Rae Prite

Remembering the Years

Epilogue

A shadowy figure stood in front of the window in a lavish office, watching the crowded streets of New York twenty stories below with the air of someone who owned the city. Which wasn't true – his 'company' only owned about a third of it.

He took a long drag on a cigarette held between his long fingers. His other hand was placed nonchalantly in the pocket of his pinstriped Armani suit pants. Behind the figure was an ornate desk with his suit jacket thrown casually over the leather chair.

The walls of the office were decorated in a classic, seventeenth century theme, with heavy expensive drapes beside the windows and priceless paintings hung with precision. The room exuded power, wealth and status – the three most important things in the shadowy figure's life.

Suddenly the heavy oak door swung open and two men entered. The first was tall, thin and swarthy with a cruel face. The second was short, husky and red haired. The two men stopped about a yard in front of the desk, and waited for the figure at the window to speak first.

"Have you located the girl?" the figure asked without turning from the window. It was clear from his commanding tone that he was in charge.

The taller man spoke first, his voice thick with a Russian accent. "We found her. But there has been a slight snag."

The boss said nothing and took another puff of smoke.

Taking that as a cue, the red haired man said, "we don't know how, but she figured out who her family is. She's with them now. We haven't been able to get close to her. She's always with at least one or more of them." The man spoke with a distinct Long Island inflection.

The figure sighed and looked at his cigarette regretfully, now burned down to the butt. He turned and extinguished it in a gold ashtray on the desk.

"I'm surprised at you two," he said, turning his back on them while he slipped on his jacket. "You're some of my best operatives. Highly skilled, specially trained, paid well…" He sat down in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. "So, tell me, then why is it that you cannot perform a simple extraction job?" he shouted angrily, pounding his fist on the desk.

"We're trying," the Long Island man whined. "It ain't easy. They never leave her alone for long and she hasn't left the house in the three days we've been staking it out. By the looks of things, she's been there at least a week."

"I don't want to hear your pathetic excuses!" the boss yelled. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes while rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I want results, damn it. If we don't get that girl back, sixteen years of work will have been wasted."

"I do not understand why this is important," the Russian man said, lifting an eyebrow. "We have planted the evidence we need to cover our tracks, and Taylor will soon be in police custody given time and the right anonymous tips. Nothing is linked back to us. He is free to take the fall. Why do you want this girl so much?"

The boss leaned back in his chair and looked out the giant bay windows again for a long moment. Finally, he replied. "The girl is important, because she is the key to my revenge. Without her, I'll have wasted countless resources and time for nothing."

"Revenge?" The red haired man asked, confused. "What did the girl ever do to you?"

A pause. "Not her… Her father," The boss smiled wickedly. "Fenton Hardy, the famous private investigator, poked his nose into my business one too many times. Sixteen years ago, when he managed to shut down an entire gang I had working for me in Florida smuggling arms, I decided it was time he knew his place. His wife, at the time, was expecting their third child. It was the perfect opportunity to hit Hardy right where it would hurt the most. I had Taylor, who at the time was feeding me information from inside the NYPD, take the child and raise her as his niece under a cruel hand. That girl was the same one I want you to retrieve now."

The Russian frowned. "Why is this? Why did you not kill her then and send the body back in a box? Why wait?"

The boss smirked and eyed his underlings for a long moment. "Ever heard the phrase 'Revenge is a dish best served cold'?" He chuckled. "How much colder can you get than sixteen years and a traumatically scarred daughter? Now you see why I need her back – my revenge is not yet complete. The only way I can truly make Fenton Hardy pay for the trouble he has caused me again and again over the years, is to see the look on his face as I slit his daughter's throat."

"Your instructions are these: find the girl, grab her, and bring her to me. If anyone gets in your way, well," the boss shrugged. "Use your imagination."