Disclaimer: I hold no rights to Catherine Martin whatsoever. Thomas Harris is her creator. RC, on the other hand, is all mine. Thanks for reading. Reviews are appreciated.
vanillafluffy
Twilight Reflections
The bumper sticker says: Drive it like you stole it. That's not just my approach to driving, it's my approach to life, and it serves me well. Rubber squeals as I corner on the curvy road, going into a slide, punching down the pedal as I regain traction, all while singing along with Chely and not missing a beat. Woo-boy, there's nothing like a fast car, some loud music and a tricky piece of road!
My phone lights up, the little neon pulse flickering blue in the cockpit. God, what a macho, sexist term that is! Besides, it's not really a cockpit, just the interior of a two-year old Chrysler that looks stock but is secretly badass. I kill the decibels and hit the button for speaker phone. "Talk to me," I say.
"I've got more details on the Boulder job." It's RC, my boss.
"Do we know which kind of job?" I ask. "Technical, confrontational, or--"
"Strategic," says my employer, ever the diplomat, especially on a questionable connection. 'Strategic' means make it look like an accident. "Where are you now?"
"Hauling ass, about an hour out of Boulder."
"You've got reservations at the Westin. Check in and get some rest, Kate. The case-file should be there by noon tomorrow."
"Right," I say, and we end the call.
Briefly, I wonder who I'll be terminating this time. I've learned not to ask why, but I always wonder. There are always reasons; usually good ones. RC screens the cases carefully before accepting them. Being former CIA, my boss knows the risks associated with taking on the wrong contract, from the wrong people, for the wrong reasons.
Now, I'm not one to kid myself; I'm killing people in cold blood. Not for the money; I'm on salary, as absurd as that sounds, and that's a pittance compared to my net worth. Not for kicks, believe me, it's not that. No, I do it because our justice system is fucked up, and the world as a whole is better off without some people walking it. Once upon a time, I tried the playing it by their book, but the Powers That Be thought I was the one who was fucked up. Their loss. I can still be part of the solution; I just do it my way.
Eventually, I get to the hotel, check in, and get some rest as per orders. By the time I'm conscious again, the case-file is waiting for me in a couriered envelope at the front desk.
Reading between the lines is something I've gotten good at. The guy with the bulls-eye on his forehead works for a company that recently introduced some technology which has raised the industry's state of the art to a new level. Either their competition is trying to hamstring his employer's future developments, or his employers have reason to think he's selling them out. No matter. Mine is not to reason why, mine is just to make him die. Quietly.
A little research is called for. Thinking of all the driving I did to get here, I check out the route he takes from his ostentatious hillside home in the wilderness (Hey, if the nearest S'leven is more than a mile away, it's freaking wilderness!) to his place of work. This place is definitely well off the beaten track.
Oh, yeah. The road is perfect for my nefarious purposes. A steep drop on one side, a sheer rock face on the other, and no shoulder to speak of. The barrier is metal, not concrete, and the wooden posts show signs of age. He drives this road evey day and has for years, and I'm willing to bet he's blind to its dangers.
With binoculars around my neck, I do some exploring, looking like a member of the Audubon Society gone astray, until I find a spot where I can see without being seen and track the traffic flow. When Bulls-eye Guy returns from work, he zooms along the twisty trail like it's his own private slalom course. In other words, he drives like I do, albeit in a completely factory-issue Pontiac that he owes his soul on. This is going to be sweet and easy.
An oil slick would do the job, but there's no finesse to that; there's also the potential for collateral damage to some other poor fool, not to mention it's environmentally unfriendly. (It's not that I hate the wilderness--I just wouldn't want to live there.) No, I have a better idea, and it'll give me a chance to refresh my rock-climbing skills, to boot.
It's been a while since I've done any climbing; I have to focus so as not to splatter myself on the roadway. I enjoy it; danger and concentration are a tasty combination. I hammer a pulley into a crack in the rock wall about ten feet above the asphalt, measuring the drop. A couple inches leeway is okay, a couple feet is not.
There's a nice, tall pine tree about twenty yards away, down the slope below the road. I string a line from the rock wall to the tree, a good lightweight nylon without too much play. The next stage has to be carried out at twilight, so I wait until Bulls-eye Guy has gone in for the night, and I've accounted for the few neighbors. It takes a while to experiment with rigging everything the way I want it, but it's finally satisfactory. Tomorrow night, I'll set it up for real, and take care of Bulls-eye Guy.
Sure enough, at dusk the next evening, I'm perched in the pine tree, watching the road with my binocs, when I spot the streak of green that tells me my quarry is moving my way. I've timed it so that he'll be out of line-of-sight from my position when I pull the curtain into place. When he squeals around that last bend, he's going to find himself face-to-face with an oncoming set of headlights, courtesy of a reflective sheet of mylar film.
As fast as he's going, it won't take much for him to spin out. I watch and wait for my planning to pay off. I imagine his stereo playing, him singing along with some familiar tune as he drives the familar road the way he always drives it, maybe tapping in rhythm on the steering wheel.
Now he's sliding around the fatal curve to confront his doppelganger, and I can almost hear an "oh shit!" from the doomed car as he over-reacts and the Pontiac skews around, doing a spectacular 360-, tires wailing, then one of them blows off the rim with the lateral motion and the car slams into the barrier hard enough to shear off a couple of the weakened timber posts, lofting out beyond the edge of the embankment in a descending teal arc, tumbling over and over and over against the rocks below.
It's a beautiful piece of work, and I admire it in action.
When the vehicle has teetered to a reluctant halt, I carefully reel in the mylar curtain and the line it's clipped to. Stowing it all in my backpack, I climb down from the tree and approach the wreck. I move slowly across the stony slope toward the tangled pile of metal. It landed right side up--after three full rotations--and as I get close, I can see spastic movement from the interior.
The fucker is still alive. I feel cheated; after such a perfect execution, it annoys the hell out of me that he's had the gall to survive.
"Oh my god, mister!" I say, trying to sound like a concerned bird-watcher being a good citizen, never mind that any sensible bird-watcher would've gone home an hour ago. "Are you okay?"
No, he's not, I'm pleased to see, peering in through the shattered window. There's only so much an airbag will do in a crash like that, which is why they make seatbelts, for crying out loud! He's a mess, with glass embedded in his face, covered in blood from his scalp down to where the steering column is crushing his abdomen. His chest is a bubbling wound.
Standing there in the twilight, I watch him dying. I speak quietly. "If you're gonna drive it like you stole it, you gotta remember to check the rearview for flashing lights. The coast isn't always as clear as you think it is."
Bulls-eye Guy takes a deep, wheezing breath, like he's gonna say something, then exhales, leaving it unsaid forever.
As I make my way carefully along the hillside, the rocky terrain dark and trecherous, I pull out my cell phone and call the highway patrol to report the accident. The sooner the wreck is found and the victim's death confirmed, the sooner my employer can collect the remainder of the fee for services rendered.
Pretty soon, I'm back in the champagne-colored Chrysler, getting the hell out of there before the nearest state trooper shows up. It's a beautiful night to cruise; I'm gonna crank Wynonna a little louder, and drive it like I stole it.
A/N: Catherine Martin is turning out to be quite the philosopher, which I didn't expect. Don't know where I'm going with her, although another errand to Mexico for her boss is a distinct possibility.