Time: Undetermined. Location: Undetermined.
There are moments when death becomes a sound. The whistle of a poisoned dart. The buzz of a chainsaw. The ticking of a time bomb. Or, like now: the purr of a car engine...
Death is chasing her.
Carlie Fisher escapes down a lonely, poorly lit road. The instinct for self-preservation drives her into a patch of thorny bushes. The branches scratch her and tear her high school uniform, but she doesn't let a single whimper escape her mouth.
She holds her breath and clicks off the flashlight in her shirt pocket.
The pursuer's vehicle glides like a puma in the shadows. The headlights flare up like two bonfires, striking Carlie directly in the eyes. She covers her face with both hands. Before she can react, she hears tires burning asphalt and the engine roaring.
The Rolls-Royce shoots off the road, kicking up dust, tearing through the brush, and ramming into Carlie.
The girl hits the windshield; the glass fractures.
Carlie rolls over the roof and lands hard on her side against the rough, thirsty ground. She ends up on her back, staring at the pitch-black sky.
Then, the headlights wash over her. A door opens. The shadow of a man holding a Glock pistol looms over her.
Craig Humbert. Alias: Crazy Crack. A washed-up former racing driver after running over a competitor "by accident." Criminal record for armed robbery, kidnapping, and involuntary manslaughter. Underground street racer, courier, and a hired thug accustomed to putting debtors in wheelchairs.
A beast with a remarkable number of unproven murders. A man capable of sending his own mother to the hospital if the price is right.
But every man has his weaknesses. In Crazy Crack's case, it's shy, book-loving Caucasian schoolgirls.
That was the facade named Carlie. Bait manufactured to lure the predator. Objective achieved. Now it only remains to be seen who the real prey of this hunt will be.
She has no firearms, but she is far from defenseless. Lacking rifles or pistols doesn't mean a hundred percent lack of defense for an assassin. A wink, a casual gesture, an occasional touch, are often more efficient than pointing a revolver at someone and screaming at them to spill all their secrets.
"Please! Don't hurt me!" she begs. Her voice is broken, her gray eyes welling with tears.
Crazy Crack senses every vulnerability like a starving lion facing fresh meat. He inhales deeply through his nose, almost as if he could get drunk on her helplessness.
"I just want to go home! I swear I won't tell anyone about this!" Carlie cries. Slowly, she feels the dirt nearby until her fingers wrap around a good-sized rock.
Crazy Crack gives in to the temptation to forever ruin what is surely someone else's beloved daughter. He plants the cold barrel of the Glock against Carlie's temple. In a hoarse voice, he orders her to stay still or he'll kill her.
Carlie nods.
He leans in. She squeezes the rock between her fingers.
The moment the driver wraps a hand around her neck and leans in to kiss her, the young woman smashes it into his skull.
The driver collapses beside her.
The girl's hand moves once more, striking the man's wrist and forcing him to drop the weapon. Carlie snatches the gun with her free hand, rolls in the dirt to create distance, and stands up.
She aims the pistol directly at Crazy Crack.
"Don't move."
Crazy Crack, dazed, touches the trickle of blood running down his ear with his fingertips. He shakes his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. He locks his animalistic eyes on Carlie.
"You won't kill me. Little girls like you don't have the guts. You're easy prey, like roadkill raccoons," Crazy Crack spits.
He plants a hand on the ground to push himself up.
The rock whistles and bounces off his forehead. The guy drops to the ground again.
Carlie steps up and finishes putting him to sleep with a brutal kick to the face.
She runs to the vehicle and searches the glove compartment for the driver's cell phone. Dials a secure number. An operator answers, asking what kind of mattress she wants to purchase.
"Almost new. No bedbugs, scented, and hypoallergenic."
It took about twenty seconds to confirm the connection was secure. Any longer, and Carlie was supposed to hang up, dispose of the phone, and vanish. As usual, the confirmation arrives.
"Situation report?" demands a commanding, deep, male voice. As impersonal as a greeting card handed to a stranger.
"The target is incapacitated. Blunt force trauma with a rock and my foot," Carlie maintains a sober and professional tone. "He dragged me to his house, and I escaped at the first opportunity. I detected signs of a girl's presence, but due to the urgency, I couldn't locate her."
"Understood. Bring the target to the agreed extraction point; we'll handle the rest."
Carlie imagines the client wants to entertain themselves with the target, or so she deduces. Otherwise, they wouldn't have demanded Crazy Crack be kept alive, even though that always multiplies the risk of the job and her fee.
"I think if I put him in the trunk, I'll have a chance to drive back and take a second look around his house, and—"
"Negative," Boss White interrupts her. "Your job was to stop the target, and you've done that. This is not a rescue operation. The support team will handle the rest. Do you reject your identity?"
Carlie Fisher remains silent for a few seconds.
She looks up at the rearview mirror. Finds an angelic face framed by black hair, covered in dust, with the lenses of her glasses shattered. A perfect facade of handcrafted purity, designed down to the millimeter by the agency—the shell company that contacted and hired her.
"Affirmative."
"In that case... Carlie Fisher is terminated immediately. Welcome back, Agent V."
With that said, White hangs up.
Over the hood of the car, the girl dismantles the cell phone and pulverizes the different parts with a rock, tossing the remains into the brush.
She heads over to the downed criminal and uses her hair tie to bind the driver's hands behind his back. Grabbing the man by the feet, she drags him. With a grunt of effort, she manages to heave him into the trunk.
V drives the car back to the road, and from there to the dusty motel where she is staying.
The sign on the entrance pole flickers: NO VACANCY.
The Rolls-Royce is abandoned in the motel parking lot for the agency to handle.
V heads to her room, showers, and steps out with a towel wrapped tightly around her torso. She sits on the bed and picks up the phone receiver from the nightstand to make two calls.
The first is to Debora, her stepmother. Debora takes a while to answer. Veronica has to wait until the woman responds with a voice softened by liquor.
"Who is this? It's very late."
"Debora? It's me, Veronica."
"Of course." Debora pauses. Veronica hears her swallow another long sip. "What do you want?"
"I wanted to know if Dad called you."
"He did, a couple of times actually."
"What did you tell him?" Veronica asks dryly.
"The usual. The idiot doesn't suspect a thing and thinks you're with me."
"He's not an idiot." Veronica struggles to control the tone of her voice. "And I hope you aren't either. If Dad finds out about my trips, or decides you aren't good company, there will be no more money for you."
She sharpens her words and waits a moment for them to sink into her stepmother's clouded head.
"You'll receive the deposit on the usual day."
Veronica hangs up without bothering to say goodbye.
As she dials the next number, she punches the buttons too hard. But as soon as she hears her father's voice, the fury invading her subsides.
"Veronica, is that you?"
"Yes, Dad." The assassin smiles with a tenderness completely absent until this moment. "How have you been?"
James sighs.
"So-so. Jason got into a fight again. Seriously, I don't know what's going on with that boy. Whenever you travel, he turns into a little demon."
"Did he win?"
"Veronica, that attitude is inappropriate... But yes, Jason won."
They both laugh at the same time.
"And what about you? How are the races?" asks James.
"Boring... Seriously, it's just cars driving in circles, I don't know why people get so excited. But Mom won these tickets in that internet contest, and I didn't know how to say no."
"Too bad you didn't have fun... But I'm happy for both of you. You used to get along so poorly, and now... It shows Deb has changed for the better. Maybe I should give her a chance too—"
"No." Veronica interrupts him.
Without realizing it, she is already standing.
"No, Dad, she... She has a boyfriend."
The silence that settles on the line hints at pain and disappointment.
"Oh, well. I'm glad to know she's moving on with her life..."
Veronica releases the breath she unwittingly held. They move on to lighter topics, and finally to goodbyes.
"See you tomorrow, Dad."
"Sleep well, sweetheart."
Veronica hangs up and sits back down on the bed. She brings both hands to her head.
But it wasn't her head that bothered her. It was her heart.
It hurt to lie to her father. But the truth would be an impact no one in her family would survive. Starting with her.
The assassin goes to the window and cautiously peers out at the parking lot. The Rolls-Royce is no longer there. Either the agency took it, or it was stolen. Not her problem.
The mission was accomplished. She earned fifty thousand dollars for her secret account, double her standard rate.
The silence that settles on the line gives hints of pain and disappointment.
"Oh, well. I'm glad to hear she's moving on with her life..."
Veronica resumes the breath she inadvertently held. They move on to more casual topics, and finally to goodbyes.
"See you tomorrow, Dad"
"Sleep tight, sweetheart"
Veronica hangs up and sits back down. She puts both hands to her head, though it's her heart that bothers. It hurts her to have to hurt him... But it is also clear to her that the truth would hurt more. The truth would be a shock that no one in her family would survive, starting with her.
The assassin walks to the window and cautiously spies the parking lot. The Roll Royce is gone. Either the agency took it, or it was stolen. Not her problem. The mission was accomplished, and she earned $50,000 for her secret account, double her standard rate.