Dots
As long as she can remember, Macey Campbell is a writer. She published some short stories and her novel, a thriller, is immediately compared with the best of the best. The 'new Nora Roberts' is about to become a very popular storyteller.
But Macey refuses to have her picture published on those novels and doesn't want to give any interviews. What reason does she have for that? Probably the best: she was told she has enemies from the past. Enemies she may not remember…
Dots – part 1
October 2014 || Long Beach
The wobbly feeling of moving around without seeing where one was going to had was gone. It ended hours ago. Now, there was soft and nearly indistinct movement and splatter, which meant that the journey overseas came to an end, and nobody knew for sure what would happen now. The temperatures had slowly risen to nearly 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The sea-container was now smelling of fear, tears and sweat, and it even smelled of urine.
It smelled of too many scared people packed in too little space.
The sound of the roller shutters being removed made the scared women mumble in anticipation, cry out because of the sudden shock or, on the contrary, were quiet.
Then the doors opened and five heavily armed men stood in front of the group. All five of them were dressed casually but still in a uniformed way — dark grey cargo trousers and black shirts or dark jackets. Three of them had short hair, buzz cut.
Four of the five men stepped forward until they reached the women in the crowded container unit.
The fifth, definitely the leader, started shouting. He was tall, with dark, brown and piercing eyes, hidden beneath bushy eyebrows. Nothing sympathetic radiated from his attitude, and it was clear he needed to be in control.
"Listen up, putas! There's 25 bitches of you in here. Hardworking girls and women who will start a new life in this land, the promised land. But we know there's a traitor between you. Someone who wants to prevent all of this, who wants to send you back to Mexico."
The four armed men now entered the container, checking the girls' and women's faces. Some of them looked away, some whispered. Not all of them understood English.
"Who is it? Who is working against us? Where is she? I know we can find you…" the man yelled.
There were some soft buzzing voices, whispers only, yet none of the girls and women responded.
Then, the leader motioned to one of the other men, who now grabbed one of the youngest girls by her dark, nearly black hair and dragged her out, leading her to the leading man.
"Who is it? I won't ask again. Speak up or this little puta will die."
The girl screamed out loud, her dark eyes filled with fear. Tears started to run, from fear and from the pain of someone pulling her hair.
"We're counting down… Five more seconds or else…"
Nobody spoke. It was as if the crowded group as a whole was holding their breath. And during the five seconds which felt like much, much longer, nobody moved, nobody spoke. Nobody counted. It was just awfully quiet for five seconds and a bit. All that was heard were the sobs of the girl.
The gunshot cracked, echoing aloud in the large metal case the women were staying in. It was all surreal for another millisecond, but then the first cries of horror sounded as the lifeless body of the anonymous young Mexican female slid to the floor.
Ignoring it all, the military-looking leader looked around and now spoke in a low voice, perhaps even more angry than when he yelled. Unpredictable, dangerous, clear enough.
"Anyone now?"
He faced the women and, when none of them responded, sent another brief nod to one of his men. Another woman who was forced to face the others, her shrieks being ignored.
"Five seconds…" the voice of the leader was nearly soothing when he grabbed the woman even tighter. He probably never listened to her pleading 'no, por favor'.
Slowly, the leader then snugged the barrel of the gun to her head while he spoke "Five… four… three…"
It was all too clear he would never hesitate to kill.
Marcia Schwarz suppressed her fears then stepped forward. "Let her go."
A venomous smile appeared on the man's face as he pushed away the other woman like a bag of dirt. The man let his gaze go over Marcia's face and body. She looked just like she wanted to look — exactly like one of the bitches she'd been hiding in between. Dark eyes, but not brown, they were nearly black instead. High cheekbones and a wide mouth and dark hair, in a ponytail, like half of the other women had. The plain, grey dress she wore showed nothing of the figure underneath it.
He addressed her. "Now look at you… There's no need to stay silent. We know it's you. So tell me, what agency are you working for? FBI? DEA?"
There was a short cry of pain when his flat hand slapped her face. She swallowed it away and slowly looked up at him, dared to face him, despite she knew that in one way or another, she was burned.
She responded nevertheless. "Perhaps. How about CIA?"
The man now narrowed his eyes in anger. His face came closer, much closer and she felt drips of his spit on her cheek when he now yelled once again "You and I both know that's impossible!"
She lifted her chin. Maybe she was out of luck indeed, but now, without the barriers of the metal and the people around her, her agency should be able to track her from now on. And in that case, the remaining women and girls would be able to travel back to their beloved ones.
The thought kept her going and he must have read it in her eyes.
"You're wired," he hissed, his eyes even darker.
This was a female. A species that should be easily overruled, that should not be considered as dangerous.
But with her chin up and her dark grey eyes showing defiance instead of fear, the man who faced her knew rumors were true. He could no longer deny what his partners had convinced him about — this woman was an agent who should not be underestimated.
His simple statement surprised her. How did this man know, who told him? There was no time for thinking, since in a matter of seconds he pulled a knife on her. It flashed only once and it surprised her that there was no immediate pain. The adrenaline blocked it, she figured. What she did feel was the anger of knowing the button-cam and com were destroyed, the anger of being betrayed and the urge to find out by whom. She tried to breath normally. She tried, until the pain set in.
She was aware though, of the appearance of a bright red dot. One which should never be there, not moving over her body. She knew she could escape from it, and she nearly did.
Until she kind of slipped in the blood beneath her feet and she hit her head, hard, on the metal handle of the container unit.
That was the moment special agent Marcia Schwarz had no longer any awareness of what was happening next.
None at all.
o)o)o)o)o)o)o)o)o)o)o)o)
Monday, April 11, 2016, 5.55 AM || Office of Special Projects, Los Angeles
He checked his smart-watch and heaved a deep sigh. The slightest touch of his forefinger on the small, black touchscreen told G. Callen that he had exactly four minutes left to meet with the tiny woman who liked to boss around, and his team, in time.
Four minutes was very little, since he first needed to find a free lot to park his silver Mercedes Benz in the small parking garage underneath the large Marketplace Mall opposite of the office, then hurry across the street, enter the office, drop his bag next to his desk and rush up the cast iron staircase where the others probably had gathered already.
Hetty would just send one of her looks his way, Callen figured. The assistant director – Owen Granger would simply be peeved or ignore him. That was, if he was around, since Granger spent more time with the New Orleans team nowadays. And Sam… Well, Callen realized his partner was going to ask even more questions now he came in late again, like he had been yesterday and the day before yesterday. Late, and with his own car.
But well, Sam had no idea of the energy Anna Kolcheck had, neither how much time Callen spent with her or which new sites he visited.
Never mind Anna… He still had another 2 minutes before he was really late.
And never mind the short night with too many disagreements and the usual make up, he sure did not wish that it would be just another day in the office. The paperwork was something he detested.
Again, Callen sighed. Too many small cars were double-parked, even at this time of the morning. He hated it that he'd had to find a place in a row farther from the exit, and smiled to himself as he finally found a place which fit his car. He parked it next to a bright green Chevrolet Sonic which was battered and bruised. Its owner definitely didn't mind. Probably a bad driver or bad parker. Callen decided that he'd take the risk with his Mercedes, parked it and left it, pressing the button on its keycard to close the doors while on his way to the exit.
Traffic was quiet at this time of the day and Callen crossed the street without a problem. No better place for a federal agency than a place like this – no curious watchers, no striking new building from the outside, no noticeable signs. A perfect hide in plain sight, like he loved to perform himself.
He nearly moaned when he noticed that both Sam's Challenger and Kensi's silver Ford, issued by the government, were parked already in the small court next to the entry of the abandoned water plant. He imagined the comments on his being late, again, would be irritating, especially if they'd come from Deeks.
He breathed in deep before he opened the large and heavy wooden door.
It was like he expected it to be. The bags and jackets left on chairs showed and proved his three co-workers had arrived already. He dropped his bag as well and tossed the key card of the car on his desk, then was about to hurry up the stairs.
"Oh, Mr. Callen?"
He never expected the older, very little but mentally very strong lady, to sit behind her desk, her face very serious. Paper files were in front of her, however, she shut them before he managed to read any of it. She put down a nearly emptied floral Royal Albert cup from which she probably drank one of the many different teas already.
"What?" he replied.
She sent him a short nod and said "Take care."
Hetty paused for a brief moment, let her gaze go over the agent in charge. She nodded, which appeared to be rather encouraging to him at that moment.
"Any particular reasons I should?" Callen retorted. "What did I miss so far?"
"Nothing, dear boy. You missed nothing so far. I'm sure assistant director Granger will clarify all that needs to be clarified to you and your team."
To Callen, it sounded a bit off of what he was used to. He frowned shortly, then decided to find out what Granger had to say.
Thank you for reading!