So I think these three chapter finally builds the foundation of the two...I hope it isn't too lengthy, but always healthy to have a decent background check before the show gets started. A lot of dialogue guaranteed in the next Chapter, but it won't be as quick as an update as the first two: these files had been tucked away in my lap top for months, and it was only until now did I decide to put them public.
Remember, reviews encourage thy work!
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"So she fled..." The voice on the other line of Jackson's cell phone taunted, followed by a slight snicker. Jackson had just unceremoniously arrived at his safe house, throwing his keys carelessly onto the kitchen counter and more or less threw off his shoes as he gritted his teeth.
"Yeah. It's like she saw a fucking ghost. I'd find it hilarious, if it weren't for the fact that she's become a major vitality for advancing my career. Don't worry, she'll come around."
"Oh, I'm not so worried Jackson. Not my problem, you see. I only worry if you are making good use of what I have just given you; it is not everyday that I let someone rent out a safe house for only two-hundred dollars a night."
Jackson's face turned sour. Once upon a time, he could have snapped back and threatened the person on the other line with good cause. Now, this bastard was his manager.
"I shouldn't be in Miami too long. My deadline is next Thursday, right? So don't give me too much bull about my time limit: I already am aware of it."
The voice on the other line chuckled. "Just making sure you remember."
"I remember," Jackson said with a little more venom than he intended to spill. He hated letting this guy know that he annoyed the hell out of him. "Don't act like I am a rookie here, I've done more intense operations than this one, in fact, I've done more operations than you. Right now you are a complete waste of my time and for once, I'll call YOU once I get the ball rolling. Until then, let me handle the situation. Do what you do best: sit on your ass and watch everyone else take care of things."
"Careful Rippner, that's not the way to speak to your manager." The voice said smugly, reveling as his opponent stayed silent on the other end, fuming.
Jackson wanted nothing more than to slam the phone against the wall, but could only tighten his vehement grip on it while clenching his jaw harshly. "Our boss doesn't give a shit about the relationships of his co-workers, he just wants the job done. That's why you never got promoted; you're nothing but talk and no guarantees."
To Jackson's immense pleasure, the line clicked. Slamming his cell phone onto the kitchen counter, he threw his head back and cursed. The prick on the other line was Garrett, a young manager like he had once been who never quite excelled in his career. Unlike Jackson, Garrett was careless and incompetent with details; the only reason he was even involved in the business was deep family ties, and if it weren't for his father and uncles, then he was as good as dead. Ever since Garrett heard the news that the renown prodigy Jackson Rippner was working underneath his authority, he was more than ecstatic. He called often, making sure to throw in as many witty and callous remarks as humanly possible. At first, Jackson dealt well with his unyielding insults, in fact he had even enjoyed throwing the ball back into Garrett's face with a few slick comments of his own. But right now he had a deadline to reach and wasn't quite in the mood for quarreling with the village idiot.
Oh well. Whatever.
Groaning, he sank onto the living room couch, pinching the bridge of his nose as he felt his anger slowly dissipate. No, this wasn't about Garrett, it was about his anxiously awaited promotion. All he needed was Lisa to listen, and after that then it would be a walk in the park to get her to comply. He was ready for her to scream at him, lash out in the very possible anger that she had bottled up after the flight. In fact, that's what he dealt best with: the scratching, the yelling, the sobbing, the ineffective punches... hell, he was ready to embrace it all if it can just get her to stand still.
But she ran. She fled the scene before he could even take any action.
...damn.
Pursing his lips in annoyance, he examined the safe house that Garrett had oh so generously given him. It was small, only containing the essentials of living: couch, television, a coffee table, book stand, kitchenette and bathroom. He remembered days where he spent his nights on crimson red sheets at a lavish five star hotel in Moscow, or when he rented a contemporary beach house during the eight weeks prior to the red eye incident. Now here he was. The highlight of the safe house was that it had satellite television and came with a complimentary bottle of Skyy Vodka. Whoopee.
Oh well. Won't stay here long anyway.
He gingerly sprawled the length of the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling, replaying the Mynt Lounge scene in his head. Her hair was a shade lighter than he had remembered, and had been layered and straightened to the length of her shoulder blades. From the information he had gathered up a few weeks earlier, she seemed to be doing relatively wonderful in her life. Promotion, friends, family, a resurrected social life. To say that it didn't piss him off was a complete lie.
He still couldn't forgive the fact that she ruined his life by the simple jab of a pen, and when he returned to Miami he was hoping to see a shriveled, anti-social workaholic rotting away from the misfortunes of her life inside her condo. He wanted to see tubs of Häagen-Daz scattered throughout her living room, followed by a stack of B-rated movies to accompany her lonely, fright-filled nights. He wanted fear, he wanted terrified, he wanted her to realize that he wasn't going to simply leave their business unfinished. Instead, he found her popping quarters at an arcade and singing karaoke at a local bar, with a group full of friends cheering her on as she sang "Love Shack" by The B-52's.
Yes. While I had spent half the year overseas and the rest in remote locations through out the U.S, pissing and moaning about the failures of my life, you were trying to win a plush green teddy bear with one of those coin-chomping crane machines. Go figure.
Still, luck had been kind enough to not kill him yet. The company that recently hired him wasn't near as demanding or high-paying as his last; this company kept a majority of its profit overseas and looked mostly to the interests of corrupt political figureheads and international business leaders. Jackson was more than surprised to find that Keefe himself once held ties to one of his superiors years back. His current company did not stand for any political zealots or radical cause; it merely catered to those willing to pay a good price, making it a relatively safe, neutral entity of the underground world. A large ratio of the workforce were former CIA or FBI agents, so ties directly to the government were ample.
His former reputation as a miracle assassination manager enabled him to get a humble position partaking in small operations on the east coast, giving him time to prove that he still held the premium performance and skill that had given him his former prestige. He gained the approval of most of his superiors quickly, and slowly Jackson felt the rust of failure fade away, replenished as his confidence and assertive perseverance returned. Now he was only one operation away from getting a juicy promotion, one that could possibly heal his scarred résumé.
Scarred reputation. Scarred ego. Scarred life.
His fingers deftly touched the small, bulbous scar on his throat, a relic of his untimely demise that Lisa had graciously given him. He remembered when it was still fresh from bandages, when he had laid enraged eyes upon it for the first time. Even to this day he could feel his blood boil at the memory, of large desperate eyes reflecting the sun rays of that particular summer morning. There had been restless nights where Jackson indulged in the thoughts of revenge and violent retribution, but determination and hope fueled him to shake it off and keep the focus on his job.
The only problem is that Lisa was a key component for completing the job.
What Lisa had trouble seeing is that because of her job, she was a valuable tool for conspirators of his line of work to manipulate. While being briefed, Jackson was notified that because of her promotion, she now had access to the detailed schedules of some of his company's clients...and marks. Funny how it all worked out; Keefe basically had super-glued a target sign to her head while he was paving her promotion, thinking it was all for her benefit and well-being. Sure, she got to flash around a Prada wallet and buy a pair of breathtaking Manolo shoes, but what value were they worth if she gets kidnapped? Even worse, killed.
Although his former company had no intention of eliminating Lisa initially after the big disaster, the promotion itself got their attention once more and smacked a fair priced bounty on her head. Before, Lisa had a small but respectable amount of acquaintances with a few politicians and business men, but now her little job upgrade made her work exclusively for higher society, causing her to have vital information that both his former company and his current would have wanted. It was no myth: his old company now had good reason to pay Lisa a little visit, and if she didn't comply with their demands well...there goes a head full of crucial data. Literally.
He heard his cell phone vibrate harshly against the kitchen counter, and with great reluctance, Jackson got up to receive it, praying that it wouldn't be Garrett up for round two of the game that never ended. Fortunately, it was his boss.
Jackson huffed amusingly and picked it up. "I figure Garrett told you a highly exaggerated and elaborate version of what had happened with Reisert, right?" He didn't even have to wonder; Jackson knew.
The man chuckled lowly. "Yes, I know better than to take that fool's words seriously, but the general plot line is intact: she ran off."
Jackson sighed. "Yeah. Up and left. I didn't want to start a public scene so I stayed in place."
"Smart move. So what's plan B?"
Jackson bit his lip softly, pacing the living room as he ran his hair through his unkempt hair. "Plan B Plan B Plan B...approach her again in a more private setting, threaten her if she doesn't comply, use minimal physical force, bring sedatives if all hell breaks lose and ta-da: you got your key."
The man contemplated this for a minute, and hummed an approved note. "When do you expect to strike?"
"Not too soon. It's Tuesday, so lets give her the rest of the week off to cool down, because she'll need it for whats coming ahead. I've bugged her phone line, so I'll find out what her schedule is for this weekend. If she carries on with her weekend like planned, I'll know what to do."
"Are you sure?"
Jackson's azure eyes cringed in annoyance. He had heard that question one too many times after his great disaster; no wonder Lisa got pissed off every time her father asked that.
"Yes, positive. The deadline is next Thursday, so we have time."
The blunt assurance Jackson gave resulted in a satisfied grunt from the boss. "I hope so. Key a low profile around Miami, I'd hate to bail you out if an agent recognizes and catches sight of you."
"Understood," was Jackson's final word before the man hung up. Flicking the phone back onto the counter, Jackson felt that habitual vexation bubble within. Lisa.
If she doesn't just listen then I might lose my fucking mind...
...hell, what am I saying, I'll MAKE make her listen.