Chapter 1- Disgusted

The sight of blood didn’t bother her. She’d been doing this for too long. Even the wet, sticky, scarlet mess that covered her naked body failed to repulse her. Michael Cole lay next to her on the grungy hotel bed, the knife wound gaping and empty in his chest. He was dead.

It was impossible for her not to shudder as she considered what had led her to this moment. But she was practical, and not easily distracted. Her first priority was to destroy any evidence she might have left behind. Covering her tracks was an essential part of every job. She showered off all the blood quickly but thoroughly. When she was sure there were no incriminating remains, she stepped out of the lukewarm, drizzling water and towelled her long ice blonde hair dry.

She almost didn’t want to go back to that room, to have to face what she’d done. The murder itself didn’t bother her too much, but what had brought her there manifested itself in her brain and ate away at the inside of her head like a parasite.

In a way, it was almost lucky that she had not been wearing her clothes. Not a spot of blood had landed on the hot pink mini dress. It was annoying to have to leave the hotel in the revealing strapless number, but with no alternatives, she was forced to stoop to the dress. Unless she wanted to go outside naked. She knew that the stares would be uncomfortable as it was, and hugely irritating. But the skimpy outfit and monster heels, the thick sheen of make-up that had been on her face, they had all been for a reason. Much as she hated the necessities that got the job done, she had to admit that her methods were nauseatingly effective. The man next to her would not be dead if it had not been for the s****y outfits. Her attractiveness was a virtue, and a curse.

She sat back down, not on the bed- the dried blood was enough to prevent that; she simply sank to the floor, and held her head in her hands. It had been a while since she’d cried, and even now only a few tears slid down her cheeks.

It was suffice to say that her evening had not been the best.

It had all been too easy. The dead man...the man she’d killed; Michael was a convicted rapist and murderer himself, and he was directly responsible for destroying the lives of twenty-nine young women, six of which he’d ended up killing. And the police force hadn’t caught him yet. After seven years of trying.

It had taken The Organization three weeks. They’d been tracking him: ransacking files, documents, even bugging phone calls and emails. It had taken a further two weeks to prepare her for the act.

But, comparatively, her part had been very simple. She dyed her hair-again- her identity must always remain a secret. She’d put on the tempting outfit and then...well, she’d walked into the bar.

That was all it took. She was used to it, of course. Every male head in the bar turned to look at her; and some even whistled appreciatively. Michael couldn’t believe it when she’d sat next to him. He wasn’t physically imposing- not at all, or attractive. His head was balding, the brown hair receding back until his whole head was made to look faintly ridiculous. He was more than slightly tubby, and a second chin was visible in a collection of fat behind the first. His squinty brown eyes scrutinized her in an objective way as she sat down.

“Can I get you a beer, sweetheart?” he’d offered in a sneering, nasal voice.

“No,” she’d said (she tended to avoid alcohol these days), and, cringing as she said it, “but you can get me something else.”

“Okay, honey,” he was trying to play it cool, but a bead of sweat broke out on his forehead, revealing him. She smiled. She was enjoying this, even if he was disgusting, “Can I get a name, babe?”

“Renée,” she’d answered without hesitation. It wasn’t her real name; of course, she rarely used that anymore.

“I’m Keith.” Oh, so he was lying about his name, too, she thought to herself.

She grinned. There was a bit more idle chitchat, but she quickly got bored of that. She needed to cut to the chase.

“Do you want to go somewhere a little more...private?”

He didn’t even consider saying no. He’d led her up to his hotel room, before pressing her up against the wall and kissing her with viciousness that could only have been picked up from trying to stop his “prey” from escaping.

He was a bad kisser. It was wet, and slimy, and there was no passion behind it, just a single-minded desire for sex.

How she wished she had killed him then. But the knife was in her bag, which she had dropped when he’d assaulted her. She disconnected their mouths to whisper in his ear.

“You ready?”

She unzipped her coat, letting his eyes stray none too briefly to her breasts. He quickly unbuttoned his shirt, and the fat looked even more repulsive hanging over the waistband of his faded blue jeans. It was all she could do not to run out of the room there and then. But she didn’t.

While bending down to remove her shoes, she had removed the knife from her purse in an action so smooth that even if you had been standing next to her, you probably wouldn’t have seen it.

He was a sex maniac, and there was no dignity as he ripped the remainder of his clothes off. She tried very hard to be sexy as she let the dress fall to the door. The look in his eyes reminded her of a hunter getting ready to shoot. She took a deep breath.

And then...she couldn’t even think about it. The mere thought that her body had been joined with that monster’s! It was all too easy to hide the knife, and the murder couldn’t come fast enough. Although she was a monster, too, she couldn’t deny that. But she never killed those with good intentions...just the psycho’s like Michael. And then once...but she forced herself not to think about that.

She picked herself off the floor. It didn’t matter that she left the room in the state it was in. She grabbed her bag, spat on the body to give the police a fragment of evidence to play with (and for her own vindictive pleasure) and left the room.

She knew her best bet was to feign total innocence. She walked down the corridor to the lift and pressed the down button. Then she checked her watch. It was past midnight. Well damn! The meeting was in the morning; she wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight.

The lift arrived, and she stepped in, smoothing her hair and pressing the button with little energy or enthusiasm.

The receptionist looked up wearily as she walked by, then returned to her position of having her head slumped forward onto the desk.

The fresh air was a blessing. But the car was already there. Of course it was. It was black, and, not knowing or caring much about cars, that was about all she noticed. A chauffer was driving, but she paid him little attention. The passenger was what caught her attention. Harry Davies was sitting in the back seat. He was the operation controller, and his face was deceptively blank, expect to her, who knew him better that anyone in the world. She could tell he was suppressing laughter. He knew what she’d done. S**t. She was going to get hell for this.

She had known Harry for four years, ever since she had joined the organisation. They worked closely on every operation- he was the mastermind behind it all. He was also a joker, and had a sadistic sense of humour at times. He was going to enjoy torturing her over what she’d done. And she wasn’t in the mood. His dark brown hair was scruffy and stubble littered his face. Thick, black, plastic glasses framed hazel brown eyes and he was wearing a neat grey suit. He was good looking, in a charming, messy kind of way. But she never noticed that about him- they were simply best friends. And occasionally he annoyed the hell out of her.

She pulled open the car door angrily and slammed it behind her.

“Don’t. Say. A word.” She hissed at him.

This was too much for Harry. He burst out laughing.

She slapped him round the face. Hard.

He didn’t stop. After about five minutes of spluttering uncontrollably with laughter, the spasms gradually eased and he was able to talk again.

“You slap like a girl.”

“That’s because I am a bleeding girl, you git.”

“No, really. I’m not surprised you had to get it on with him to get the job done; you obviously wouldn’t have managed had he not been half crazed at the time!” Harry had an unfortunate habit, and that was that he didn’t know when to stop.

“Shut the hell UP!” she yelled. This time she punched him, and his nose began to bleed. Somehow he was still grinning. Then he checked his watch.

“We’re late for the meeting. Get changed.” He threw a pair of jeans and a blouse at her, and then waited. She stared at him pointedly, until a hint of blush crept into his cheeks and he looked away.

The car sped along the motorway, before pulling into a derelict, abandoned building site.

“This is the place?” she asked incredulously.

“No, we’re meeting at HQ. This is the drop-off. Because God forbid we should know anything about the organisation we’ve given up our lives for!” A hint of acid crept into his voice as he uttered that last sentence. He was still seething that they weren’t “important” enough to know where HQ was.

Personally, she didn’t know what the fuss was about. It was just a little secret The Organization was keeping from them. They had to remain secretive, or they would have been found out by now.

Mere seconds after he spoke, the unmistakeable sound of an airborne helicopter reached them. They got out of the car and stood waiting. Harry started tapping his foot. To be fair, it was cold outside. The November wind was pummelling them, only encouraged the blades of the chopper.

The driver pulled the car into reverse and drove away. They were alone.

Not for long, though. The ladder was dropped from the helicopter soon after. Harry tutted. She had to admit that climbing up a very unstable ladder was not the best prospect in the world. But she had been trained for stuff like this. She sucked in a deep breath and stepped onto the first rung.

The rest of the climb up was a fight for survival. She clung on for dear life, and tried very hard not to die. Eventually she managed to drag herself through the hatch in the helicopter, and then promptly collapsed in a panting, sweating pile on the floor. Seconds later, she regained enough foresight to realise she was not alone. A dozen masked bodyguards were standing around her. They were almost comical in how stereotypical they were. They were clothed in complete black, along with a mask that covered their face, wielding tranquiliser guns and they had sunglasses! She shoved her fist into her mouth to keep from laughing. She had a feeling that if she did laugh one of those tranquiliser darts- or several- would be planting itself in her backside. So she kept quiet.

As Harry’s head appeared above the hatch, none of the agents made any move to help him. So she crawled over to the hatch- still not trusting herself enough to remove her fist from her mouth- and dragged him over one handed.

Harry’s eyes crinkled when he saw the guards. This was a tell tale sign he was about to laugh. She elbowed him the ribs and gave him her “look”.

Approximately five seconds later, Dr Frank Stiller strode in with a syringe. Frank was the organisation’s top scientist. He was in his late sixties, and had been working for the organisation for half his life. His grey hair was sticking out in tufts, and he had piercing green eyes. He, too, looked quite silly; he was wearing a nineteen sixties lab coat and goggles. But he walked towards the two captives with a sense of foreboding.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. It was the usual routine, part of every procedure. Why Frank insisted on the theatrics was beyond her. Personally, she’d just rather he got on with it.

Still, she didn’t exactly look forward to the experience. It did get tiresome after a while, and it was uncomfortable, but not at all as bad as Frank was making it out to be. Frank could be really irritating sometimes.

“I’m sorry about this.”

And then he stuck the needle into her arm, injecting the silver-blue fluid straight into her veins. It hurt, definitely, but she was used to the pain; she had been trained to deal with it. She just hated the grogginess that immediately engulfed her; she liked to be alert to the world, ready for an attack. She felt weak, and defenceless, and she hated it. But it was barely for a second before the darkness enveloped her and she fell into a deep sleep.

 

 

Author's Note

What do you think? Is it a good start? Promising?

Reviews

[Zachary_James]

I thought this was briliant, the first line sets the tone very nicely. It is a great start, to a very well thoughtout story, overall the first chapter was great. Send me a Read Request when you post more chapters please?
I thought it was fabulous.