All content with the exception of song lyrics used without permission is the property of the author. © 2001 Kiera Dellacroix

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"Cameron," she said with a heavy Irish accent as she picked up the phone.

She listened attentively to the voice on the other end of the line for several minutes before speaking again. Bailey Cameron was a strikingly attractive woman, standing about half a foot short of six feet tall. Her waist-length hair was a study in ebony that contrasted sharply against a somewhat pale complexion. She was trim and moved with an economy of motion that spoke volumes of athletic prowess, yet the latter took nothing away from her feminine attributes. However, her most prominent feature, the one that people immediately noticed when not engaged in observation of only her body, were her eyes, which were as black as obsidian and frighteningly intelligent.

Those eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as she listened to the voice coming from the phone. "I see, are you sure?" she asked and nodded when answered.

"Very well, let me have the address," she said as she fished in a desk drawer for something to write with.

"Repeat that, please," She requested and dictated the information to a pad.

"Well done, I'll make sure payment is transferred to your usual account in the morning," she said in departure.

She turned in her chair to look out the window that stood eighteen stories above Atlanta, staring out at the night and the lights below for almost an hour before reluctantly rising from her seat.

John Clinton stumbled down the steps that led to the sidewalk, a stumble that was destined to turn into an embarrassing crash had his friend and drinking partner not grabbed an arm to steady him.

"You gonna be alright to drive, Johnny?"

"Yeah, don't have that far to go."

"You shouldn't drive drunk, why don't you let me call you a cab?"

"I'm not completely in the can, Pete. Besides, Susie will have a shit fit if I show up without my car."

"Alright, I should probably argue with you but I'll settle for saying goodnight."

"Did you drive or ride that goofy bike of yours?"

"I rode the goofy bike and if you would try some physical activity, you might lose that gut you're developing."

"What gut?" John said standing up straight and failing miserably in an attempt to suck his stomach in.

"You better start breathing or you'll pass out," Pete laughed.

John expelled the breath that he was holding and his gut promptly reasserted its bulging presence.

"It's all the beer I drank, tomorrow I'll be as slender as a reed," John theorized.

"Tomorrow you'll still look like you ate the horse you rode in on," Pete chuckled.

"Oh… Oh…" John said as he stumbled around in mock laughter. "You're killing me."

"Yeah, well what can I say? I got a million of them. Want to hear some more?"

"Spare me."

"Your loss, are sure you don't want that cab?"

"Nah, I'll be okay. See ya next Monday?"

"Yep. See ya then, Johnny," Pete said bending unlock his bicycle.

"Okay, talk to you later," John said as he watched his friend straddle the bike and pedal away.

As he made his way toward his car, he noticed that besides his own there were only two other vehicles left in the parking lot. A discovery that filled him with a mixture of adolescent pride and adult dismay upon realizing that he had shut the bar down again. He fumbled the keys out of his pocket when he arrived at his car and successfully inserted the key into the lock after only two intoxicated attempts.

Bending to seat himself in the car, he was totally unaware of the silently moving and rapidly approaching figure until a vice-like grip descended on his arm as he reached to close the door. He caught only a startled glimpse of black clothing before he was struck just below the ear with a wickedly powerful blow that rendered him unconscious.

His body was roughly shoved over into the passenger seat and the intruder sat down behind the wheel to start the car, backing out of the space slowly and emerging on to the street leisurely.

The car traveled at steady legal pace for several miles, leaving the ritzy neighborhood that John frequented on his drinking nights in favor of the inner city. Eventually, the vehicle slowed and came to a stop next to the curb on a street lined with apparently abandoned buildings. The only glint of light coming from a street lamp several blocks in the distance.

Bailey stepped out of the car and walked silently down the sidewalk, tucking an errant lock of raven hair back into the beret she was wearing. She approached the entrance to an alley and was soon engulfed within its confines, coming to a halt next to a dumpster where she knelt and tossed aside several garbage bags to expose the body hidden under the debris. She quickly removed the jacket and shirt from the man and upon standing, removed her own jacket and donned the clothes she had taken from the body. Returning to the car in clothes that were several sizes too big for her, she leaned into the vehicle to pull John's unconscious form into the driver's seat, spending several tedious moments positioning his body behind the wheel. Stepping back and pulling a pair of large leather gloves on over her already existing pair, she drew a small automatic handgun from the waistband of her pants. Leaning in close and extending her right arm through the window, she fired two rounds into the back of his head.

Withdrawing her arm from within the car, she squatted on the sidewalk and cast a regretful stare upon her handiwork.

"Sorry, John," she said finally.

She sighed sadly as she walked back to the body in the alley and stripped off the clothes she had borrowed from the unconscious man. After several minutes of frustrating work, she had the shirt and jacket back on the body and had placed the large gloves that she had worn on the man's hands. She placed the gun in the waistband of his pants and dropped John's wallet into his front shirt pocket. As an afterthought, she spared a second to verify that the man was still alive before she put her own jacket back on and walked out the opposite end of the alley.

Matt Fisher slowly climbed his way back into consciousness and abruptly realized that not only was he not at home in bed, but every joint in his body hurt. He tried to sit up and instantly grabbed his head to quell a serious attack of dizziness.

"You've been out for over twenty hours," a female voice with an Irish accent drifted over him.

"Where am I?" he asked groggily as he again attempted to sit up.

"Russell Lake."

"Huh?" he asked, slowly taking in his surroundings.

The rocking motion that he thought was just dizziness was in fact the movement of the little metal boat he found himself floating in. He belatedly noticed with rapidly increasing alarm that his ankle was handcuffed to a short heavy chain, which in turn was padlocked around a large cinder block. It was shaping up to be a pretty fucking scary dream.

"Who are you?" he asked the woman sitting in the back of the boat.

"Bailey Cameron."

"Do I know…" he started but cut off suddenly as the name registered. "Oh my God," he whispered as reality crashed in on him and he turned wide eyes on the woman, unable to make out her features in the dark.

"The problem with corruption is once you've indulged, there's always someone who knows."

"Wait, we can talk about this," he blurted, close to panic.

"I'm curious. How much did they pay you to set me up, Mr. Fisher?"

"You don't understand…"

"How much?"

"Thirty-five thousand, but you can have it," he blubbered. "You can have all of it, just don't do this…"

"Is that all they offered for ruining what's left of my life?"

"Please don't do this, please!" he begged, the tears coming suddenly and uncontrollably. "You can have the money, I have a wife…"

The words were cut off by the unseen stroke of a katana that sang through the dark and cut his throat. She turned away from the man's final moments, staring silently out over the black water until he bled himself out. With a little sigh, she stood up and wiped her blade clean on his pant leg, placing it on the deck behind her when she was finished. Releasing another sigh, she bent to force his body first, and then the cinderblock overboard. She straightened and stood unmoving in the little boat, watching the water with an indifferent expression where the corpse had been sucked under.

Twenty-four hours later she was once again seated at her desk and staring out at the night. She hadn't moved for over an hour and her expression was unreadable. There were no lights on in the office and the sudden ringing of the phone elicited no response from her. It rang nine times before she reached out to pick up the receiver.

"Wraith," she answered and listened for a moment. "It's done."

Part One

God forbid you ever had to walk a mile in her shoes,
Then you really might know what it's like to have to choose

- E. Shrody

Bailey walked briskly to her car after having offered her condolences to John's widow, Susan, ignoring everyone else present. She slipped in behind the wheel of her Barracuda and irritably started the car, resisting the urge to stomp on the accelerator as she left the cemetery in the rearview mirror. She ground her teeth in an attempt to reign in her temper as she slowly traveled through traffic, finally taking the turn that allowed her access to the interstate and accelerating up the entrance ramp at an alarming velocity. The Barracuda hitting I-20 at close to 90mph, gaining speed with no intention of slowing as the rocketing car wove in and out of the interstate traffic, eventually leaving the city behind in the wake of a roaring motor.

She paid no attention to the speed at which she was traveling, she really didn't care. It was race to avoid reality, the speed kept her from thinking and she pushed the Barracuda until it was no longer an option. In the end, her thoughts caught up with her and took a slight lead, she tried to overtake them but they tenaciously solidified their supremacy. Fight or forfeit? As soon as the question entered her mind she knew the race was over. Reluctantly, she eased her foot off of the accelerator as she prepared to take the next exit, the car gradually slowing until it came to a complete stop at the end of the off ramp. Content to let the car idle, she stared through the windshield at nothing for several moments until finally reaching up and pulling the rear view around to face her, taking a hard look at the face staring back at her.

"Was there a time you didn't look like a prisoner?" she asked the stranger in the mirror who only blinked in response.

Fight or forfeit?

Without permission and despite the sadness that always accompanied thoughts of family, her mind took her back in time.

Dinner was almost ready. Mother was busy setting places while a 15-year-old Bailey and her brothers were sitting at the table with their father. There had been another funeral earlier in the day, one of father's friends. Her father had lost a lot of friends to either death or imprisonment. She knew more than her family wanted her to. She was not naïve enough to buy into the story that all of her father's friends had died of 'accidents'. They tried very hard to give her a normal life, always protecting her and shielding her from information. She knew her father was involved, and her older brother, but she never quite knew why. The British were always nice to her. They would smile at her when she passed, and once when she had lost track of mother in a crowd a British soldier had stayed with her until she was found. She had been embarrassed at the way mother had treated him when she caught up with them. Looking at her father across the dinner table she summoned the courage to ask the question she had long wanted the answer to.

"Da, why do we fight with the British?"

She saw the wince on her father's face when he heard the question and he looked at her for so long without speaking that she began to squirm a little under his attention. Looking around the room she noted that her brothers and that even mother had stopped the preparations for dinner and seemed to be nervously awaiting his response. The silence and her father's regard dragged on long enough that she prepared to ask the question again when he finally answered.

"Sweetheart, everybody has to fight to be free."

The decision was made.

Two hours later, she navigated her car through the parking complex to the private garage she kept in the high-rise building that was both home and office. She was tired, but there were a few things she wanted to take care of before allowing herself the luxury of sleep. She swiped her access card across the sensor and was rewarded with an electronic buzz that invited entry.

From the security desk in the lobby, Tommy White's head snapped up to the sound of the private door opening. He knew it could only be one person so he wasn't surprised, having long since gotten used to seeing her come and go at the strangest of hours. Knowing that it wouldn't do to have the owner of the building and his employer see him slouching at his desk, he quickly set his back ramrod straight and put on his best smile.

"Good evening, Miss Cameron," he said as she emerged from the doorway.

"Hello, Tom," she replied distantly as she made her way to the private elevator and disappeared.

God, she's beautiful. A thought that entered his mind every time he encountered the elusive Bailey Cameron and on each occasion he found her in his thoughts for hours afterward. He had worked for C-Corp for almost three years and was privy to most of the rumors and gossip that circulated the building. Over time, he had gathered a great deal of information.

He knew that she owned the eighteen-story building that he was sitting in and lived on the top floor. She also owned the company that conducted its business on the other seventeen floors. It was a successful business. To the people who worked within the confines of the building, Bailey was something of a spectre, infrequently involving herself in the operation of the company and preferring to leave it in the hands of a Board of Directors. She only appeared when asked or needed and those times were rare. The presence of Bailey Cameron meant that either there was a lot on the line or someone had pulled a full fuck-up. The last thing anybody wanted was a personal visit from Bailey, she had an immensely intimidating presence and a way of speaking that both dismissed you and cut right to the heart of the matter. It was a well recognized observation from those who had dealt with her firsthand, that although generally considered as almost too smart for her own good, she also possessed a swift temper. In fact, one of the most carefully guarded secrets within the corporation was that behind her back, the employee's had half-seriously and half-jokingly nicknamed her 'The Princess of Darkness'. A name most thought was well suited, considering her dark features and the fact that she always wore black clothes. However, it was the general consensus that she was an excellent employer and despite the dark tones that she was popularly painted in, one would be hard pressed to find a truly disgruntled employee.

The woman was an enigma, not only to himself but to the populace at large. It was obvious that she took great pains to isolate herself from anything other than basic human interaction. She fascinated him to no end. She also scared him on a level he didn't often let himself think about, because he knew something about her that he suspected very few people did. The woman had secrets. Some of which were dangerous.

He had only been working for C-Corp for a couple of months when late one night the private door had opened to reveal Bailey.

"Hello, Miss Cameron."

"Tom, I need a favor."

"Of course, what can I do for you?" he said quickly, eager to score brownie points.

"Come with me please."

He got up from his chair and followed her through the private entrance to the garage she parked in. He was keenly aware of the tension surrounding her, an electric feeling that he felt sure he could touch if he tried. They descended the stairs and he was astonished to find six men lying in a rough circle in front of her car. It didn't take a brainiac to see that the men had been on the losing side of a rather severe ass kicking. He lowered himself to a knee and was relieved to find them alive. Knowing he had an expression of awe etched into his face, he turned to find her looking at him patiently.

"What kind of favor can I do for you, Miss Cameron?"

"These men require transportation, Tom. Would you get one of the vans and drive them to this address?"

She handed him a piece of paper and he felt his hand, without his permission, reach out and take the offering.

"Miss Cameron, don't you think we should call the police?"

"I'm afraid that's not possible, Tom."

"But…"

"Believe me when I tell you that under no circumstances can I allow police intervention on this matter."

"But…"

"I know this must seem strange, I'll make sure your efforts are rewarded."

"But…"

"Yes or no, Tom?"

And with those intense black eyes bearing down on him, and the eerie feeling that 'no' was not a possible response, he had agreed. Twenty minutes later he found himself arriving at his destination where there were two men waiting. Neither spoke to him and he gladly returned the silence as they helped the wounded from his van and into one of their own.

He didn't see Bailey again for over two weeks following the incident, although she intruded upon his thoughts constantly. It frightened him more than he cared to admit that one person was capable of inflicting the damage that had been dealt to those men. It was a knowledge that he would rather not have and a danger that he cared not to dwell on.

A week later there was a second draft in his payroll envelope in the form of a personal check. He had also been given a significant raise on his company draft. He didn't complain, he knew he had been bought.

Bailey let herself in the door and made straight for the office where she kept her personal computers. Sitting down, she shook a cigarette out of the pack that resided on her desk, placing the smoke behind an ear as she leaned over the floor safe situated under her chair. After a few seconds of manipulation, she was staring at a small black book that she had hoped never to have to use. Fishing in a desk drawer produced a lighter that immediately sparked to life and after indulging in one long, less than satisfying drag of tobacco, she turned to her computer and called the first number.

II

Like a dream in the night,
Who can say where we're going?

- B. Ferry

Josh sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands and prayed to anybody or anything that would listen to make his fucking wife shut the hole under her nose. Everyone had warned him, but he had gone ahead and married the bitch anyway. A moment of silence took him by surprise. Was it possible she had a stroke? A giddy wave hit him at thought. He looked up to be disappointed; the bitch was staring at him with her hands on her hips. He sighed.

"Are you listening to me?" the bitch said.

He looked at her standing on the other side of the table and for a long moment he really wished she were dead. She had been such an attractive girl when they had married and looking at her now it was an impossibility to see the woman he had fallen in love with. The bitch looked as though she had gained a hundred pounds for each of the two years they had been married and he had met very sad and bitter old ladies that had nicer things to say.

"Well, I hear the noise, I always hear the noise, but listening to you?" He smiled disarmingly. "No, I'm trying my best to figure out how the three hundred pounds of nagging cow flesh in front of me ate my lovely wife and took her place."

He watched with no small measure of satisfaction as her faced turned crimson with anger. The bitch turned on her heel and, with all four cheeks and several chins jiggling, she stomped off down the hallway to vanish from sight. He smiled to himself but it faded quickly, the bitch would be back, no doubt fatter, louder, and meaner. With a long suffering sigh, he got up and poured himself a cup a coffee, his cell phone ringing as he stirred in the sugar. Fumbling through his jacket with one hand to retrieve the phone he made his way back to the table. With the cup in one hand and the phone in the other he stood in front of his chair, noting with a frown that the call displayed as a private ID.

"Hello."

"Hello, Josh."

The freshly poured cup of coffee fell from suddenly numb fingers to crash and shatter on the floor as he sat down hard in his chair. He knew immediately who it was; it was impossible to forget that voice or the face that went with it. He had once seen that face with an expression of supernatural indifference, as the body it was attached to cut down nine men with a katana in the time it took for him to take a breath. He knew he should have been number ten. The event had been so quick and shocking in its violence that he had been too frightened to move and when the woman in black seemed to flow up to him, it was all he could do to close his eyes.

He remembered standing there, fully expecting to feel the blade when an Irish accented voice whispered in his ear. "You were never here Josh, walk away, someday I might need a favor."

When his eyes finally opened, she was gone and as soon as it dawned on him that he was actually going to live, his arms smuggling days had died a quick death. That had been six years ago, and today that same voice was on the other end of the phone.

"Josh, I need a package."

"Uh…. Of course."

He shook his head violently from side to side in an effort to get his act together, knowing that it would be foolish to give her anything less than his full attention.

"Josh?"

"I'm sorry, specifics?"

"Two Browning Hi-Powers, chambered for .40 Smith and Wesson. No serial numbers. Full performance and accuracy packages with textured back straps, Novak low profile night sights, Hogue grips, matte black finish, and ten magazines. One of them needs to be tailored for left hand use and both need to be tapped for suppressors."

"Anything else?"

"Two suppressors and two Galco Quick Slide holsters, black, with matching ammo carriers to accommodate eight of the magazines."

"Ammunition?"

"Yes, a case of hollow point subsonic. Brand not important, the best you can get."

"Delivery?"

"I'll need the package personally delivered, Josh."

The conversation came to an uncomfortable standstill.

"Problem?"

"N… No, when do you need it?"

"Two days."

"Where do you need it?"

"Security desk of C-Corp, Atlanta, Georgia."

"I can do three days at four thousand."

"Deal. Take care, Josh."

Josh stared at the phone for a long time before hanging up. He needed to get moving, it was a two-day car trip to Atlanta and unlike his wife, this was one bitch he couldn't afford to disappoint.

Bailey hung up the phone and snuffed out her cigarette. Standing, she started removing her clothes and dropping them in a trail behind her as she made her way to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. She had two days to Monday and the company would want to know who was replacing Johnny. She had some ideas, but they would have to wait. He had been the Director of Operations and the only person in the last few years she had been able to admit she rather liked. With a groan, she realized that she would have to call a meeting, hating the thought of being in a room with all those people. A situation she knew she wouldn't be dealing with at all, if she hadn't been forced to kill him.

As she slid into bed, she hoped she didn't dream.

Martin Satterfield found himself standing before his boss at the butt crack of dawn Monday morning. He hated Mondays and mornings, and to top it off he had the feeling that his boss was hiding something. Terry McKraken was currently on the phone, so Martin studied him while trying not to be obvious about it. Terry was a large man that carried himself with a military bearing. He had a hawk-like face and cruel brown eyes. His black hair, which was cut in the ever-popular jarhead look, was beginning to gray at the temples. He liked Terry for the most part, although the man's ego wouldn't fit in the Pacific.

"I'm sorry, Martin. You were saying?" Terry asked as he hung up the phone.

Martin brought his attention back to the matter at hand. "I really think you might have blown a call here. I don't see how Clinton fits the profile for elimination and any asset we have could have done that job. Would I be mistaken in assuming that this is somewhat personal, sir?"

Terry thought about the question. You're damn right it was personal. He knew exactly what he was doing; this was no error in judgment. His eyes rose to take in the image of his newest protege. Martin looked every bit the WASP, a poster boy for the Young Republicans. He stood six feet tall and had a runner's body, blue eyes, and a wealth of dark hair that he parted on the side.

It pissed him off a bit that one of his underlings would question his motives but he also realized that he had taught Martin by the book, the man was trained to find flaws and point them out. Yet Martin spoke almost as if he knew just what he was up to. Had he let some vital piece of information slip out when talking to the man?

Martin's enthusiasm and competence had thawed his usual arctic demeanor and as a result he had grown to like his assistant in the short time since he first walked into the office. They had talked at length on many occasions about a wide variety of subjects both professional and personal. Once again, he questioned himself and wondered if he had said a bit too much about his relationship with the operative in question. He became slightly agitated and it showed in his reply.

"Be careful, Martin," Terry snapped. "I appreciate your opinions and value your appraisals, but don't overstep your bounds."

Terry relaxed and sat back in his huge leather chair. "As far as Clinton is concerned, there are factors here that you're not privy to and as for The Wraith, I had no doubt that she would execute flawlessly."

"Yes, but as you are well aware these Ops are delicate to begin with. If we don't control as many of the variables as we possibly can, then something will almost always go wrong. The Wraith has been inactive for over three years, it seems a dangerous tactic to bring her back at this stage," Martin replied.

"Listen, Martin, all decisions are made after careful consideration and every avenue is explored to make damn sure that the route we decide upon is the best one to accomplish the end result," Terry said and looked at his assistant carefully, trying to gauge his reaction to the mostly honest words.

He did indeed know that she could perform; the trick was getting her to perform. No easy feat. She had changed his whole life the day she walked out and he had spent the past three years cultivating the plan that would bring her back into the fold. A smug smile came to his face. Mission accomplished.

He spared another look at his assistant and again wondered if the young man knew too much. Martin was a quick study and a tireless worker but he didn't believe that he had said anything that would have tipped him off. Still, he was uneasy that he might have given him too much information. He considered the idea of having him retired but he genuinely liked the man, he was completely dependable for almost any task and was an excellent listener. He had bounced many ideas off of him with the hopes that he would see its merit or flaw and each time was rewarded with accurate and insightful commentary. Without a doubt, Martin was the best assistant that he had acquired since landing a Directorship. Besides, if Martin were to retire, he would have to go through the arduous process of finding a suitable replacement.

Raking another critical look over the man, he searched for any hint of deceit but found only the enthusiasm that had attracted him in the first place. Even so, he knew he would have to keep an eye on him. Martin was zealous indeed, and perhaps far more intelligent than originally suspected.

"Listen closely, Martin," Terry started. "I'm proud of what I do, as unsavory as it might seem. I've been doing it for over twenty years and I hope I can keep on doing it for another twenty."

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Do what you've been taught and don't lose sight of the mission that this organization was activated to perform."

"I didn't mean to offend you," Martin stammered. "The reason I brought it up at all is because I'm somewhat familiar with the operative's record. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not insinuating that you have anything but the best of intentions, but you yourself gave her inactive status three years ago, up until that time there had never been an inactive list in existence. In my opinion, that makes the operative a liability, and as you yourself have taught me, any liability that can be identified should not be put upon the field." He looked at his boss and waited for a response.

The Deputy Director for the organization that called themselves The Secondary was a breath away from telling the young man that he had no idea what he was talking about. It was becoming increasingly apparent that Martin knew or at least suspected, far more than he was letting on. He hid it well. Terry glared at the pompous little bastard and decided that he would have to replace him; he knew more than what was appropriate for a man in his position. It was a damn shame. He swallowed his disappointment, stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked Martin straight in the eye.

"I elected to have her participate because in my professional opinion, she was more than capable of obtaining the objectives. As it turns out, I was right. Do you feel the need to contradict or second guess me any further, Mr. Satterfield?"

"Sir, once again, I apologize if it seemed I was ques...."

"I make decisions based on fact and necessity. I alone decide the particulars of all current and pending operations, so the next time you feel the need to give yourself a shot at my job, remember how many lives hang on the syllables you speak," Terry interrupted and turned to the window, looking out at the light snow that had begun to fall.

"You may go home for the rest of the day, Martin. Thank you."

Martin stared at the back that was presented to him and reviewed the last ten minutes of conversation. Finally, he nodded slightly as if he had confirmed something to himself and turned to walk slowly out of the office.

III

I've got to be free,
Free to face the life that's ahead of me

- D. DeYoung

Some time later, Martin sat at home in his den reviewing the conversation he had engaged in earlier in the day. Terry had definitely blown a call, of this he was certain. He knew more than the man gave him credit for and upon testing the waters, the almost disturbing reaction by Terry confirmed what he had suspected; The Wraith was not a willing participant in the game.

Recently, he had read a very abridged version of her file that had been less than educational. The only information obtainable from the contents that were not blacked out or deleted altogether were her sex, age, and place of birth. However, mission reports were not so heavily edited and after a little research into the past, he had ascertained that she was no doubt a spectacularly effective operative. Her statistics were the stuff of legend.

He rose from his chair and wandered into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. He had gotten the distinct and unnerving impression that he had fucked up with Terry to a degree that he could not atone for. He was aware of the consequences and it was reasonable to suspect that he might even now be slated for retirement. With that thought in mind, he decided that preparations needed to be made. If it came down to the worst-case scenario, he was painfully aware that he was vastly overmatched. He would need an ally, a powerful ally. A possibility entered his mind, but oh man…the consequences if he was wrong. He needed to see her file to gain a realistic idea of what and with whom he was dealing with. A woman who could turn her back on an entity that took no prisoners would be a formidable power. Furthermore, a look at her unedited file might confirm his suspicions that Terry had blown more than a call. Indeed, it was quite possible that Terry had made himself a target.

He ambled back to the den and sipped at his coffee thoughtfully. He could read the file this evening, after he was sure Terry had left for the night. There were advantages to working for a man who had an ego as large as all outdoors. The file resided in the top drawer of his desk, instead of in secure storage where it should have been. Terry locked his desk and his office, but he kept a spare of set of keys to the desk under his monitor stand. The door would usually present an insurmountable problem, but again Terry's ego came into play. Several weeks ago, Terry had handed him a keycard so he could hurry on to a meeting, and after rushing into the meeting and giving Terry his briefcase, he had neglected to return the keycard. It was only later in the day that he realized that he hadn't given it back; he was never confronted on it so he decided to keep his mouth shut. Obviously, Terry had a spare. He smiled to himself; Terry was the kind of guy that had to have a mistake bite him in the ass before he admitted to it.

Pleased with his plan, he finished his coffee and headed for the bedroom deciding a nap was in order. He checked the TV listings and set his alarm, secure in the knowledge that even James Bond watched 'Jerry Springer'.

"So let me get this straight, the police don't even consider her a suspect in Clinton's death?" Terry rumbled into the phone.

"No, sir."

Terry was one wrong answer away from a complete meltdown. "Please enlighten me. Who the hell do they think is responsible? I mean, for God's sake the man was high profile in the Atlanta business community. You would think his murder would be a top priority with the local PD."

"Sir, they have a suspect in custody, a local druggie whose prints were found on the murder weapon. In addition, blood stains on the suspect's clothes match that of the victim, they have no reason to suspect our player was involved. My sources within the Department tell me they are convinced they have the perpetrator in custody."

"Her prints were supposed to be on the weapon. Where's the ringer?"

"Mr. Fisher has not reported to work in six days. At this time his whereabouts are unknown, sir."

Terry took a couple of deep breaths in the attempt to ease the painful digestion of this information. Three years of planning shot to shit, he had gotten her to play but not by his rules. He had underestimated her. Goddamn it! He had no doubt that Fisher was dead. He had played the family card to get her in the game, but it wasn't enough to keep her on the field. She had seen to that. Fisher was to have applied her fingerprints to the murder weapon and having gone through the trouble himself of adding her prints to the FBI's print index three weeks ago, she should have already been in contact with him.

How in the hell had she known about Fisher? At what point did the roof fall in on him?

He had thought his plan perfect. Framing her for the murder of the man who oversaw the operation of her company had appeared to be the perfect scenario. Going fugitive was a possible option for she was perfectly able to avoid capture, but as long as he had her family the odds of that were slim. She wouldn't risk a confrontation with the police for the mere fact that she had honor. It would be unacceptable for her to harm anyone who was an innocent and she would recognize any member of law enforcement as just a naïve tool. He knew without a doubt, that prison wasn't a possibility for her. Faced with the threat of incarceration alone he was sure she'd have no choice but to return the sheltering arms of the organization. The moment she became aware of being a suspect, a homecoming to The Secondary was almost preordained.

She had turned the tables on him. She had committed the murder, but somewhere along the line she had removed herself from being a suspect and had eliminated that idiot Fisher, who should have been the nail in her coffin.

He sucked in a frustrated breath. He had been practicing his gloating in the mirror for the last two weeks. It wasn't going to happen.

"Fuck!" he roared, throwing his coffee mug against the wall to shatter into pieces.

Having made Clinton the victim was supposed to be his personal little bonus. It didn't matter to him that the man was an innocent, it only mattered that she liked him. With that reflection, a sinister wave of foreboding encompassed him, a possible consequence that he hadn't previously considered if his plan failed. He had forced her to kill an innocent; something she would never had done if she had only herself to think about. Now, instead of bringing her back, he may have made an enemy. Had he gone too far?

He shivered at the thought.

He reached into his jacket, withdrawing his wallet and removing the photograph he had forced himself not to look at for the last three years. A picture taken without her knowledge and yellowing with age. She had been so young then, still in her teens and only a year fresh out of prison.

He shook his head with a mixture of frustration and amusement. Even today she wore her hair the exact same way and her expression of cold indifference projected the same aloof and untouchable aura now that it had in the past. With a sigh, he dropped the photo to the surface of his desk. Three years ago she had walked out, walked out on him and her employer of more than a decade, succeeding where so many others had failed. Not only had she gotten out, which was until then deemed impossible, but in the process she had become very wealthy and much to his chagrin, seemingly content with her new life.

When he had stumbled upon his most prized asset, she was living on borrowed time. Although her mind would never surrender, her body could only take so much. He remembered the first time he saw her, even under the bruises her beauty was apparent. He had viewed postmortem pictures of the guard who had attempted to rape her. The man had been killed with a savagery one would find hard to believe a 16-year old girl capable of. She had the gift; she would only quit when her body stopped functioning. He gave her a choice, remain in prison or lead a new life with the United States government. She chose the latter and in the years to come she exceeded all expectations. Eventually, as the right people began to appreciate her success, they also began to take notice of the one who had recruited her. If she was grateful, she certainly didn't show it. As she grew older, she only became more beautiful and he often found himself thinking of her. He tried desperately to get her attention a number of different ways but was always shunned. After a time, he became increasingly agitated with her lack of appreciation for all that he had done for her. She owed him. She was alive today because he had pulled the strings and put his own fledgling career on the line. Everything she had accomplished and all she ever would was due directly to his involvement. He was her savior and should be treated as such. But it never happened. No matter what he did, she remained detached and uninterested in him or anyone else.

As he sat there reliving the distant past, he began to sweat and a steel fist closed around his guts. He thought about all she had gained since she had left and all that he had lost. With her as his meal ticket, he was almost guaranteed to be the top man in a very short time. He was regarded by most as the obvious choice once the current Director stepped down and he had spent many days planning for the day when he would be announced as successor. Now, as he sat at the same desk, in the same office as he had on the day she had left, he realized for the millionth time that she had done much better without him than he had without her. His pulse pounded in his temples as he thought about the day she had walked into this very room, standing in the exact spot that Martin had occupied only hours ago, and simply stated that she was leaving. Of course, he had tried to talk some sort of sense to her. He gave her a solid thirty minutes of reasons to reconsider her decision and was rewarded with a solid thirty minutes of silence. As a last resort, he stated that no matter what he decided or said, she would be eliminated if she insisted on leaving. A statement that resulted in nothing but a dangerous narrowing of those fucking scary black eyes as she turned to leave. He recalled the last words they had spoken to each other.

"Bailey, please, I'm begging you, don't do this. I don't want to see anything happen to you."

She turned her back on him and began walking toward the door, pausing with her hand on the doorknob. "You fix it Terry; make it so they leave me alone. I don't want to kill you."

When she spoke those last six words, her voice seemed almost gentle. It was the only time he could ever remember her showing any emotion other than anger. He relived that singular memory constantly. It was the only time in all the years that they had know each other that she ever showed any concern for him or any indication that maybe she had feelings for him. It was those six words that had kept her from being a target for the past three years. That and the fact that in the beginning, the team dispatched to persuade her to return was sent back alive, but damn near useless.

He could never understand just why she left and was always searching for something that he might have done better or differently. Because of her he was where he was today and because of her he would go no further. He had put the brakes on career advancement when he convinced the Director to place her on an inactive list. A sell that had not been easy and had turned out to be career suicide. If he could do it differently today he would.

"Sir, are you still there?"

He started at the sound of the voice and realized that he was still holding the phone in his hands. He quickly dropped it into the cradle, rising from his chair and gazing through the window at the winter scenery. The situation was now complicated beyond measure, she was without doubt one the top five people in the field, perhaps the best. What really scared him, although he was reluctant to admit it, was that perhaps he had crossed the line, and that maybe, just maybe, she might come after him.

He sat back down and reached out to hit the intercom.

"Yes, sir."

"I want you to contact all department heads. I want a meeting in the conference room tomorrow morning at 8:00. No one, and make sure you stress this point, no one is excused for any reason."

"Yes sir, but..."

"No buts! I don't care where they are. You let them know that if they are not sitting bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in my meeting tomorrow, they can look for different jobs," He glared at the phone sitting on his desk. "Do you have any more questions, Miss Marshall?"

He punched the button to disconnect before she could reply.

Bailey checked her reflection in the mirror, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, felt it might be possible to like what she saw. Today was the first day of the rest of her life. She had gone over everything in her mind at least a dozen times. Her plan was risky but would succeed; of this she was sure. It was going to take time but she was patient, the rewards were far too promising to pass up.

She ran the brush through her hair one more time and headed to the elevator with the hope of catching Tom at the Security desk. Yesterday, she had called Clinton's assistant Piper, whom she had never met, and asked her if she would be interested in taking the position as her assistant. Clinton had bragged about her often and since he obviously wasn't going to need her any longer, there was no reason to let her go. It had been a short and surprisingly pleasant conversation. The woman had instantly agreed and had proceeded to chatter away in a slight Cajun accent as if talking to an old friend. She had been startled to find herself smiling as she listened to the woman prattle on and confused at that discovery, she had interrupted and asked her to inform the Board to be present in the conference room this morning. She assumed they were in there now awaiting her presence. She had suspected for quite some time that the Organization had people planted in her company. However, she felt that as long as they did their jobs for the company, she could care less what they reported. Today she cared, and she was going to make sure the right people got something to think about.

The elevator doors opened and as expected she found Tom at the security desk.

"Hi, Tom."

She caught him totally by surprise. He had heard that there was a meeting she was presiding over today and was not expecting to see her. He stood from his chair so fast he made himself dizzy.

"Uh… Hello, Miss Cameron."

She handed him an envelope. "Would you make sure that this gets out in today's mail?"

"Of course."

"Also, I'm expecting a package sometime tomorrow. Would you call me when it gets here? I'd like to speak to the man bringing it in."

"Will do."

"Thanks, Tom."

He watched her walk away and sat down quickly, it was hard to hide an erection while standing.

In the conference room you could cut the tension with a knife, it was rare that Cameron herself attended meetings. Most of the Board assumed that a new Director of Operations would be announced now that Clinton was gone and there were plenty of people in the room who believed they would be the perfect choice to fill the current vacancy. More than one was privately rehearsing their acceptance.

There were those however, who had no idea what to think. Cameron was their benefactor and their employer but she was also a ghost. The occasional sighting or the once in a blue moon telephone call was all they ever heard or saw from her. In fact, a few were convinced that it was definitely going to be a bad mojo day.

Bailey paused outside the conference room door and listened, she could hear them talking amongst themselves. She squared her shoulders and rolled her head around until she heard the satisfying crack of vertebrae in her neck. Taking a long deep breath, she tried to shake the awkwardness she always felt when dealing with people.

The second the door opened all noise immediately ceased and every eye in the room tracked to her. She nodded slightly to everyone as she made her way to the head of the table and took her seat, letting them all get a good look before she started.

"Good morning," she said. "I want to thank everyone for coming, I know it was short notice."

There was a rumble of responses to her greeting before it quieted and everyone looked at her expectantly.

"First off. I would like to thank everyone who attended John's funeral and sent flowers and gifts to his wife Susan. I know she appreciated it, as I do as well," she said, trying not to feel like a complete hypocrite.

"Secondly, I wish to inform you that with John's departure, I'm going to take over the day to day operation of the company, at least temporarily."

At this there was a barely undetectable groan from those who thought they had the job wrapped up.

"And lastly, I say temporarily because I am currently in negotiations to sell C-Corp to an interested party."

The room went so quiet she swore she could have heard a pin drop.

"I can imagine that a lot of you have questions. If we can go about it in an orderly manner, I'll do my best to answer them."

She waited almost a full minute before a voice finally broke the silence.

"What sort of time frame are we looking at here?"

"Okay, let me make two points that might put everybody at ease. First, I would only entertain negotiations if, and only if, the interested party would keep the current personnel structure intact for at least one year after date of takeover. This has to be agreed upon in writing and would be an included part of the deal if closed. So, none of you have to worry about looking for jobs. No one's salary will be cut and there will be nobody let go without compensation, for at least a year after sale." She paused and looked around the room. "Secondly, I said I was in negotiations, there is no guarantee that a sale will be finalized. At this time I am only entertaining the possibility of a buyout."

"Miss Cameron, I believe this should have been an issue put to the Board before deciding to entertain a buyout," one braved and several nods of agreement from the others accompanied this statement.

"Obviously, I've practiced the hands off approach too long," Bailey said. "This is not a publicly traded company. It is a privately owned company. I own eighty percent of the stock and the remaining twenty percent is divided amongst yourselves. I don't have to consult with anyone to make decisions here. From the day of conception I've made sure that with every acquisition all existing personnel has been kept as intact as possible. I'll do no less for everyone if I decide to sell. But make no mistake. It is my decision. Now are there any other questions?"

By the end of her speech it had escaped no one's attention that her eyes had begun to flash. There were no more questions.

"Alright then," Bailey said after a moment. "I'm going to have John's assistant, Piper Tate, move into my office where she will assume her duties under me. Give me a couple of days to sort things out before you start hitting me with all the stuff I know John handled. Furthermore, I've agreed to let a private consultant come in and evaluate C-Corp at the request of the interested parties. I'm sure that he'll want to see a number of things, so everyone is to cooperate with him completely. You'll want to inform your staff, he should arrive at the beginning of next week and will probably hang around for a month, maybe more. Also, if any of you have concerns or worries that you would like to discuss with me, my door will be open in a few days, feel free. I assure all of you that if I decide to sell I'll make sure that every employee in the building is compensated fairly. Of course, the Board will be compensated for the amount of stock they have vested. So, if no one has any last minute questions, let's break this up because I've a lot to get started on."

Looking around expectantly, she saw that there were none, so she got up and made her way out of the room, stopping to listen after the door closed behind her. As expected, the sound of raised voices filled the room the second the door had closed. Smiling, she headed for the elevator and upstairs for a quick breakfast, deciding she would spend the rest of the day with a good book.

IV

Pleased to meet you hope you guess my name,
But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game

- M. Jagger, K. Richards

"Working late, Mr. Satterfield?" the Marine at the security gate said as Martin passed through the metal detector in the building's lobby.

"Yep, it'll probably be a long one."

"Very well, Mr. Satterfield. Sign in please."

He bent to sign in his information.

"Have a good evening, Mr. Satterfield."

"Thank you, Corporal, you too." Martin smiled at the man as he reached for the keycard that allowed him access through the security door. He emerged on the other side and punched the button for the elevator, which immediately opened. He rode to the top floor and upon exit he was faced with another door which again required the use of his keycard. He took his time getting to his desk, making sure that he was alone on the floor.

Once certain, he made directly for Terry's door and produced the stolen keycard, placing it over the sensor. The door opened immediately and he wasted no time in going for the keys to the desk. A few seconds later, he had it open and found the file exactly where he expected it to be. He put it in his briefcase and left the office, closing the door behind him. Feeling quite stealthy, he walked the short distance to his own desk and sat down. Situating himself, he opened his briefcase and removed the several inches of file that documented the life and times of The Wraith. He was kind of excited; it was kind of a thrill looking at something you weren't supposed to see. He applied himself to the material at hand.

"Jesus Christ," he murmured several hours later. If he didn't know any better he would have sworn that what he just read was fiction. It was a lot of information to absorb. The file was quite thorough; there were notes from instructors, peers, and analysts. There were test results, psych profiles, medical records, and page after page of detailed mission reports, every one of which made for interesting reading.

He sat back in his chair and reviewed the voluminous amount of information he had sorted through. Unfortunately, the question he wanted answered still eluded him. What did Terry hold over her head? It must be something important, for as far as he could tell there was no way Terry could have forced her to participate if she didn't want to. She had left The Secondary quite wealthy and had purchased a business that enjoyed moderate success as an IT consulting firm. She was far from stupid, and through an astonishingly intelligent series of buyouts and takeovers, she had turned a moderate success into a spectacularly successful one. She had gambled a fortune on her savvy and won.

The majority of people inducted into The Secondary knew it was a lifetime commitment. There was no walking away, but she had. He was sure that this fact burned Terry's ass to no end. There was no doubt that whatever Terry had against her had become personal. She had left for reasons not stated in her file and she had done it successfully. Everything indicated that she was not one to be trifled with. In one of the psych reports he recalled a doctor's statement. "You can tame her only to an extent. There are lines you do not cross."

Martin believed that Terry had crossed one of these lines. Did he fully realize what he was dealing with?

Terry viewed her as a means to an end, the perfect solution when the game plan needed a ringer, the ultimate weapon. Like any football coach he was sure that Terry could care less that his quarterback had a Doctorate in rocket science, he was only interested in the fact that he could make the big play. Bailey Cameron was a master of the big play. He was willing to bet that Terry had overlooked the fact that she had an IQ of 148.

The answer seemed to float in front of him, mocking him as it swerved just within his reach. He was missing something; he went back over what he had learned.

Bailey Ann Cameron, officially declared dead by the British government in 1985. Recruited that same year by The Secondary. Operative Identifier: Wraith. Born October 30th, 1970 in Belfast, Ireland. Her father James and her brother Michael were deceased. Location of her mother Doreen and her younger brother Ryan were unknown.

Bailey had come to the attention of The Secondary after spending several months in prison for the murder of a British officer, who had unfortunately been the son of a prominent member of British parliament. The officer in question had ordered his men to fire into a crowd of civilians in the attempt to eliminate two fleeing suspected IRA members. Her father and oldest brother had died at the scene, Bailey herself assumed dead until two days later when she surfaced over the body of Captain Bryan Logan. She assaulted the man in broad daylight and in full view of several other soldiers. When she had been forcibly pulled from Logan's body, the man had been stabbed twenty-three times.

Upon realizing who she was and tying her into the event that had resulted in the death of her father and brother, and amidst a rather loud plea for justice from Logan's father, the British officially declared her dead and imprisoned without trial to avoid any local outcry. Where, over the course of her seven months of incarceration she suffered countless beatings, was allowed little sleep, and fed only at the whim of the guards. They never questioned her; they just beat her until she was able to withstand another one. When she was well enough to survive the process again, it repeated itself. It was perhaps her age and the interrogators' sense of chivalry that kept her from suffering the worst kind of abuse, or it might have been out of respect for the fact that she never begged or pleaded. This however, didn't apply to the guards and during the fifth week of her imprisonment one among them, probably confident in the knowledge she would offer little resistance, took it upon himself to get a little of the pretty Irish girl. The attempted rape had turned out to be a fatal error as the man was found dead the next morning in a corner of her cell, prompting a string of beatings and torture that almost killed her. It became a sadistic game, they wanted to break her and she refused.

Coincidentally, there was a young recruiter stationed in the UK who happened to overhear rumors of a surprisingly resilient Irish prisoner. He was curious and decided to investigate. Terry McKraken discovered the find of the century, a 16-year old Irish girl who refused to be broken.

She really didn't have a choice. Her family had no idea she was alive, and if she remained in British confinement, she would have a life expectancy of exactly zero. In addition, there was always the possibility that the remainder of her family would be mistreated or even imprisoned because of whom she had killed. She took the only option available and was recruited by The Secondary.

She was a gifted student and no expense was spared. She excelled at everything. By the age of eighteen, she was a master of the dark art of murder. The instructors all agreed she was the finest student they had ever seen. At the age of nineteen, there wasn't a scenario they could throw at her that she couldn't beat, even when the odds were stacked oppressively against her. For over a decade, she lived up to her billing. Often achieving extraordinary results, her list of accomplishments in the field was beyond the impressive. In the circles one of her career field traveled in, she became a legend in her own time. No matter how difficult the assignment, she always came out on top. Always.

There were many other particulars that his mind had caught while reading her file, several of which made him shiver. Her list of targeted completions was a staggering number. Her list of secondary targets was almost as frightening. He knew her preferred firearm was the Browning Hi-Power, two of them. An uncanny marksman with either hand, her skill described by the top small arms instructor as "Extraordinary, a maestro."

He found her fondness for the katana far more disturbing.

Shaking those thoughts from his mind, he leaned back in his chair and bent his mind to a solution. Why? He could tell he was close but it was just out of his reach, fumbling all around the answer before it hit him. He's jealous. And with that epiphany, the last piece fell into place; it had been in front of him since the beginning. The family. The file had stated the family's location as unknown, there was no way the Organization would let information that important remain a mystery. That was the stick that Terry held above her head. He had the answers, and with it came the triumphant feeling that he had a piece of the puzzle that she would need. I know where the family is. A knowledge that would no doubt guarantee his instantaneous death if Terry even suspected he knew.

There was a storm brewing, and he was sure it was going to be a storm with casualties. He knew for certain that standing next to Terry was the last place he wanted to be when the Cameron wave hit. He was convinced that Terry had made himself a target.

He glanced at his watch and was startled to see it was 1:30 in the morning; he needed to replace the file. Gathering the contents and placing them back in his briefcase he again circled the floor to make sure he was still alone. Feeling reasonably safe, he put the keycard to the sensor and was denied entry. He frowned and tried again without success. Trying not to panic, he verified that he had the correct card and panic gained the upper hand, he could only try one more time before an alarm was raised.

Please God.

With a trembling hand and closed eyes he placed the keycard on the sensor and held his breath.

I'm screwed.

He opened his eyes and looked at the door that stared mockingly back at him, slowly turning away and shakily making his way back to his desk to sit down. Despite thousands of scenarios running through his mind, he failed to come up with even one that could salvage the situation. Stifling the urge to cry, he realized that he was going to have to run and knew of only one destination that would provide any hope of safety.

Summoning all of his composure, he reverently removed the Mulder and Scully action figures from their place of honor on his desk and put them in his briefcase. Standing, he took one final look around at what had been his office for the past six months and started his journey out of the building with the stolen file.

Once inside his car and leaving the parking lot, the tears poured liberally. He was still crying as he drove up to an ATM and withdrew as much of his cash as the machine would let him. He fought the sniffles all the way home where he walked like a zombie to his bedroom and fell face first upon his bed. Realizing as he drifted off that he had a lot to do and quickly, for even if he was wrong about Terry's intentions toward him, which he doubted, the missing file would leave a trail right up to his ass.

V

Welcome to the jungle, we take it day by day

- A. Rose

Terry sat at his desk and stared at the envelope. He was afraid to touch it, although he knew that was foolish. It had gone through every test imaginable before it was placed on his desk and he was awakened with a phone call at home. The second it had been dropped in C-Corp's outgoing mail it had been intercepted and transported immediately to Washington. He looked at the clock, it was 4:30 in the morning; he had been staring at the letter for over half an hour. He remembered the call.

"Yes?"

"Sir, we have intercepted a letter, flagged with your parameters in Atlanta."

With the mention of Atlanta, he was suddenly awake and all business.

"What parameters, specifically?"

"It is addressed to you personally, sir."

"I see, where is it now?"

"On your desk, sir. It has run the gauntlet."

"Thank you, I'm on my way in."

"Of course, sir."

He had hung up the phone and stared off in the dark for several long moments.

What the hell was she up to?

He had asked himself that same question at least a hundred times since entering his office and seeing the envelope on his desk. Tentatively, he picked it up and looked closely at the writing, recognizing her distinctive block lettered script. At any other point in time he would have been amused, she always printed in block letters because her cursive was indecipherable. Instead, his expression was one of contemplation as he read the words she had written.

The letter was addressed to a local drop box that hadn't been used in several years. In fact, the box hadn't been active in over seven years. The goddamned letter was undeliverable. This was an immensely disturbing piece of information for she knew that he would get it and that meant she knew he had people planted in her company. Suddenly, he had to know what message she was sending. He tore open the envelope to find a single sheet of paper. Impatiently, he unfolded it and scanned the three words.

Kick or Receive?

The paper fell to the floor and he leaned back hard in his chair. She had decided to play and was announcing her intentions. He now knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had gone too far. He had gambled on his plan and it had blown up in his face. She had just declared her defiance.

Terry McKraken, for the first time in a very long while, felt the icy tendrils of fear nipping at his heels. Those three words were the opening play of the most important game of his life, and his life was exactly what he would be playing for.

He again glanced at the clock; it was going to be another hour before the staff started arriving. He considered calling them in on an emergency, but realized it was late enough that most them wouldn't arrive much sooner than they normally did. He was glad he hadn't filed Martin's termination yesterday; he was going to need the young man. The little bastard had been right; he had blown a call. If his relatively new assistant had seen it, why hadn't he? Now, no matter how hard it was to hear, he would welcome Martin's insight in the morning. Feeling the overwhelming urge to get started, yet dependent on his staff, he resigned himself to wait. Impatiently, he leaned back in his chair and suddenly cringed as he realized he would have to call the Director. A conversation he was positive he would not enjoy, he would have far too much crow to eat. It already tasted like shit.

As Bailey exited the elevator on the 17th floor, which was home to her business office, she wondered if the mental picture she had conjured up of her new assistant was going to be accurate. Judging from the pleasant voice she remembered from their brief conversation, she imagined an overweight, matronly woman of middle years. She thought it curious as to why she had never met her; she had been Clinton's assistant for as long as she could remember him being with the company.

Her office was isolated from the others on the floor and the only one close to the private elevator she used. A few strides and a corner and she found Piper Tate already at the assistant's desk. She was somewhat taken aback to find an attractive woman not much younger than herself.

"Good morning, Miss Cameron," she said, beaming a smile.

"Uh… Good morning, Piper," she replied feeling strangely awkward.

As she breezed past Piper and into her office she smiled, amused at how far off base she had been. Sitting down at her desk, she considered her new assistant. She knew Clinton had entrusted her with a great deal of responsibility. He had boasted about her efficiency on many occasions and considered her absolutely competent. According to Clinton, she also had her pulse on all the good gossip. She pressed the intercom button.

"Piper, could you come in here please?"

Seconds later her office door opened and Piper walked into the room. She placed an appraising stare upon the woman. Piper Tate wasn't just attractive, she was beautiful. Everything about the woman was bright and cheery. She had long crimson hair, which was tied up with a ridiculously happy bow. High, sharp cheekbones only magnified the prominence of attractive and almost electric pale-blue eyes. She stood about five-three with heels but despite being vertically challenged, she had a well-toned and eye-catching figure.

"Piper, what's my nickname?"

"Excuse me, Miss Cameron?"

"You know what I mean. What is it that the employee's call me behind my back?"

"The Princess of Darkness."

She had to hand it to her; she didn't even flinch. "I see, and would you agree with that assessment?"

"Well, your wardrobe wouldn't be damaged by a little color," she said with a quirky grin.

She couldn't help but smile. Nobody else in the building would've had the nerve to say that to her face. "I think we're going to get along fine, Piper."

"I hope so, Miss Cameron."

"Take a seat, I've some questions for you."

Piper seated herself in one of the chairs in front of her desk and looked at her expectantly.

"How long have you been with C-Corp?"

"I came over in the acquisition of TDE Security Systems with Mr. Clinton."

"I thought so, and during your time here, exactly how much of John's job did you do for him?"

"Excuse me?"

"Look, I know John handled a lot of things, but I also know he excelled at hiding how lazy he was. So, how much of the day to day stuff did he stick you with?"

"Close to all of it," Piper admitted.

"I see, just a moment."

She booted the computer on her desk. She waited for the log in screen and typed in her password. Sparing a glance at Piper, she happened to note that the woman seemed to be appraising her, staring at her unabashedly with a small, almost nefarious smile on her face. She was annoyed to feel the beginnings of a blush and tore herself away from her thoughts, focusing all of her concentration on the computer screen in front of her. She navigated through the software until she ended up where she wanted to be and studied the figures in front of her.

"I see here that your current annual salary is in the neighborhood of $31,500."

"Yes."

"If I were to ask you to try on John's job for a while but at an increase to $55,500, what would your answer be?"

"The answer would have to be yes, Miss Cameron."

"Great, consider it done."

She closed the current program and opened up another. She typed for a few moments then turned back to Piper.

"It's official. I've sent a memo informing the company of your new status and updated your salary information with personnel. I expect you to handle everything that doesn't need my attention, use your judgment. Clear?"

"Very clear, thank you."

"I'll see about getting you your own office and you'll probably need an assistant. Put a request in with personnel about getting a temp if you feel the need." She paused. "If everything works out we can talk about making the position permanent. If it does become permanent, you'll be entitled to additional compensation but we can discuss that later, alright?"

"Alright."

"And Piper?"

"Yes?"

"Just call me Bailey."

"That would be a pleasure, Bailey."

"You have my cell phone number?"

"Yes."

"Carry on then, Miss Tate."

She sprung happily to her feet and headed for the door. She was almost there when Bailey spoke again.

"Oh, one more thing, Piper."

"Yes?"

"What colors would you recommend be added to my wardrobe?"

Piper turned so she could get a good look at her, and studied her for as long as she dared.

"Blues and whites, Bailey," she said with a wink and closed the door behind her.

She was glad that she shut the door because as soon as it closed another, much more powerful blush covered her features. Shaking her head to disperse it as she tried to remember the last time she had blushed. She chalked it up to nerves and smiled; it was refreshing to deal with someone who had enough backbone to shoot straight. Piper hadn't acted the slightest bit intimidated by her and had actually winked at her. Inconceivably, she felt the beginnings of another blush. Thankfully, her train of thought was interrupted as Piper's voice came over the intercom.

"Bailey, Tom from security is on line one for you."

She reached over and tapped the speakerphone. "Hi, Tom, what's up?"

"Miss Cameron, there's a man here with a delivery, you said you wanted to speak to him."

"Yes, I do. Would you escort him to my office? Use the private elevator, please."

"On the way."

She curiously took a look at the time on her computer. Josh was early; she didn't expect him to be here until late today. With a little grin, she sat back in her chair and waited for her new employee to arrive.

Tom hung up the phone and walked around to the other side of the desk.

"Come with me, please."

"Come with you where?" Josh asked warily.

"To Miss Cameron's office, she'd like to speak with you."

"Miss Cameron?" Oh God. "Is Miss Cameron Irish?"

"Uh… Yeah, yes she is," Tom stated confusedly as he watched the man go pale in the face. "Are you alright?"

"No, not really. But let's not keep her waiting."

"Alright, follow me please." Tom shook his head, the man looked for a second like he was going to faint. It got his curiosity up, but he knew better than to indulge it, the less he knew the better. The man picked up his briefcases and followed him into the elevator. He kept a close eye on him, but by the time the elevator doors opened he seemed to have somewhat pulled his act together. They rounded the corner and were in front of Piper's desk when the intercom spoke.

"Send him in, Piper. Thank you, Tom."

Dismissed, Tom turned around and headed back for the elevators as Piper got up from her desk to open the door for Josh and followed him into the office.

"Can I get you some coffee?" Piper asked.

"I'd love a coffee," Bailey said

Josh was staring across the room at the face that even now gave him nightmares. He realized that her assistant was looking at him expectantly and it took him a second to find his voice.

"Uhm… Sure, just sugar please," he choked out, his voice sounding alien to him.

"Thank you, Piper. Just bring it in when it's ready."

Bailey watched Piper leave the room and folded her hands on the desk in front of her, giving Josh a long look. He hadn't changed much in the last six years. He still looked like a stiff breeze would blow him away, intelligent hazel eyes, long brown hair, and a matching goatee gave him the look of a street predator. She noted that he had put on a shirt and tie today in an attempt to blend in with the corporate look. He was the kind of guy you saw but didn't really notice.

"Please have a seat," she said, indicating with a nod of her head a chair in front of her desk. "I've some business that I'd like to discuss with you, but it needs to wait until we have our coffee."

"I understand."

"Great, so how've you been?"

He gaped at her. He couldn't believe that the woman that had slaughtered nine men in front of him would be asking about his welfare.

"Surviving," he managed.

"Glad to hear it," she chuckled. "Just relax, Josh, think of this as a friendly meeting."

"That isn't as easy as it sounds."

"I know, but you're here because I need a favor and in return, perhaps I can do you one."

He opened his mouth to speak but her assistant walked back into the room with the coffee. She handed him a cup and walked over to place another on the desk in front of Bailey.

"Thank you, Piper. Would you close the door on your way out, please?"

"Of course," Piper said as she exited the room.

Bailey waited until the door was closed and took a long sip of coffee before she turned her attention back to Josh.

"May I see the package?"

"Why did you let me live? You can't tell me it was for a couple of handguns. You can buy a Browning over the fucking counter," he let out in a burst, shocked that he had voiced the question.

"No, it wasn't for a couple of handguns."

"Then why?"

"Because you were the only one who didn't know what he was involved in."

"What do you mean?"

"Your friends were dabbling in the big time and they got caught."

"I don't understand."

"It wasn't just guns, Josh. They would've never received the attention of my employers for just guns."

"I still don't understand."

"No you don't, and that's why you're still breathing."

"Tell me."

Bailey sighed. "Your cohorts were smuggling items fissionable materials."

Surprised at that information it took him a second to continue. "So they had to die?"

"Yes."

He gaped at her. "You are one wicked bitch."

"Perhaps," she said. "But since we're going to be friends, just call me Bailey."

"Uh…. Excuse me?"

"My name is Bailey." She beamed a smile at him that didn't reach her eyes.

"What makes you think we're going to be friends?"

"Because there isn't anywhere you can go that I can't find you."

It took him less than a millisecond to see the logic in that statement. "So, what are we doing today, pal?" he said as he plastered a smile on his face.

"Well, that depends on you, Josh."

"How so?"

"First things first, may I see the package now?"

"Sure."

Josh got up from his chair and sat one of the cases he had carried in on her desk. She reached out and flipped the latches, leaning over and peering at the contents with interest before withdrawing both handguns and placing them on the desk in front of her. Josh resumed his seat and watched with fascination as she professionally field stripped both weapons and carefully examined all the parts. Seemingly satisfied, she reassembled the guns and examined the rest of the equipment. After a few moments, she placed everything back in the case and closed it.

"Well done, exactly what I asked for." She opened a desk drawer and withdrew an envelope, which she tossed into his lap. He examined the contents and scowled.

"There's more here than I asked for."

"Yes, six thousand more."

"I don't understand."

"Consider it a hiring bonus."

"I already have a job."

"I think I can persuade you to quit."

"I thought we were going to be friends."

"We are."

"Then I don't want another job."

"Maybe you should hear the benefits before you make a decision."

"Sure, but you're wasting your time. I wouldn't fit in here; I hate the South. Grits make my asshole itch and I don't have a sister to sleep with."

She ignored his comment and reached back into her desk to produce two legal-sized manila envelopes. She separated them and placed them on the desk in front of her.

"What if I told you that inside each of these envelopes is a person waiting to get out?" she began, speaking very slowly. "And each of these two people look exactly like you. One of these people will only exist for a few weeks. The other has unlimited potential. He has no prison record, no hateful wife, no bills, and is very wealthy. He won't have to work construction six days a week and sell illegal weapons on the side to make ends meet. In a few weeks, perhaps a little longer, he can live anywhere in the world he wants to. Will never have to work again and has no baggage to weigh him down. The world is his oyster." She paused. "Would you be interested?"

"No wife, huh?" He leaned forward in his chair. "Tell me more."

"It's pretty straight forward. You get to be identity one for a few weeks and if everything goes as planned you get be identity two permanently."

"And what happens to the old Josh? Unfortunately, he has people that will look for him."

"He just disappears."

"Hmmm."

"Would it be safe to say I have your interest?"

"Very safe, but what about dental records and finger prints, shit like that?"

"To assume identity two, you visit my dentist," she said. "As for the fingerprints, you go through a couple of weeks of discomfort, but with no permanent damage. In your new life, your fingerprints would never identify you as the person you are now."

"What all is behind door number two?"

She picked up one of the envelopes and started removing items and placing them on the desk in front of him. A Georgia driver's license, birth certificate, social security card, passport, credit cards, and a checkbook. He wasted no time in going for the checkbook, staring at it for a few moments and letting out a low whistle.

"Impressive."

He picked up the driver's license and saw his likeness staring back at him. He was about to examine the next item when his eye caught something that made his face turn sour.

"What the fuck? My new name would be Renfield Porchneck?"

"What can I say?" She shrugged.

"Where in the hell did you come up with that?"

"I thought it was funny."

"You have a cruel sense of humor."

"With the amount of money Renfield has, nobody will care what his name is."

He stopped to ponder that statement a moment. "That's true."

"Do we have a deal?"

"What is it that I have to do?"

VI

Everybody knows the boat is leaking,
Everybody knows the Captain lied

- L. Cohen, S. Robinson

Terry was in a foul mood. He knew the staff was arriving but he needed a few more moments by himself before starting what was going to be a long day, followed by many more long days. He had just gotten off the phone with the Director and as expected the man had not been pleased. He squirmed in his chair, the memory of the tirade that had been directed at him still stinging.

"What's the problem, McKraken?"

"Sir, we have a rogue operative."

"Run that by me again."

"We have a rogue, sir."

"Jesus, how bad?"

"Very bad, sir."

"Define very bad to me, please."

"The rogue operative is The Wraith, sir." Terry braced himself.

"I'm sure I didn't hear you correctly. Would you repeat that please?"

"The Wraith, sir."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, McKraken, but isn't this the same operative that you fought tooth and nail to have placed on a nonexistent inactive list a few years back?"

"That would be correct, sir."

"Then would you mind telling me how the fuck that agent is now considered a rogue!?" the man roared over the phone.

"Sir, I created the inactive list because the potential of this operative, in my opinion, was significant enough to forego mandatory retirement. The operative remains to this day the most successful the Organization has ever had. It was my judgment at the time that a resource as valuable as this operative, that the Organization spent a great deal of money, time, and resources training should not be cast aside. I felt that letting her go, with the plan of bringing her back in the future, would be beneficial to all parties involved.

"Spare me the rhetoric, McKraken. I've heard all of it before. Obviously, your theory doesn't wash today."

"It would appear so, sir."

"Do we have the resource's on hand to deal with the situation?"

"A question that I'm afraid I can't answer with any certainty, sir."

"Why the hell not?"

"I would need your intentions, sir."

"Put her down."

"Understood, however the operative in question is supremely capable and extraordinarily intelligent. I'm afraid that in carrying out your order we would more than likely lose significant resources on our own end. In addition, if we were not initially successful, we would run the risk of comprising the security of the Organization."

"So what exactly are you trying to tell me?"

"I'm saying that at present she doesn't pose a security risk, and we should take our time and cover all options before attempting to retire an operative of this caliber. In addition, we should explore the possibility of recruiting Free Agents to participate."

"Is she really that good?"

"Quite possibly the best, sir."

"Alright, I'm going to let you run the show on this one. Suspend all current Ops immediately. Bring in all the resources you think you are going to need. Lock the local personnel down to essential staff only. If you think Free Agents are needed, I'll leave that to your discretion. I want this taken care of. As of this moment, I'm going to be putting as much distance between this problem and myself as I can. In fact, I don't want to hear from you until the situation is resolved, McKraken. I don't give a shit if takes a decade. Understood?"

"Understood, sir."

"I hope you do, Terry. Because if this comes back to haunt the Organization, it'll be your ass hanging in the breeze. I consider this your cluster fuck, you handle it anyway you want, but you handle it. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal clear, sir," Terry said to a dead line.

Terry felt the walls closing in on him. He had no choice now but to eliminate her. That had never been part of the plan; he had just wanted her back in the fold. He berated himself. He had been so confident in his plan that he never, at any time, considered what would happen if it failed. Now he found himself in the unenviable position of being a target for, by all accounts, one of the most lethal people on the planet. He would be spending every hour of his life now within the confines of the building, until either she was dead or they carried him out of his office covered in a sheet. He didn't like the visual that accompanied that thought. He reached out to hit the intercom.

"Miss Marshall?"

"Yes, Mr. McKraken?"

"Would you call security and have them prepare to lock down the building, my order. Have the officer in charge report to my office as soon as possible."

"Right away, sir."

"I assume all department heads are in the conference room?"

"Yes, they're all there."

"I need you to inform them that the building is going to essential staff only. The building will be locked down at 5:00pm. After that time only cleared personnel will be allowed entry, no one shall be allowed exit. All other personnel will be on indefinite leave with pay until the current situation is resolved. Is that clear, Miss Marshall?"

"Very clear, sir. Is there anything else?"

"Yes, this morning's meeting is postponed until 1:00pm, attendance is still mandatory. That's all, Miss Marshall, you need to get started."

"Yes, sir."

He leaned back in his chair, listening to the announcement go over the building wide intercom. Goddamn it, this was never supposed to happen.

Piper sat at her desk and thought about her first hours with Bailey Cameron. Prior to today, she had only seen her from a distance at Clinton's funeral and then only briefly as she had only stayed long enough to speak to the widow for a few moments following the service. Having worked as Clinton's assistant for just over two years, she considered it strange that she had never once caught sight of her at the office. She had been surprised when Bailey had called her at home to ask if she would be interested in working as her assistant.

When she came in yesterday to move her things from John's office to Bailey's, she had been the recipient of many words of sympathy and looks of condolence from the staff concerning her new position. Everyone apparently thought that she would never be heard from again once she descended into the lair of the Princess of Darkness. Yet here she was, sitting at her desk with a twenty-four thousand dollar raise and a promotion and it wasn't even 9:00am. She had even been asked by the malevolent Princess herself, to call her Bailey. Having seen the woman up close for the first time was an experience that she would never forget. The woman sent shivers down her spine she was so striking. And her eyes, Jesus. She can't be much older than I am but you look at her eyes and she seems ancient.

She could tell that Bailey had been trying to intimidate her at first, probably to see what she was made of, but by the end of the conversation she had been shockingly pleased and flattered to see a blush on her face. Apparently, the woman wasn't made of ice, as was the general consensus. She must be lonely. And with that thought, she decided that she would try to break down some of the walls that surrounded the enigmatic Bailey Cameron, and hopefully find a new friend or, she smiled, perhaps more. She sipped at her coffee and applied herself to the rapidly filling inbox.

Terry awoke surprised that he had drifted off at his desk. The blackness outside the window telling him that night had fallen. He frowned as he wondered how in the world he had slept the day away. Suddenly, he realized that there was another person in the room. A figure with features that he couldn't make out in the dark, was sitting in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"I always hated that tie, Terry," came a feminine Irish voice.

In a motion so fast that if he had blinked he would have missed it, the figure stood from the chair and waved an arm back and forth in the air that separated them. His hands went to his throat to ease the sudden burning sensation. He tried to speak but his mouth filled with a hot, metallic tasting fluid that spilled over his chin with a gurgle. His hands were wet and he could feel liquid pouring through his fingers and around his palms. His chest felt warm and sticky and he looked down to see a crimson stain on his shirt that was spreading at an alarming rate. Strangely, he noted that his tie had been cut off about an inch below the knot.

He looked up to see the figure in front of his desk clean, with what he realized was the remains of his tie, a long blade that glittered in the dark. The figure casually threw the tie to the floor and sat back down. His vision started dimming as he saw the figure lean forward in their chair, obviously interested in the spectacle that he knew was going to be his final moments. It was becoming very hard to keep his eyes open and he started to feel himself fade away just as the face of his murderer came into focus.

"Goodbye, Terry," Bailey purred darkly.

"Mr. McKraken, Lieutenant Pittman from security is here. Shall I send him in?"

Terry awoke to the sound of his secretary's voice coming from the intercom and almost screamed, his hands going immediately to his throat. He sat in his chair, his breath coming in large gulps as he slowly began to reclaim some composure. With an effort, he leaned forward to hit the intercom.

"H…Have him wait a moment, Miss Marshall. I'll be with him shortly."

"Very well, sir."

He stood up from his chair and attempted to collect himself. Jesus Christ. There wasn't a square inch of flesh on his body that didn't feel like it was covered with sweat. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, the aftereffects of the dream still making his hands tremble. He sat back down at his desk and ran his hands over his hair. After taking several deep breaths he hit the intercom.

"Miss Marshall, send in the Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

He watched silently as the door opened and the Lieutenant strode in to stand before his desk.

"I understand that you have put the building on alert, and wished to speak with me, sir."

"Yes, we have a situation. Until it's resolved I'll need you to follow the security protocols for local lockdown. Are you familiar with those protocols, Lieutenant?" Terry asked, slowly getting himself back up to speed.

"Yes, sir. When does lockdown commence?"

"5:00pm today, Lieutenant. Any other questions?"

"No, sir."

"Dismissed."

He waited for the Lieutenant to leave the room and viciously tore off his tie as soon as the door closed. He thought it a prudent course of action not to wear one until he could safely say this ordeal was over. He folded the tie and reached in his pocket for the keys to his desk. Inserting the key into the lock, he was startled to realize that he didn't need it. A sickening feeling hit him in the gut and he closed his eyes as he very slowly opened the drawer he knew the file was in.

He knew it was going to be bad, he just fucking knew it; he could feel black thunderclouds forming over him. He opened his eyes, only to close them again a second later. The thunderclouds started rumbling and he suspected that at any moment they would open up and piss all over him. His hand flew out to hit the intercom button with violent force.

"Miss Marshall," he almost screamed.

"Yes, sir?"

"I want Mr. Phillips of Internal Security in my office in five fucking minutes with the video of this floor, and specifically my office, for the last twenty-four hours."

He disconnected before he got a response. He couldn't believe that it was only 9:45 in the morning. The blows just kept coming. The missing file presented a problem of potentially enormous proportions. Surprisingly, he wasn't anxious to see what information the video might yield. He didn't know if he could take another kick to the head. His whole body was trembling and he barely contained the almost overwhelming urge to throw what his mother would have called a conniption fit. Scowling, he slouched in his chair and waited for Mr. Phillips to arrive.

VII

Then I see the edge I look I fall,
And I get deeper and deeper

- C. Curnin, J. Oram

Bailey pondered the question he had asked her and took several moments to go over her next response. She noted that Josh was waiting quietly with an expectant look on his face. She was pretty sure she had already won him over.

"As of this morning, Josh," she began. "I'm quite sure that my former employers wish me eliminated."

"I don't understand."

"My former employers wish me eliminated. Just like they wished several people eliminated on the day we met."

"Are you saying they intend to kill you?"

"Yes."

He stared at her carefully. His mind scrambling to order the thoughts spiraling around in his head. If people were going to try and kill this woman he was pretty certain that he didn't want to be anywhere in the vicinity, much less the state, or for that matter even the country.

"Would you just let me walk out of here right now if I refused?"

"Yes."

He studied her hard. She had just offered him a chance at a new life. In fact, she had six years ago let him keep his old one. Evidently, she wasn't shaking in her boots at the prospect of becoming a potential corpse. He looked at her sitting patiently behind her desk awaiting his response and believed her. He owed it to her and himself to at least hear her out before making a decision.

"Who are your former employers?"

"An agency of the United States government."

"Why do they you want you dead?"

"Because I don't want to work for them anymore."

"I don't get it."

"I think the less you know on this subject, the better off you would be."

"Okay, but you seem to have plenty of money, why don't you just assume an identity and disappear, like the one you've offered me?" he asked. "Or you could go to a big newspaper like in the movies for sanctuary or amnesty, something like that?"

"That isn't an option."

"Why?"

"I've people who depend on me."

He considered that silently for a second. "Alright. Where do I come into this mess?"

"Unless I make a mistake, it will be a month, perhaps more, before they attempt to remove me. During that time I'll need someone to do things for me, both inside this building and out. I'd like that person to be you."

"What sort of things would you need me to do?"

"I need you to find the bad guys."

"Say what?"

"Let me be more specific. I own this building and the business that operates here. This building also happens to be my home. I've known for some time that my former employers have had people placed within the corporation as employees, planted for the express purpose of monitoring my actions and movements. Starting on Monday, the company has been informed that a private consultant is going to be in the building evaluating the company for parties interested in a buyout. A fictional buyout, for I've no intention of selling the company. However, I need you to pretend to be that consultant and attempt to locate those within that have a secret agenda."

"You mean you want me to snoop around and identify these people?"

"Exactly, you'll be given access to the entire building, with the exception of the 18th floor. I've prepared an outline to help you, a duty list, personnel information, and responses to any questions that the employees might ask you. False identity one has been set up for this purpose. I've made reservations at the Hilton for this identity, and reserved a car in his name. A generous bank account and credit cards are provided for any expenses that you might need. Do you think you can do this for me?"

"Sounds easy enough for the rewards involved."

"Well, there's a catch of course."

"I figured."

"On the rare times that I might leave the building I'll need a shadow, again you come into play."

"How so?"

"I'll need you to potentially identify those who might be following me."

"Gee, that sounds safe."

"Of course, I'll never be far away in the event of an emergency."

"Is that it?"

"With the exception of one more thing, yes."

"And that would be?"

"I'll need another package before you assume identity one.

"I see, and what would this package contain?"

"A PSG1, three 10 round magazines and a case of .308."

"A serious piece of hardware, very expensive."

"Price is no object and you have a little under a week."

"It's doable. But I need to know a few more things?"

"If I can answer, I will."

"First, why me?"

"I've kept an eye on you over the years, Josh. I know you can blend in and pretend to be who you're not. I know you're smart but you've made mistakes that you can't take back. I also know that you're not happy with the way your life has turned out. I think you want another chance, and I can give it to you."

"Fair enough, but if I was to disappear what happens to my wife? Miserable bitch that she is, she depends on me."

"She'll be exceptionally well taken care of."

"Alright, what happens to me if you don't survive?"

"That's unlikely, but preparations have been made for you to assume identity two without me around to give it to you."

"You seem to be very confident that you'll win."

"That's because I've never lost."

Looking at her, he was willing to bet that was an entirely true statement. The woman in front of him seemed to sweat confidence and despite the fear that he still had of her in impressively large amounts, she had a dark sort of charisma that was very appealing.

"Alright, I'm in. Give me the particulars."

"First, you'll need to cut your hair and buy some suits. I suggest you do this in Augusta. Your hotel and car reservations are for Sunday. You need to be here starting Monday."

She picked up the other manila envelope on her desk and tossed it to him. He opened it up and began looking through it.

"Inside you'll find a CD with the personnel information, the outline, duty list and responses. Study them. Also, you'll find my business card and the business card of a dentist in Augusta, I suggest you make an appointment for this week and show him my card. You might have to visit him a few times, so allow that into your schedule. Any questions?"

"There's a key in here, what's is it for?"

"It's a key for a locker at the Greyhound station in Augusta. Inside you'll find all the equipment you're going to need. Pick it up when you visit the dentist."

He nodded as he browsed through the contents of the envelope. "I see here my new name will be Joshua Anderson, I like the name on this one better."

"I can imagine."

"Any other questions before you return on Monday?"

"No, I mean yes, how do you want to take delivery on the other package?"

"Just hold on to it, my cell phone number is in the envelope as well. If there's anything else you need in the next few days, call that number."

"Will do."

"Alright, I'll have Tom come back up and escort you down.

She hit the intercom. "Piper?"

"Yes?"

"Would you buzz Tom with security and have him come up and escort my guest back down?"

"Of course."

"Give me a ring when he arrives please."

"Alright, Bailey."

"Thank you, Piper."

She disconnected, sipped her coffee and watched Josh study the items that comprised his new identity for the next few weeks. She had no doubts that he would do exceptionally well. Everything was working out according to plan, with her family being the one exception. That one was out of her hands for the moment. It was the key to everything; she couldn't complete her plan without it.

"Bailey, Tom is here."

"Okay, thanks."

She looked at Josh who had already replaced everything in the envelope and had apparently been quietly studying her while she had been thinking.

"You ready, Josh?"

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"I wouldn't play, if I couldn't win." She paused. "See you on Monday, Mr. Anderson?"

"I'll see you then, Bailey," he said and turned to leave the room.

She leaned back in her chair and thought about nothing until interrupted by a knock on the door and Piper poked her head in.

"It's almost lunchtime, Bailey."

"Uh… Yes, it is," she said with a glance at the clock.

"What do ya say I buy you lunch? There's a great Italian place around the corner?"

Bailey gaped at her. She didn't quite know how to react to such an informal invitation.

"Uhm…"

"Gosh, its not like I'm not asking you to an embalming," Piper said, putting on one of her best smiles.

To her vast confusion, she started blushing again in reaction to the smile being directed at her and she dropped her eyes to the surface of her desk in an attempt to ignore it. The woman would no doubt want to chat over the meal, and she knew she was horribly lacking in non-business conversational skills, not to mention that her small talk skill hovered just below zero on the talent chart. She opened her mouth to decline.

"Sure," she said, shocking herself.

"Great! I'll get my purse."

Mechanically, and with a bewildered expression, she lifted herself out of her seat and put on her jacket.

"Apparently, Mr. Satterfield was unaware of the cameras and obviously, he didn't realize that after 8:00pm the keycards to the executive offices don't work without an additional pin entered on the keypad," Mr. Phillips said.

Phillips was a tall, lanky man that wore his dark brown hair greased down on his scalp. His shining hazel eyes were perpetually lidded and as a result, he was in constant possession of an expression that made him appear to be on the verge of falling asleep.

Terry didn't respond. He sat in his chair with his back to Phillips, having turned away and leveled his gaze out the window as soon as Martin's image had appeared on the video. Not only had he been betrayed, but it couldn't have come at worse possible time.

What really ate at him was that he really did like Martin; not so much that it would have kept him from ordering the man's retirement, but the Ivy League shit had beaten him to the punch. The feeling of self-pity and betrayal was beginning to wear off in favor of the anger that was demanding reparations. Unfortunately, Martin would have to be taken alive, the file saw to that, at least for the time being. Once the file was returned to the Organization, he was willing to go to great lengths to make sure that Martin's end was a particularly unpleasant one. The more he thought about the current situation the angrier he became. His watch told him it was 11:45am. He had a little over an hour before the staff meeting; it was time to act. He turned in his chair to face the patiently waiting Phillips.

"Mr. Phillips, I'll need you to tag Satterfield's file as Eyes Only and see to any belongings he might have left behind. Also, I'll need the standard preparations for media breech and/or manipulation made on Satterfield's behalf. See to it immediately."

"Of course, anything else?"

"No, that'll be all, Mr. Phillips.

Terry leveled an impatient look on the man until he got up and walked from the office. As soon as the door closed behind him, his hand flew out and hit the intercom.

"Miss Marshall, have Ben Richards report to me immediately."

"Right away, sir."

Terry knew that Ben was in the building and standing by so he didn't expect a long wait. He got up and walked over to the small refrigerator he kept in the corner and selected a soda at random, popping the top and draining the contents in five swallows, ignoring the burning in his throat. Wincing, he crushed the can and threw it violently into the trashcan. He retrieved a second beverage and sat back down at his desk, sipping gingerly at the contents until he heard the intercom.

"Sir, Mr. Richards is here."

"Send him in."

Ben Richards entered the room and without being asked, took a seat in front of his desk. Terry ran a gaze over the man. Ben was a tall, predatory looking man. He had dull blue eyes that could only be described as vindictive and boasted a completely shaved head. Ben was a team leader that he respected but didn't especially like. However, the man had a reputation for being needlessly cruel and that was exactly what he wanted at the moment.

"Ben, I have a situation that I need you to move on immediately."

"I see, foreign or domestic?"

"Domestic and probably local."

"Alright, I have two men available, will that be enough?"

"Yes, this is a rush job with conditions."

"Give me the particulars."

"We have an employee with a stolen file. He knows it will be missed and did not come in today, probably a runner. He needs to remain upright until the file has been recovered or destroyed. After that, it wouldn't upset me if he hurt for a while before expiring. His residence is local; you can get the name and details from Mr. Phillips. In the event that you recover the file, you alone will be cleared to handle it and I suggest you refrain from indulging in any curiosity. Additionally, we have an ongoing situation at the moment, so it would be in the Organization's best interest to handle this as quickly and as smoothly as possible. That's all, Mr. Richards, any questions?"

"None, I'll coordinate now with Mr. Phillips and will keep you updated."

"Very good."

Ben gave Terry a slight nod and exited the room.

As soon as he was gone, Terry slammed down the rest of his soda, gathered his things and headed for the conference room.

VIII

I never wanted trouble,
But I sure got enough

- Jett, Laguna, Kihn

Martin grabbed an overnight bag from the depths of his closet and threw it on the bed. Reaching back into the closet, he grabbed a small box from the far corner of the top shelf, opened it and withdrew the handgun that he had purchased on a whim the year before. He stared at the weapon for a few minutes, ejecting the magazine to find it loaded and realizing that he had never taken the time to learn to fire it. He grabbed the spare magazine and a box of ammunition he had bought with the gun and stuffed them into his bag. He threw the box back into the closet and grabbed a couple of shirts. As he stuffed the shirts and other assorted articles of clothing into the leather bag, he tried to squash the rising feeling of dread that had plagued him since he had overslept this morning.

Powerless to deny the urge, he walked to the window and peeked through the blinds, unable to lose the queasy feeling that he was running out of time. He scanned the streets for anything out of place, although he was pretty sure that if anything were out of place he wouldn't see it. He was dealing with people that routinely got around and through the best security in the world. He had no doubt that they could put several bullets in him and be on to their next victim before the final breath left his body. He fought down a shiver and forced himself to get moving, his nerves were beginning to get the best of him and the sooner he was on his way, the better.

He ran to the bathroom and collected everything he thought he might need. As he walked back to the bedroom and deposited the toiletries into his bag the phone rang, startling him. He had to call on all his power to keep from pissing himself.

He looked at the phone as it rang a second time and wondered who would be calling him at this time of the day. Everyone he knew would expect him to be at work like the rest of the respectable urban masses. It rang a third time and he decided that it was Terry or one of his henchmen calling to confirm that he was at home so he could be shot to death in the comfort of his La-Z-Boy.

As he stood mesmerized by the ringing of the phone, he heard his own voice on the answering machine instructing the caller to leave a message. The next sound was the nasal whine of the receptionist from his dentist's office calling to confirm the appointment that he had scheduled for later in the week.

".... Please give us a call as soon as you can, Mr. Satterfield. In case you forgot, the number has been changed. The...."

He let the voice drift away as he grabbed his bag and headed for the kitchen, laughing at his body's reaction to the phone call. He had prepared a small cooler of foodstuffs to take with him and it was the last thing he needed before saying goodbye to his home. The future being too uncertain to know if he would ever return.

He threw his bag on the kitchen counter and had opened the refrigerator to retrieve the cooler when the phone rang again. He froze bent over at the waist with his face in the refrigerator, his imagination racing again as he pictured himself a bloody mess on the kitchen floor while faceless men riddled his lifeless body with round after round. With no small effort, he put a lid on his thoughts and ran to the phone to pick it up before the answering machine caught it.

"Hello."

A dial tone greeted him. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but he now had the distinct impression that he had fucked up. The sweat beaded instantly on his forehead and his bowels turned to water. He had dawdled too long it was time to go. He dropped the phone back into the cradle and made a beeline for the door. His hand was two feet away from the knob when the doorbell rang. He froze, praying to God that his mind was playing tricks on him. The bell rang again and his mind jumped to images of men in dark suits with silenced weapons waiting on the other side of the door. He smothered his imagination with a violent shake of his head and quickly retreated to the kitchen, reaching into his bag to withdraw the gun. Oddly, he felt instantly braver with the weight of the weapon in his hand.

Shouldering his bag and leaving the cooler in the kitchen, he approached the door with the intention of ripping it open and confronting the presence outside. Pausing a few feet from his destination and an arms length from the sofa, it struck him that his present course of action was no doubt monumentally stupid. He reached out and grabbed a cushion off the sofa.

The doorbell rang again and as quietly as he could; he closed the distance, pressing his body tightly against the wall to the side of the door. With the gun in one hand and the sofa cushion in the other, he very slowly lifted the cushion until it completely obscured the peephole in the door.

Several things happened at once. The door smashed open with stunning force causing him to drop the cushion and bring his arm up in an attempt to protect himself from the door, which jarred him painfully up against the wall. Startled, and finding himself trapped between the door and the wall, he reflexively pulled the trigger, simultaneously firing a round through the door and scaring the shit out of him.

He didn't wait to see if he hit anything. In full panic mode he sprinted for the steps leading upstairs, reaching the top in time to hear the unmistakable sound of the back door crashing open. The sound only added to his speed as he raced for the unused bedroom at the end of the hall and he went right for the window at the rear of the room, opening it quickly and kicking out the screen. He had one leg out the window when he heard a calm, almost amused voice from the hallway.

"Mr. Satterfield."

He started so violently at the sound of the voice that he lost his balance. Scrambling wildly for a purchase on the window, he dropped his pistol. Perversely, it landed inside the house on the bedroom floor as he lost the battle for stability, and with arms spiraling madly, he fell painfully to ground in his neighbor's backyard.

With the wind knocked out of him and his left ankle throbbing, he fell several times in an attempt to shake off his injuries and start running. After the third fall, he finally regained his feet and sprinted for the gate that led to the alley.

As he ran, his neighbor stepped out of the house onto his back porch, calling out to him as he passed.

"What the hell is going on, Satterfield?"

"Get back in your house, Mr. Dillon!"

He turned his head at the sound of the gunshot to see the top of his neighbors head disappear in a red mist, reacting to the sight by laying on a burst of speed he had not thought himself capable of. The wooden gate almost coming off the hinges as he plowed into it and emerged into the alley. The adrenaline pumping through his body like high-octane gasoline, he put his head down and ran as hard as he could. He was on pace to break the land speed record when he flew from the alley and onto the street. He ran for miles, and when he was sure that he had gotten away, he ran some more.

Continued