya." as she tore off a piece of paper from a note block off of her nightstand. "And I strongly suggest you back up your important data - than do a format to erase anything that intruder might have left behind." sticking the piece of paper onto the Laptop.

"Anything else you need me for?" Euphemia was the only person except of Geoffrey who knew about the incident a year ago. The two of them had an odd bond with each other, but Cheyenne couldn't care less what Euphemia did in her free time. She was always someone she could rely on when things went terribly wrong. Which had happened more than once - though it seemed like someone from the inside was ratting them out.

((OOC: Alright, finally managed to get on and read everything; hope I didn't miss anything, I sort of had to skim it a little bit. The computer at my new place doesn't have a hard-drive unfortunately, so I have to check either when I'm at the library or when my friend lets me use his computer. Arg. Sorry.

PS: Eh, feel kinda weird pointing this out, actually, but Mindscrew, it's already been established that Bella took the shot on the job in Albi in the intro post. =P ))

She finished her meal, licking a tiny bit of ketchup off of her fingertips and then proceeding to quickly wipe the crumbs onto her shirt from her palms. She could hear the other occupants of the household coming and going, speaking and laughing, going about their business. She didn't often mingle with the others. She felt a certain fondness and kinship with them, of course. How could she not? These were the people she lived with, she fought with, and hopefully she would eventually die with. They were family, as far as she was concerned. However, in spite of that, the young woman didn't often spend an incredible amount of time with them. It was fine. She preferred it that way.

As she set her plate aside, she heard a quiet scuffing on the marble of the kitchen floor: the sound of shoes and a slightly shuffled gait. Blue eyes flicked upwards to the doorway, her body tensing in the most miniscule ways for just a fraction of a moment. It was instinctual, force of habit by now, even though she recognized the sound of the steps before she ever saw the owner. She smiled as Geoffrey entered the room, and immediately hopped down off of the counter, clasping small hands behind her back. "Geoffrey. How's..." She broke off as she saw wizened, but bright eyes flicker around the room, then gesture quickly for her to follow. She simply nodded and complied. A private conversation wasn't unusual; Geoffrey was like her father, after all.

A few minutes later, the two were facing each other in the meeting room, down in the basement. Maps, charts, profiles, biographies, photos, and the like were pinned to the walls on bulletin boards that covered almost every square inch of space available. The lights were fluorescent, the sort that's shaped like a long cylinder placed lengthwise on the ceiling. Geoffrey sat on the couch, calloused hands folded loosely in his lap, eyes focused on Bella, who stood in front of him a couple of feet away with her hands clasped behind her back again. He was silent for a long moment, gathering his thoughts, and then finally he addressed her.

“Bella, dear, please take a seat. There's no need for this formality... Why do I need to tell you this over and over?” The young woman shrugged a bit; she couldn't help it. It was habit she'd picked up in the army. Slightly hesitantly, she sat down next to the aged man on the couch and prepared herself to listen. As she did so, the man reached inside his shirt and pulled from one of the pockets a small envelope, which he handed to her. She took it, opened it up, and began looking through the contents. They were photographs of a young man, looking as if he was no older than sixteen, perhaps a little bit younger. He had messy, straight black hair, bright blue eyes, and pale skin. He was speaking to an older woman, who was accompanied by what was quite obviously a bodyguard.

“That is Emery Gerovich. He's eighteen years old, and he's currently residing somewhere in the Middle East; he should be returning to America within a week, based on our intel. He has an I.Q. of 163. He comes from a heavily military family, although both of his parents were dishonorably discharged many years ago for assault on their fellow soldiers. Both are presumed killed shortly afterwards.”

Bella listened quietly, then turned to Geoffrey with a very obvious, 'what else?' sort of look on her face. The man took the hint and continued, but not until he'd been silent for a moment.

Emery is believed to have his fingers in several of the largest drug pushing rings in the state, as well as connections in the government and military (even the most virtuous of people can be turned for the right price, it would seem). He's inherited quite a large sum of money from his family's savings, as he is the sole heir at the moment, and has earned himself a small fortune in his own er...business. Gerovich is highly suspected of dealings with several terrorist organizations, mostly selling weaponry and working to make their jobs easier to perform. There's also suspicion of his involvement in some foul play in the government itself, involving helping the CIA get away with illegal torture techniques. Most of the lad's power comes from his wealth. In the States, he has the third highest monetary worth, and the highest for anyone his age. The conspiracies surrounding this young man are innumerable, and someone has decided they want him dead. You'll be on this one, Bella, and the others who will be going ought to be receiving messages on their phones about now as well. I want a large team on this one; we have no idea what sort of support net he may have. That's your first job, young lady. Take one other with you, and try and get an idea of what we might be dealing with in terms of protection.”

Bella remained silent for a long while, staring at the young man in the picture, her face serious. He looked so young... it was hard to believe he was capable of so much. After a minute or so, she nodded and stood, slipping the pictures back into the envelope and standing up. She nodded to Geoffrey, and headed back upstairs. She went to the living room and took a seat, mulling over everything she'd heard.

[[Hokey dokes, edited ^^; And thanks for pointing it out. Sorry I was gone so long, I was out of town and then got a cold.]]

Euphemia sat down next to Cheyenne and let her have a look at the computer, scrutinizing her colleague's expression. She seemed troubled, somehow--Euphemia was about to blurt out, you had that dream again, didn't you? but thought better of it at the last minute. Just as she didn't like having her private thoughts pried into, she doubted Cheyenne would appreciate it.

"Thanks," she said as Cheyenne gave her a long and complicated password, which she repeated under her breath several times, trying to commit it to memory four alphanumeric characters at a time. She took back her computer and sat in silence for a few seconds, contemplating whether or not to check if Cheyenne's connection was vulnerable to cross-site request forgery, or any other of the tricks black-hat hackers were pulling out their sleeves these days. Somehow, though, she doubted that a hacker had targeted her--anyone who had the time on their hands to slip through her firewalls and leave nothing but some petty malware that monitored her browsing was after something other than control of her computer, maybe something worse. Perhaps, she thought, someone involved in a few of the crimes she'd been keeping tabs on was also keeping tabs on her...

"Anything else you need me for?" Cheyenne's voice snapped Euphemia out of her daze, and she put her contemplations, which now seemed paranoid, out of mind. Perhaps this was why the police had had little use for her: though she was logical when she needed to be, many of the things she deduced were based on situational irony and gut instincts rather than cold, hard fact.

"Oh, I'll be fine," she answered. "What about you? Before you seemed a little...well...are you alright?" So focused was she on trying to articulate the question in a non-prying, non-offensive way, that she didn't notice her Blackberry giving a little beep in her pocket...



There's a thing people do sometimes when they're scared called a counterphobic mechanism. What happens is, the person will screw up in precisely the places they want most to succeed, not realizing that they're subconsciously trying to force a resolution, to stop the anxious feeling that's hanging over their head, which is exactly what happened to Rosella Cartwright when she next came back into her makeshift office, the taste of blood still in the back of her throat, and turned on her computer to find that her connection to her sister's had been cut. She didn't know what was coming next, and wanted something to happen to speed things up so that she'd know once and for all if dear Euphemia knew someone was tracking her, or if the malware had been removed during one of those boring, routine anti-virus scans. Personally, she was hoping for the former, so she opened up a new window and sent a reckless little one-liner email to her sister's address: Guess who's watching you, Euphie...best regards, F.D.L. Even if Euphemia's computer was turned off, Rosella was sure she had one of those fancy email-capable phones and would be getting the message shortly.

Her fingers felt numb as she removed them from the keyboard. Anger and self-hate bubbled up in her as she realized that, in her desperation to cut her anticipation, she'd as good as exposed La Forteresse. Her only hope was that Euphemia and her connections all had better things to do than go after four serial killers. But in case her luck ran out there, she'd need a contingency plan.

With a sigh, she locked her screen and went back downstairs, passing by Crawford, who was walking up with a slight limp. He tried to avoid her, knowing she was irritated, but she managed to trip him up, and he fell down the stairs, hit his head on the wall, and fell unconscious.

He awoke disoriented. Rosella didn't bother tending to him, but another libertine helped him up and dressed his wound, all while the edgy head-honcho watched from afar. It took Crawford several minutes to remember who the other woman was or even who he was...

And just like that, Rosella had a stroke of inspiration and had a plan all worked out. She strode to the other side of the building, stepping on a few miserable, bleeding hostages along the way, until she came to a much more secluded stairwell. Then, she practiced throwing herself down several times until she could make it look convincingly real, keeping in mind that she'd have to do it much harder when the time came to play the memory-gambit card.