Bellissima

Ordinary Jorge

At first, I didn’t want to accept reality. I am standing inside a dank brick detention cell with an infamous interrogation room; and the proverbial camera placed in the upper right-hand corner with its green light flashing. There’s one small metal rectangular table accompanied by three uncomfortable metal chairs. A large rectangular mirror interrupts the pale paint on one wall. It’s closer to the backside of two chairs. Behind the mirror a room full of eyes watches me.

In the past, such predicaments make me want to laugh, but this time no humor emerges. It’s different when you’re the one in the room knowing there are five more cameras you don’t see.

I work with law enforcement; interrogation by them isn’t in my game plan. Besides, I’d done nothing wrong beyond a few parking tickets accompanying an overdue car payment. Well, the house payment is overdue too, but business is slow. Come to think of it; the neighborhood HOA harassed me about my overgrown lawn surrounding full garbage cans. They threatened to call the cops once or twice.

The interrogation room door swings open as two men walk inside the room. One I recognize; one I don’t. The man I recognize is Captain Walker. He works for Rainbow City Police Department. I’ve worked with Walker on a past crime investigation. He’s a nice cop, fair-minded, drinks sometimes. He sometimes smokes too. I don’t like it. He got a divorce about seven years ago. He asked me out for a drink once. I don’t date, drink common alcohol or smoke. I said no. He took it kind of hard; there are no easy ways to turn down men.

He’s made comments about not being good-looking enough too. He’s trying to lose weight. Men never get it. It’s not their large beer belly. Although, 6-pack abs rock! It’s not how much money you got or the car you drive. Although, a Ferrari with a million bucks is nice. It’s all about the mood.

What can I say? I’m a moody person; if our moods aren’t in sync… Well, that sucks for you! I’m a fitness fanatic. Some call me a gymrat! But there are times I sit on the couch watching the boob tube eating a gallon of ice cream. Those nights I’m crying my eyes out over what might have been. I like men. But let’s be honest, there’s one woman in my life making it so I can’t think straight. God knows nothing beats her affections in those loving moments.

“Your name is Miss Kayla Kree, correct?”

The other guy jumped right into questioning me. This guy’s mannerisms suggest the expertise of a seasoned interrogator. He never takes his blue eyes off my hazel green peepers making sure he’s face-to-face instead of staring at my oversized breasts.

“Yes, that’s me. Mister, who are you?”

“Agent Smith,” he says.

“Yeah right, Agent Smith.”

He’s an asshole. I’m a tall badass Amazon. His boss must be behind the mirror pulling his strings.

“Your father was African-American? Your mother was Chinese-American; both deceased?”

“They died in a car accident. Why is their death significant?”

“You live in a brownstone at 2121 Locust Street?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you lived in Rainbow City?”

“Captain Walker, why is he interrogating me? Why am I here?”

“It’s his show Kay, I didn’t want to do it this way,” Walker explains.

“Are you trying to frame me with a crime?”

“You worked as an Interrogator for the US Air Force with the Office of Special Investigation, right?” Smith continues.

“Yeah, I worked seven years for the OSI. Is this about the OSI?”

“Did you work in the Czech Republic?”

“Now you’re asking a question that’s above your pay grade Agent Smith,” I banter back.

Agent Smith smiles with bright teeth. He pulls out a folded paper from inside the left breast pocket of his charcoal suit. The suit fits his stiff lanky build. He sets the paper on the table with his hairy-knuckled right hand. He passes the paper over as his left-hand slides over his slick black hair.

“I’m an assistant to the Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. I have a federal warrant from the US Attorney General’s Office,” he retorts.

I read the warrant. Judge Sheila Carroll, District of Columbia signed it.

“You work for the Central Intelligence Agency? I imagine moron’s need to work for oxymoron’s these days.”

Smith pulls out large photos from the manila envelope he’s holding. He spreads them on the table.

“Can you identify this man in the picture?” He inquires.

I review the photos to discover a dear friend filleted like a fish on a concrete floor in a warehouse-like looking building. It’s clear he died from torture. The sight hurts me deeply. I try to control my anger, but the arrogant asshole across the table pushed all the right buttons.

I loved Jorge. Not as a lover, but as a man who dedicated his later years helping at-risk youth out of the barrio up into universities across the country. Was Jorge a spy? Sure. But few spies are lifers for a cause. Fewer still last beyond ten years in the business. Jorge retired living in a rundown apartment near the beach. He drove a ratty Ford pickup truck. He watches football games on Sundays.

I stand up fast reaching across the table grabbing good ole Agent Smith by his dodgy suit collar. I surprise him! His shoulders jump up to his ears. He grabs for my wrists which I need him to do because when he does, I plant all my weight down onto the table. I convert his mistake into leverage to bring him down with me. I get a hand free. I sock him hard in the face.

“Stop!”, Walker shouts.

Captain Walker wraps his muscular arms around me. He wrenches me away from the table. I smell his shower soap that hangs dressing light cologne. I like it. I expected Walker to save the day. He likes having an excuse to save damsels. I approve of his big arms roughly pulling me. Smith stands up, kicks his chair back into the wall, holding his jaw; red in the face. Smith thinks twice before confronting Walker.

“Are you fucking crazy? You hit a federal agent,” Smith blurts rubbing his cheek.

“Kiss my ass!”

“Hey! Let’s everyone calm down all right,” Walker mediates.

“Fuck this broke dick piss-ass bitch,” I curse.

“Kay, sit your butt down in that chair, or I will stuff you in it myself,” Walker threatens.

He’ll do it too. Even with his wild charcoal hair strewn about after my little fiasco. Walker is the guy you bring home to your parents after your first divorce. He’s not a nice guy, perhaps a little too bullish. Women like me…walk over nice guys. It’s in our nature to gravitate towards the bad boys who’ll only take so much shit from us. I sit my butt in the chair fast.

“Hey, I told you this wasn’t the way to handle it,” Walker lectures pointing to Smith.

“Regardless, I will continue with my line of questioning,” Smith responds.

“What information do you want now? My bra size,” I say to Smith.

“It’s a 36D. We were in your brownstone earlier,” Smith replies.

“You mother fucker!”

I try to stand up again, but my shoulders meet the Captain’s two strong hands that shove me back down into the chair.

“Kay, please cooperate so we can move forward, all right.”

“Now, can you identify this man or not?” Smith asks.

“Yes.”

“What was your relationship with him?”

“The last time I spoke with Jorge was five years ago. He needed help with a young man named Alejandro.”

“Are you two intimate lovers? Platonic…”

“We have a professional relationship.”

“Professional, do you mean like a spy?”

“No, I’m a life counselor.”

“Oh yes, I read your website—1 Deal, or 1 Crisis, the Bank Wins All Ties; how does that work?”

“It’s simple; a client needs help with a problem. The problem is a business deal or a crisis. I charge them a flat fee of $1000 which deposits into a Rainbow City Bank counter-sign account until the terms of our agreement are met,” I explain.

“Why don’t your clients pay you directly?”

“The only way I get paid is if we both agree I completed the terms. If we both agree, then we both sign for withdrawal. If not, the client doesn’t counter-sign the flat fee with me for the money. The bank keeps the money.”

“Sounds like a losing situation,” Smith quips.

“Well, I don’t get paid, but I can’t be sued for money either. The client loses $1000, or I get the money. It’s a safe way to do business.”

“Do you communicate with clients via phone or email?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Why did you stop communicating with Mr. Jorge Camacho?”

“I didn’t stop communicating with him.”

“Why are you lying?”

“I’m not lying.”

Agent Smith pulls out a single piece of paper from his inside suit coat pocket. This time I notice his Harvard Law School class ring on the finger where the wedding ring usually rests. I assume he is divorced because he uses the huge class ring to hide the thin tan line clue to his failed marriage.

“He sent this email to you earlier this year, but you never opened it.”

His cigar breath lingers up my nostrils. His breath is miserable.

“I get to most of my email. So, I find that hard to believe.”

“Well our IT technicians do thorough jobs. They’re sure you didn’t open it or delete the email.”

“I still don’t believe you.”

“We also found you missed several phone calls from prepaid phones around the same time.”

“Okay, when did these things happen?”

“January 29th.”

Oh shit! I’ll never forget that date! January 29th is the morning when, Adam, the son of a wealthy connoisseur of exotic wines walked in on me having sex with his father, Rupert. It’s not right, but can’t a woman have her cake while eating it too? Adam’s into fast cars. He rides his father’s trust fund wave to oblivion. He’s a workout hog like me, remember those 6-pack abs I referred to earlier?

But, Adam’s father, Rupert, he’s distinguished with an intellectual edge that keeps a woman guessing. Rupert says all the right things. He’s around at the right times. Like, he reads my mind from a script. He does all the right things too. He takes his time in the bedroom. He makes sure things work. We are in sync.

The scan Smith shoots at me says it all. The facial flushes decorated with shock tells him I remember something. Meanwhile, I wonder if he knows about my past little escapade. Regardless, my emotions have nothing to do with Jorge, but it’s useless to say otherwise.

“You remember that date?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Please explain it,” Smith insists.

“I am wistful about what happened.”

“If you’re referring to your love affair with Rupert Bastion or his son, Adam, we already questioned them.”

“What? Rupert Bastion, the millionaire?” Walker barks out loud.

Walker’s eyes fill with a mixture of sadness accompanied by surprise. As I said, he’s the kind of guy who takes it hard. My tryst is exposed. Smith’s wry smile angers me again as Walker exits the interrogation room like a boy who’s had his baseball taken away.

“If you’re onto it, then you also realize I changed my phone blocking messages into my email for a month.”

“True, but what we don’t understand is if you had any alternative means of communicating with Jorge.”

“I didn’t communicate with him. Also, I wasn’t aware he’s dead.”

“Which is why we’d like to hire your services,” Smith offers.

“What? Okay, let me get this straight, you have two goons haul me in here for questioning. You invade my house checking out my bras. Now, you’re offering me a job?”

“Yes, we’ll pay you $250,000 to find out who killed Jorge.”

“I do one crisis or one deal. Jorge’s murder is a homicide case.”

“Consider this the CIA’s crisis.”

I stick my middle finger in front of Smith’s face.

“Consider this fuck you!”

Smith puts another paper he’s holding on the table passing it over to my side.

“This is Jorge’s last email. He sent it to you. Reconsider,” he implies I’m caught up in something big.

I read the copy of an email dated the same day as my tryst,

“You’re not sick, but you will consider this soup more of a curse than a blessing. However, I can’t afford to give it to anyone else,” the email read.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“We were hoping you’d tell us,” he says.

“Put your cards on the table or fold Mr. Smith. Charge me or release me.”

“Well, I can charge you with a battery charge for socking a federal agent. I can also hold you for 72 hours before doing so…”

Three knocks rap on the mirror behind Smith instructing him of what to do next. I’m wondering who the hell’s behind the glass.

“But I’ll let you go for now,” Smith continues.

I stand up grabbing my leather biker jacket off the back of the chair.

“That’s what I thought,” giving Smith shit.

I flick my mousy long raven hair over my collar in a huff. I grab my purse off the floor.

“Be careful out there, whoever killed Jorge might want to question you too.”

I put the jacket on pulling my cell phone out of the pocket.

“After you make a public spectacle by dragging me in here, right?”

“Catch you later Miss Kree.”

I turn my back to him heading for the door.

“Don’t count on it!”

I walk out of the interrogation room. I walk for the screening room next door. I need to get inside the screening room, but puppy-eyed Walker is preventing my next move, standing right in front of it. I turn around to head for the front door. I’m not talking. He remains silent. Am I the lead suspect in Jorge’s murder? I assume everything I own has a CIA bug. I’m getting rid of it.

I remove the battery from my cell phone dropping it in a nearby garbage can as I keep moving to the steps. I remove the SIM-card. I drop it on the floor near an officer’s desk after I bend it in two. Still walking I shove the rest of my cell phone in the file tray near the coffee pots. I grab my wallet from my purse opening it as I reach the front door. I take the money out as I make it to the sidewalk.

I stuff the cash in my rear-jean pocket as I head into a pedestrian morning rush hour. The sidewalk is teeming with people. That’s good luck for me! I see a bag lady pushing a wobbly cart with stuff. I hand her my wallet with all the credit cards plus ID.

“Happy Halloween,” I say to her.

“Thanks, honey! God bless you!”

I retired from the OSI and National Security Agency. The Central Intelligence Agency just forced me back into the game. Why? I assume I’ve been under surveillance since January. All I own is useless. I can’t go home. I can’t use my car. I assume my cash is dirty too. Several agents are tailing me but by how many people or how many interested organizations? I can’t trust anyone. I am as fucked as the bell tolls!

I head straight for the city library in a hurry. I check things out. I spot at least two men tailing me along with one woman. The woman’s a jogger in a blue jumpsuit. The men are in black business suits. These agents are following standard surveillance procedure. There are others I don’t see. I know satellites are zooming in on me.

I grab a tissue from my purse to blow my nose. I undo my nose ring as I blow my nose leaving it in the tissue with the snot. I drop it on the street. I keep up the quick pace. I run my fingers through my hair to conceal removing my earrings. I place them inside my purse. I stop at a corner to wave down a cab. The woman jogger stops. I pause a moment to see her act like she’s stretching.

The cab stops, I jump in pulling out a small pocket knife from my purse shoving it in my jean pocket. I take off the white gold diamond baguette band my mother gave me. I put it in the purse. I miss it already as I place the purse on the floor behind the Cabby’s seat.

“Where are we going?” Cabbie asks.

“Oh shit, I forgot my cell phone; here take this, sorry for the trouble.”

I give him a 20 dollar bill as I hop out of the cab. He doesn’t notice the purse as he drives away. I’m moving again towards the library. The men in black suits stop running after the cab at a coffee cart opposite side of the street. They can’t be more obvious. I assume they’re both rookies. I make it to the library. There’s a big sign hanging from the top of the building, “Closing Christmas Due to the Internet.”

Once inside, I make my way to the newspaper periodical reading room. I search the computer for the Rainbow City Reader publication dated the week of January 29th. I get to the casual encounter section. I locate the ad; ”Priest Seeks Nun.” I click on it to find the words, ”Same Place.” I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I close the ad. I pull up several more different ads clicking on all of them. I leave the ads up on the screen before departing the periodical station.

Jorge created a failsafe contact method years ago. When things go wrong, we place an ad in the Reader under the same salacious title. Our unorthodox communication proved to be safe. Once, I helped Jorge smuggle one of the Sheik’s of the oil industry’s son out of the country. We received homeownership titles to twelve houses throughout the Rainbow City suburbs as payment. This Sheik won the titles during a poker game.

Jorge used these houses to store caches for doing off the grid business. Why? Well, retired spies need each other to survive and always expect the rainy day. Trouble often comes in a downpour, not to mention, it always hits you sideways. Spies never leave behind the list of enemies who’d love to take a shot at them. I’m on hit lists in several countries. Jorge is too.

We made nine houses decoys. They’re unfurnished. We even invited some squatters to stay in a few. One secluded rural house shares an easement with the railroad. The house proves to be helpful because the railroad guaranteed the homeowner a clear right-of-way to the property. In this case, the right-of-way included a rural driveway with an underground entrance about a half mile from the property. The maple tree ridden area hides the driveway from satellites under a treetop canopy. I’m hoping the season of falling leaves keeps the entrance secure.

I must keep moving. I dart into the women’s restroom next to the maintenance room with the men’s restroom on the other side. It’s empty. I go into a stall. I take off my leather jacket. I take off my blouse and my bra. I bite down hard on the blouse as I cut my forearm open with the pocket knife. I remove an NSA digital chip tracker embedded inside my arm. I wrap the wound with several rounds of toilet paper. I leave the pocket knife in the stall wastebasket. I put my jacket back on topless. I leave the rest in the stall.

I hear the door open as someone comes into the restroom. Is it the Jogger? I need to subdue her. I open the stall door. It’s a false alarm. She’s a woman in her early twenties. Tattoos run down both arms. She’s about 5ft 10in. I’m 6ft tall. She’s overweight. I’m an Amazon. She’ll do.

“I love your tattoos,” I compliment her.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Want to see mine?”

I open my jacket to show my rainbow-colored unicorn tattoo right between my breasts. My tat is low enough to wear a V-neck, but with the horn higher than my dark nipples.

“Wow, you went all out for that one,” she says.

She goes back to looking in the mirror doing her makeup. She puckers after she puts on the lipstick. She’s not using the bathroom. She’s worried about her looks. I leave my jacket unzipped showing off my bare chest.

“I love your jeans too,” I compliment again.

“You like these old things?”

“I’ll give you $80 bucks for them.”

“Are you serious? Are you flirting?”

“Sure.”

I gaze into her eyes licking my lips. She blushes.

“Well, I’m not gay, but I’m flattered by your hot advances.”

“The pleasure is mine, but I still want the jeans.”

I pull out the cash from my jeans.

“You’ll give me $80 bucks for these?”

“Consider it a fetish of sorts.”

Both corners of her lips rise. Her smile is wonderful. She sets her stuff down on the counter sliding down her jeans. She’s wearing an orange thong with a black bat on the front. I must admit; I didn’t see that one coming. I take off my tennis shoes then pull off my jeans. I hand her the jeans. I don’t wear panties. My commando manner leaves just my shoes on the floor. She stares at my ugly burned legs before putting on my jeans. They’re baggy on her. I squeeze into her size nine jeans. I wear a size 10. Her jeans fit like Capri-jeans on me. Good thing I don’t wear panties every day. I give her the money.

“Thanks,” she says.

“No. Thank you.”

She prances out of the restroom with the top of her thong exposed where her blouse rides up as the jeans sag down her hips. I kick my tennis shoes under the counter. I see my toes with eight missing toenails. I block out the memories of past torture. I open my jacket inspecting my unicorn knowing it covers up a nasty knife wound. I examine myself in the mirror. I notice parts of my hair graying on my head. My hazel-lime green eyes are bloodshot.

I touch my noticeable nose job. I’ve broken my nose more times than I can count. My fingers touch the winding bone underneath the skin. It’s a crude texture. I open my mouth to remove my tongue stud. I got the piercing for the pain. Removing the stud causes a small sting. I like it. I put the stud down the sinkhole.

I zip my jacket up as I head for the door. It opens. The jogger comes inside the restroom. She heads for the stall but looks across into the large bathroom counter mirror to track me. As soon as I see the bathroom door close, I swivel around fast charging into the back of her. We blast as a duo of entangled fury into the nearest stall. I force a knee into her flat ass grabbing her long blonde hair as I slam her face into the back of the toilet.

She kicks backward, but I’m too big, I’m too strong. I punch her in the kidneys; punch her in the spleen, following up with slamming my elbow across the backside of her face as she fights back. Her grunts excite me.

“No! Please,” she pleads for her life.

She’s read my dossier. She knows I kill people. I kill those who have it coming; she doesn’t. I head-butt her nose causing blood to pour as her body sprawls out cold across the toilet; then limps down onto the floor beside it. I leave her there alive exiting the restroom.

I check out the left; there’s no black suit in sight. I check out the right; no black suit there either. Yep, these guys are rookies. They miss an opportunity by letting the jogger follow me alone. One of them should always cover her safety. Still, the idiots must be nearby. I open the door going inside the men’s restroom.

“Is Bob in here?” I ask.

Two men at the pisser tighten their butt cheeks pressing closer to the urinal as they peer over their shoulder trying to hide their privates from my sight.

“Bob’s not in here,” one of them says.

The black suits aren’t in there. I walk into the maintenance room. A janitor is there. He has a radio with the volume low playing the local jazz channel.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

I walk close to the janitor, and I pick up a wrench from his workbench knocking him on the side of the head with it. He falls out cold to the floor. I pick up duct tape. I take off my coat taping over the blood-soaked toilet tissue tight. I put on my jacket again. I move to the sewer entrance at the back.

Spy class 101, you have to have an exit strategy at all times. You never walk into a place without knowing how to get out of it. Always have a route to evade trackers. Always have an alibi if captured. Whatever you do, never think you have the whole story. You never have the whole story. The world is compartmentalized. People are too. The truth is in a million scattered pieces.

I step down the ladder into the sewers. It stinks. My feet are cold through the grimy wetness they traipse. It is dark, but I have the way memorized. I’ve done this several times before. Soon the water level comes up to my ankles. Suds in the water are my indicator I’m close. I find another ladder where it’s supposed to be. I hear running machinery above me. I climb up into a car wash cycle. A black SUV is parked. As I get sprayed by the wash; I walk over dodging the mechanical brushes, open the passenger seat door, jumping inside soapy wet.

“Ray, what happened? My civilian life is exposed!”

Ray is my old handler. He works for the National Security Agency. This car wash is a front for them. Protocol dictates compromised spies go to their handlers after leaving the company. Ray’s an old-timer. He appears to be seventy-something. He knows the game like the back of his hand. He worked the game when I wore diapers. He’s a tall Jewish man with age spots on his skin. His hair is gray; thinning in places but sticking out from his earlobes and nostrils. He’s a smoker with stained teeth. He’s my handler. I know nothing else about him.

Ray’s holding a black permanent marker in one hand plus a stack of index cards in the other. He holds up one stating, “I’m in the BLIND.” In case you missed it, if your handler ever tells you he’s in the blind, then you are done. It means your life’s upside down or worse. Your boss is part of the problem.

“You must take it up with Harry. I’m supposed to give you this car with these things in the back seat,” Ray says out loud.

Ray holds up another card, “The Cache in the Envelope is CLEAN.” He hands me a manila envelope with five stacks of 100 dollar bills, a fake ID, plus fake credit cards. He points to the backseat to the backpack. He warns me by shaking his head from side to side. I take the remaining wad of money out of my pocket throwing it in the back seat. I stuff the Cache ID, credit cards plus his $100s in all four jean pockets.

“How much,” I ask.

“There’s $50,000 in the backpack. It ought to be enough.”

Ray holds another index card up, “I’m walking away, leaving family behind, going dark.”

I am as fucked as the bell tolls again…

“Here are the keys,” he says tossing them.

“Thanks.”

He holds up yet another card, “Eyes—Ears EVERYWHERE.”

“They want you there today.”

“How am I supposed to do this?”

“You got your bachelors at 17 years old in applied mathematics from MIT. At 23, you got your Ph.D. in linguistics and communications at Vassar. You’re also a White Eyebrow Kung Fu Master. I’m sure the great Kayla Kree will think of something.”

Another card pops up, “Car Wash Will Run Non-Stop. BURN EVERYTHING.”

“I need Harry to bring me into the safe house. I’m a sitting duck.”

“Here’s the phone you’re supposed to call him with when you’re on your way,” he instructs me.

Ray holds up the last card, “DISAPPEAR.” He holds my hand in a comforting manner. He opens the driver side of the car stepping out while dodging the mechanical brushes. I watch him disappear in the wash. I wait a few minutes. I don’t pay attention to which way he goes. My favorite biker jacket is my final piece to shed. I take it off leaving it in the car along with the phone.

The hazard lights button in National Security Agency vehicles is a kill switch. It’s designed to detonate the vehicle after a thirty-second countdown unless interrupted. I press the button. I get out in a hurry heading straight down the sewer entrance like a rat. I pick up the pace with my arms crossed over my nipped-out chest. My fixer, Tony, is two blocks away. We’ve done business for several years. Tony hounds me for dates with consistency. But, I’m not the kind of gal you date. Also, I never date organized crime bosses like him.

I hear an explosion behind me. Not long after, I’m climbing another ladder up into an alley. I exit topless with the backdoor of Antonio’s Pawn Shop straight ahead. I knock a secret rhythm on the door twice before Tony opens the door. Tony is tall with bulging muscles. He’s the guy women refer to as a hunk. His wavy dark brown hair tamps down how sophisticated he can be in criminal operations.

“Holy Jesus,” he says surprised.

“What no hugs? I thought you’d take it any way you can get it.”

“People are looking for you? Get in here,” he says worriedly.

I step inside the backroom. I move to Tony’s office. Tony grabs a blue T-shirt with a raincoat off the pawn shop racks tossing them at me as we move by. I can hear sirens in the distance. He points down to the floor off to the side. There’s a pair of women’s jungle boots with thermal black socks draped over them. I grab them. We reach his office.

“Are those sirens for you?”

“Yeah.”

My toes are frozen. I skip with one leg. I bend at the knee to put a sock on my foot.

“I had visitors this morning,” Tony says.

I put the sock on the other foot.

“Who were they?”

“A guy named Smith with several of his armed friends.”

My teeth are chattering a little. I put on the T-shirt.

“What does he want?”

Tony observes me with his coffee brown eyes.

“He asked about our interests in you.”

Tony is a lead fixer for the crime syndicate. I put on the boots. I militarily tie the laces.

“What’d you tell him?”

“I asked him if his mom knew where he was. Then, Smith left with his goons.”

I put on the raincoat laughing.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, I hate feds more than I hate cops. What’s going on Kay?”

“I have to disappear.”

“Kayla, this will not go away. You need to fix this one.”

“Where do I start? I’m in the cold. I’m out of time.”

Tony walks over giving me a huge hug.

“I never thought a problem like this could happen to you,” he says.

“I know right? My problem sucks!”

“Wigs, guns, ammo… All the usual stuff. It’s all in here,” he says as he tosses me a black backpack.

“We’re done. Don’t come back,” Tony says.

I turn around with the backpack to walk out the back door. I don’t stop. I go straight to the third level of the Belmont Avenue Parking Garage. Tony keeps disposable cars here for jobs or drama like mine. I take the car keys out of the backpack. I hold them up clicking the remote. A white Ford sedan’s car lights flicker. I jump inside the car. On the way out of town, I turn on the radio as I keep looking in the rearview mirror.

“Police are investigating an explosion at the Keep It Clean car wash this morning. Police believe it’s related to a local business woman’s disappearance. If you have any information…” The radio squawks.

I turn off the radio. I park the car on the edge of town leaving it at a rest area for travelers near the freeway. I walk five miles through the woodsy north suburbs to the underground entrance of the safe house. I remove my pistols from the backpack. I load them. I approach the house with caution. I do so without any mistakes. No one’s around the house. All is clear. I peek inside the windows. Everything appears to be the same. We keep no traceable electrical devices in the home. No television, phones, or laptops. I peer into the basement window to see crystal blue water about shin deep across the entire floor.

Jorge keeps the basement empty of furniture unlike the upstairs. We wanted it to be empty. The water is out of place. Something’s wrong. I move to the back door. I unlock the door with a key hidden in the light fixture above the doorway. I creep down to the basement door; still nothing. I open the basement door noticing all the water is gone. I must be crazy tired, or the angle of the sun plus the way I peeked down at the basement created a mirage.

I figure I’m just spooked. I walk to the far corner of the east wall. The basement has a twelve-foot high ceiling. The house is over 4000 square feet. There are eight columns along with the stairway down here. Jorge hides messages for me behind the drywall. The drywall covers a two-foot deep space between the actual brick wall behind it. The area is used to conceal items.

I peel back the drywall to discover vacuum packed 100 dollar bills in plastic from floor to ceiling. I go to the north wall. I find the same thing. The west wall also has money. The south wall has money from floor to ceiling. I’m both confused and delighted at the same time! I go to sit on the pisser. I open the basement bathroom door where the toilet’s supposed to be, but there’s money packed from floor to ceiling; the potty is missing.

Where’s this money from anyway? Jorge must have left me a message somewhere else in the house? I go upstairs. To my surprise, my entire body becomes wet as if I stepped out of a shower or swimming pool. I rub my forehead. Is this sweat? I smell my armpits; it’s not nice. I snicker. I shed the backpack. I drop the raincoat onto the living room floor. My eyes get a little blurry. I realize I have had little sleep. I’ve had nothing to eat. I figure the wearing down from this weird adventure is catching up with me.

I check the bedrooms; in the closets is more money. I check the kitchen; in the cabinets is more money. I check the hallway bathroom, and there’s more money stuffed inside. I check the master bedroom bathroom; there’s an odd large clear plastic bag in the tub. It’s oversized; larger than a body bag. My stomach aches. It isn’t like Jorge to leave large amounts of physical cash all around the house. He’d leave me a message. I go back to the basement. There must be something I missed.

At the foot of the basement stairs, I get nauseous. I dry heave thrice. I need water. I stumble to the wall with the water spigot next to the sump pump. I drop to my knees to drink. It seems I can’t get enough water no matter how much I drink. I’m better after my water filled stomach is ready to burst. I stay prostrated on my knees for a few minutes trying to catch my bearing.

When I glance down, I see something in the sump pump grate. I pull the grate up finding a smartphone in a plastic baggie. It must be Jorge’s. It must be a burner. I’m getting sleepy. I move to the master bedroom. I lie down on the unused king-sized bed. The smartphone still has some charge. I turn on the cell phone. It has a number I don’t recognize. There are no text messages or calls sent or calls received. There are no photos saved. The smartphone account is out of service. I find one video recording. I play it. Jorge’s face appears on the screen:

Hey kiddo, if you see this, then I’m dead. Also, you’re in serious trouble right now. I tried to contact you as soon as everything went sideways; it’s only a matter of time before the bad guys connect us. Yea, your life is in danger. Sorry, I didn’t stop the worst from happening. This video is your life insurance policy. So, you avoided the bad guys. You made it here too. That’s good! Here are the facts of the case.

A friend of mine from the Czech Republic contacted me to secure soup. It doesn’t sound very menacing. The soup stands for Synthetic Organism of Unknown Power, vis-à-vis, S.O.U.P. Someone discovered a dormant substance believed to be from the heart of the sun. I examined it. To me, the soup looks like water. It gives me the chills because it moves on its own all the time! Can you believe it? There’s water in the middle of the sun!

Anyway, these unknown or unnamed people formed a team of legendary scientists to REVIVE it. These scientists specialize in synthetic biology. Somehow, they create a bio-cybernetic something or other that works on the soup. My friend told me they tested the soup on exceptional male operatives in great health possessing a great amount of military experience. The scientist’s goal to enhance the male operatives goes south. All thirty-six test subjects die in a matter of seconds.

Now yea here’s the spooky part. My friend believes the soup is alive. He told me it has a gender. That’s why it kills men but may not kill a woman. But before he can suggest his theory to the other scientists, their team is attacked by a rogue element. That’s how he put it, rogue element. Regardless, I got him out of the country with the soup. And, he pays me yea, $30 million to do it.

I stuffed the money in every cranny of the house. I’m sure you’ve already noticed. Please don’t forget the loot in the attic, sub-basement, and car garage! I lost contact with my friend. Also, soon after, I notice agents following me. I guess they got to him. So, he must’ve spilled the beans about me. I’m supposed to hold on to the soup until he told me where to deliver it, but that’s a bust now.

Kayla sweetie, please don’t panic.

I stop the video message. I panic! I remember seeing water in the basement.

“Great Jorge; what did you do? I’m in the house! Where is the moving water?”

I start the message again:

I’m all hemmed up in the game. I can’t take the soup with me, so I open the bag putting it in the bathtub hoping it will go down the drain. It didn’t go down the drain, so I ran like hell! If you don’t go upstairs, you will be safe. I saw the pictures of what it did to those melting test subjects. DO NOT GO UPSTAIRS!!

Now, here’s the bad part. If you went upstairs, but you’re watching this, then you will not die yea. Everyone searching for the soup is searching for you.

I stop the video again. I exhale with huge frustration. I gather myself as a strong headache begins while pressing the resume play icon:

You’re not dying. My friend explained how the soup needs to integrate with someone to complete its natural biosynthesis. I guess that someone is you. If so then you will go through terrible changes at first, but you’re not sick, you will be super enhanced. Unfortunately, my friend didn’t tell me what enhancements happen or how they’ll work. He assured me whoever integrates with the soup will not die easy.

Kayla, find a safe place to figure this out. Use the money to secure a synthetic biologist. Do not contact government agencies. Go dark. Disappear. Please live. Then get to my Harley Davidson yea. Pour tequila on top for old time’s sake. I miss you much. I miss you a bunch.

The video stops. The phone gets warm in my hand. As I drop it over the side of the bed a small whip of white smoke floats up towards the ceiling. My ears clog with the pounding of a bass drum. I can hear my heartbeat within them. I can tell I will pass out any moment. As I do, I pray Jorge’s friend got it right.