In the future, technological advances has made murder a very difficult proposition. The web of cameras, DNA tracking, surveillance drones, and a beefed up police force have combined together to frustrate anyone who wishes to dispose of another human being. There is only one avenue remaining to those needing to erase someone - the past. A network of criminal enterprises have appropriated time travel technology and use it to send potential targets back in time. These bound and hooded targets are met in the past in a desolate location by one of a series of hitmen. These gunmen dispatch the new arrival and leave their body to be dealt with by nature. The triggermen are compensated well for their role in this cycle, and they are only required to follow four rules.
Rule One: Be at the designated location at the designated time.
Rule Two: Kill whatever poor bastard appears tied up and hooded at that location.
Rule Three: Take your payment.
Rule Four: Never lift the hood.
The new arrival was always preceded by a crackling sound and brief electrical discharge. Then he would materialize in front of her, usually kneeling with his hands tied behind his back. A burlap sack always covered his head. Sometimes the target would whimper or cry. Sometimes he would scream or threaten. Sometimes he would try to bribe or bargain. But it never mattered how he entered the past; he always went out the same: two bullets through the front of the burlap sack. When she went to the body to retrieve her payment, she would deliver a third shot to the back of the sack just to be sure. Then she would calmly leave the area and return to her car - driving away and earning roughly $50,000 in gold for what amounted to a short trip and ten minutes of work.
She was the perfect example for how a killer for the network should act. She was never late. She never asked questions. She never altered the agreements. She never broke the rules. She didn't know the reason why the men would drop out of the sky. Moreover, she didn't care. Forty-nine times, a trussed up figure materialized and slammed to the ground. Forty-nine times, she dispatched the target. Forty-nine times, she collected her payment and left the body to be discovered by wild animals. Forty-nine times, she vanished from the scene like a ghost. Forty-nine times she slipped seamlessly back into her life until the next mysterious message appeared.
The fiftieth time was where everything went haywire.
It began like any other assignment. She was toiling away at her cubicle, content to live her life as an unassuming music producer. Well, producer was a generous title. She was a couple of steps above an intern, and several steps below someone who would matter. Mostly she tweaked and adjusted songs. A few levels balanced here. A couple of background voices inserted there. It was mostly grunt work, but it was perfect. She still had her hands in the creation of music, but she wasn't important enough to be missed when she had to make an impromptu trip. As long as she turned in her assignments, nobody much cared about her at all. But she had the luxury to take on a mundane job like this because she generated plenty of income from her other arrangement.
She was in the midst of the thrilling task of sifting through inane emails - higher ups, artists, legal reps, lots of self-important people - when she got an innocuous text. Box 04-63 needs your attention. A jolt of electricity went through her body like it always did. She marveled at how she was pulling off these clandestine adventures right in plain view. She always got an automatic alert just like this. The content of the message was merely the same content as the subject. The first number provided the state where she was headed - the number matched the order they gained statehood. So "04"meant Georgia. The second number matched one of the sites earmarked in that state - usually some out-of-the-way swamp, forest, or field. Exactly 28 hours after receiving the text, the woman would be greeted by a target appearing in front of her at that location. Ten minutes after that, she would depart with two gold bars the size of cigarette lighters in her pocket. She realized she wasn't far from this location - no flight was needed. She was located in Atlanta, so it would be a drive of a few hours. She would steal a car that evening and be on her way. As strange as it sounds, the orders that required her to boost a car were preferable to ones where she flew. It was actually more likely she would be tracked from flight records than busted for the robbery.
Sixteen hours after she received the text, she was headed south on I-75 in Marlene Vaughan's 2016 Black Honda Accord.(The following morning, Ms. Vaughan would be very upset to realize her car was missing. But it should be recovered by tomorrow afternoon abandoned outside of a Piggly Wiggly in Forest Park, Georgia.) The record producer turned mysterious assassin drove for several hours before leaving the asphalt ribbon for country roads. Twenty-one hours after the text, she pulled off the road in Fargo, Georgia. She would have to do some walking into the Okeefenokee Swamp to be at the exact stated location, but she wanted to rest for a few hours first. She roused herself after a few uncomfortable hours in the backseat of the Accord. After lacing up her boots, she grabbed her pistols and trudged into the wetlands. Twenty-seven hours and forty-five minutes after the text, she stood about ten feet from the arrival point. She swatted at mosquitos and kept an eye peeled for one of the over 10,000 alligators that called the swamp home. A few birds flew by. A snake slithered along a fallen tree trunk. Sweat dripped down her neck under her flannel shirt. The humidity in Georgia was already oppressive; standing in a literal swamp in the middle of the afternoon made it even worse. Five minutes prior to arrival, she pulled her guns out and verified they were loaded and ready to go. Right on time, twenty eight hours after the text to the second, electricity crackled in front of her. She readied herself and aimed at the targeted spot. A figure materialized just like all forty-nine times before.
Only this time it wasn't a man.
The assassin froze when she saw the roughed up figure in front of her. The face was covered by the usual hood, but spilling out of the opening and over the woman's shoulder was long red hair. She was wearing a tight "little black dress" that was torn and wrinkled. Her hands weren't bound like every target before her. She was wearing one high heeled shoe. A simple gold chain with a cross on it dipped into her cleavage. Scratches stood out on the ivory skin along her collarbone and arms. She was quivering in fear and began swinging her head around, trying to get her bearings.
"Hello?" A terrified but still bright voice called out from under the hood. "Where am I? Is anyone there?"
The shooter stood like a statue, taking in the sight in front of her. She had waited long past the point where she usually would fire, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Alarm bells were going off in her head. This wasn't like every other target. This was something else entirely. She tried to shake herself out of her stupor, but it wasn't working. By now, the redheaded woman was pulling the hood off of her head. Shoot her! Shoot her NOW! The armed woman's body wasn't responding to her brain. Before she knew it the hood was off. She stared at the frazzled wild-eyed woman in front of her.
"Who are … Oh my God! Are you going to shoot me?" The target woman hit a whole new level of panic seeing the guns aimed at her. She began searching for an escape route. Any way she ran led deeper into the wetlands - hardly a sound option for a woman in a cocktail dress and one stiletto heeled shoe. The only route out was through the gun-toting individual in front of her.
That gun-toting individual was now mesmerized by the sight in front of her. The woman was beautiful. She had ice blue eyes. Even with the smeared makeup, it was clear that she was exquisite. Ugly bruises marred her cheek and right eye. A decision had to be made. Her body finally rebooted, and she dropped her head in forfeit. "God damn it," she grumbled. She put her guns back into her waistband. She reached her hand out to the redhead. "Come on, let's get out of here."
The other woman widened her eyes even more. "You want me to TRUST you? You were about to shoot me five minutes ago."
"I still can," the other woman replied. "Or I can leave you for one of the thousands of gators watching this whole thing go down." The thought of gators outweighed the fear of the armed woman, so the redhead limped over. "You'll probably do better if you lose the shoe," the shooter offered as she gestured to the lonely black heel.
"Oh, right," the redhead acknowledged. She removed the shoe and tossed it to the side. Barefoot, she was about the same height as the other woman in her boots. "Do you have a way out of here?"
"Yeah, come on," the assassin answered as she turned and stalked away from the location. The redhead jogged carefully to catch up. She took a moment to evaluate the other woman. She was tiny. Red and black plaid shirt, tank top, skinny jeans, waterproof hiking boots. Her long chocolate brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and tucked through the back of her UGA trucker cap. She looked like any other young Georgia woman on a hike through a national park - aside from two things. The first was the pair of pistols sticking out of her waistband, although quite a few Georgians would be sporting those. The other is that the woman was strikingly pretty. She could easily have been a model or actress, if she could fit that into her murdering people in the swamp. Either way, the redhead knew she needed to get away from her dangerous companion as soon as possible.
The duo came upon a black Honda Accord sitting off the road. "What a relic. Is this your car?" the redhead asked quietly.
"No," the brunette grumpily replied. She hit the key fob twice to unlock the doors. "Get in."
The two women climbed into the car. As the brunette got it started, the redhead looked around, taking stock of the vehicle and looking for a possible weapon. The car was a mess. The front passenger seat had crumpled papers on the ground. The back seat had empty plastic bags, fast food trash, and crumbs on it. Goldfish crackers and cereal were spilled across the floor mats. "Good God, how long has this crap been in here," the woman in the passenger seat mumbled. "It's like an archaeological dig." A child's booster seat was strapped in behind the driver's seat. An empty juice box laid crushed on the purple fabric. "How old is your kid?" the redhead asked as the car pulled onto the road.
"What?" the brunette snapped with a furrowed brow. The redhead gestured to the car seat. After glancing up into the rearview mirror, the brunette laughed. "No kid. I told you, it isn't my car."
"Oh," the redhead demurred. "I thought you were being a smart ass."
"I WAS being a smart ass," the brunette grinned. "But it also isn't my car."
They drove in silence for a while, heading back towards the interstate. The brunette kept glancing back into the rearview mirror like she was expecting someone to be following her. (She was.) The redhead catalogued everything she could about her surroundings and the other woman for the inevitable interview by a police detective. She finally broke the dense silence. "Where are we headed?"
"I'm not sure," the brunette mumbled. She was telling the truth. She had no idea what to do next. Not even the foggiest. She had very minimal information about this entire operation. She had no clue how long into the future these people came from. She had no clue who was behind all of this. She had no idea how she received texted instructions. She figured that SOMEONE from this phantom network she worked for had to be living in her present time. But she had no clue who it was. Or how many there were. Or how they knew if she had or had not accomplished her task.
Another long stretch of time passed before the redhead spoke up again. "I'm Chloe."
"That's good."
The redhead huffed. "Listen, I know that you aren't any better prepared for" - she waved her hand around - "whatever is going on here. So we are going to have to work together for at least a little while. Can we at least be pleasant during that?"
The brunette chewed on the inside of her cheek as she thought. "Beca." She quietly offered.
"Hi, Beca." The redhead smiled for a moment. Then she continued with the same pleasant voice. "Now that we know each other's names, do you think you might be able to tell me what in the holy fuck is going on here?"
Beca barked out a laugh. She rubbed the back of her neck. "I have no fucking clue." They sat in silence for a couple of minutes before she glanced at Chloe and asked, "What happened … before you ended up here?"
"Umm." A stricken look crossed over Chloe's face. "I was out to dinner … with my husband … we got back in the car … it started taking us in a different direction than our home … I asked where we were going, thinking it was a surprise or something … Chicago - that's my husband - he said he had to run by and do something before we went home. We drove to this gross … industrial kind of area … automated factories and stuff. He told me to get out of the car. I said I didn't want to … he … he grabbed me and dragged me out." She started to cry and shake as she continued explaining the next few moments. "I got away at one point and started to run. One of his security guys was there too. Tom. He caught me and hit me a few times. Then he dragged me back to Chicago. I kept fighting them as they dragged me into a warehouse. There was a big … I don't know how to describe it … It looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Lights and lasers and a platform surrounded by coils and stuff. They tried to put me on that, but I kept running away. Finally, Chicago hit me across the face - that stunned me enough, I guess. He put that sack on my head and tossed me onto the platform. The next thing I knew, I was in that swamp."
Beca's jaw clenched tightly as she heard Chloe's tale. She knew that she was a murderer. She killed people pretty regularly without much of a twinge of conscience. But she had been told that the people she was killing were bad people. She knew that she was being intentionally naive … that there was more to the story. But she didn't bother to ask because it was easy money. Three bullets fired, two gold bars collected. She had made almost two-and-a-half million dollars from this endeavor. She didn't ask who her employer was. She didn't ask who the victims were. The less she knew, the better. And this right here was why. As soon as she was confronted with the reality of what she was dealing with, her whole thought process justifying her actions would collapse. She was a bad person; she could deal with that. But she didn't sign on to shoot someone's wife when he was through with her. She had no clue what was going to happen to herself - she had never failed at a job. But she was fairly certain her life now had an expiration date on it. She decided if she was going down, she was going to take some people with her. She had already broken three of the sacred rules of her job. There isn't a way to go back from that. She cleared her throat and said, "This may sound weird, but what year is it?"
Chloe laughed and wiped at her tears, thinking Beca was joking. "Seriously? What year is it?"
"Yeah, humor me," Beca answered. "What year is it?"
"Ok," Chloe replied. "It's 2073."
Beca chuckled ruefully and shook her head. "No, it's 2023." She glanced over briefly at her car-mate. "And we are both in BIG trouble."