Young Writers Society

Lightning streaks across the sky, renting the dark night. Rains pours down in earnest, showing no signs of abating. It brings back memories. Horrible memories. Things I wish I could forget. 

But I can't, no matter how hard I try.

I load my gun. The orphanage is superficially strict in its rules on leaving. But in reality they don't care. On the streets, as long as you have a little cash, you can get just about anything. No questions asked.

I walk out of the gray room that has been my living quarters for the past eight years. Home is not a word apply to it. Home is not a word I can ever use again; not since that night. I close my eyes as the flashbacks start. I squint as hard as I can, pressing until I think my eyes might burst. But I still see red. Blood.

After it passes, I don my rain jacket. I shove the pistol deep into my pocket. It can't get wet—I will need it. Tonight I will kill a man.

This day, exactly eight years ago, it happened. I was ten at the time. I had spent the day with my friend, Gena. When Mrs. Renoir brought me home that night, the lights to my house were off. There was a storm that night, too.

I remember walking into the house, seeing the dark hallway. Mrs. Renoir fumbling for the light switch, only to realize it was futile. The storm must have knocked the power out. At least, that's what the police said.

She led me into the living room. The house was quiet—I knew something was wrong. I could smell something; it wasn't until later I realized it was blood. The same blood I have tried desperately to forget all these years.

Mrs. Renoir turned on a flashlight she produced had from within the folds of her rain slicker. I remember seeing two lifeless corpses. Mrs. Renoir wrenched me away the moment the light fell on them, but I had seen enough.

A woman had lain slumped over in an easy chair, blood running down her skull. The other, a man, lay on the couch. Blood was pooled on the carpet. His hand had fallen into the crimson puddle, his cold fingers still grasping something. A gun.

After the investigation, the police report stated it was a murder suicide. My father, Mr. Lewis, had been depressed, and the gun had only his fingerprints on it. The bullets matched. My mother was killed first, a single bullet fired into her temple at close range. Father was killed second, the angel of perforation consistent with suicide. There was no sign of forced entry, no evidence of a struggle. But it was murder.

My father had been depressed. Had been. The pills were working. Besides, it was only a gloomy sadness. He would never have willingly killed himself, let alone his wife. He loved her too much.

I step outside. Rain plummets me from all sides. It took a long time to find out who murdered them. I found the first clue when I returned to the house a week ago. A rotten floorboard broke beneath me. As I lay on my back, I saw something on the ceiling. Well, what was left of it—the plaster had fallen away, reveling the skeletal system of the roof.

A metal box was hidden up there. I broke the lock. Under a lay of dust, inside were many papers. Photographs of two men, one handing something to the other. A payoff. I found a badge and photograph that belonged to my father.

The badge was marked Special Agent Edward J. Lewis, DANS. DANS was an acronym for “Defense And National Security”. He wasn't a banker, after all.

I tracked one of the men in the photo to a nightclub on North Avenue. James Senor, aka “The Hook.” His name comes from his primary method of torture. He's a loan shark—if you don't pay, he uses his hook shaped knife to make you, well, wish you had.

From what I've discerned, my father was a Mole. They must have found out, and removed him. Mother was a casualty; they couldn't leave any loose ends. If I had been home that night, I would have been killed as well. I should have been. Why did they die and I didn't? Maybe to avenge them. After that, my life isn't worth anything. Once I kill The Hook, whatever happens next won't matter.

I walk down the street. I afford a long glance back at the place I have lived most of my young life. I can't go back now, even if I wanted to. Which I don't. I'm eighteen now, left to fend for myself. Legally I'm an adult. Even in this heavy rain, the streets are full. The headlights of the cars peer out blurry eyed with tears as the torrent of rain washes over them. I blink in an attempt to clear my own vision. I stand on the side of the road. I don't know for how long I watch the water run down into the drain, only to be replaced with more. Finally a taxi approaches.

I wave it down with a quick motion of my arm. “The Little Lady, North Avenue,” I say.

The driver grunts. The car begins moving. It smells awful, like cigars, alcohol, and things I don't even want to think of. When it stops, I hand him a large bill. “You never saw me.”

He grunts acknowledgingly before closing the door. I subconsciously wonder if he can speak.

I ignore the rain and head into the bar. Before entering, I slip my gun into my boot. Dangerous, but I can't risk it being found before I use it. Loud music and even louder people greet me inside. This place makes the taxi smell fresh.

In spite of the flashing lights, it is incredibly dim. I ignore the line of “dancers” on the platform as I make my way to the bar. “I'm looking for Hook.” I slap a few large bills on the table. All I have.

“Who's asking?” a heavyset man asks. He doesn't bother to look up from the class he's polishing.

“A friend,” I lie. “I owe him a favor. He's asking me to repay it.”

“In the back.” The man nods his head towards a door.

I push my way through the thick crowd, and an even thicker layer of smoke and cheap perfume. A man bars my way.

“The bartender said I could find Hook here,” I say, trying to make my voice as streetwise as possible.

The man moves out of my way. “Step inside.”

I obey.

“I'll have to pat you down. Make sure you're not wearing a wire or something.”

I lift up my arms. I don't like the evil gleam in his eyes as he does this. Blood oozes from my lip as I bite it to avoid doing something to him. The gun is for one person, and one person only.

The man stands up and nods. “You can go in.”

“Thank you,” I say with mock politeness. I push pass him.

Another door lies in front; I push it open, finding myself in a large room. I pay little attention to my surroundings. There is something else I need to focus on. Behind a large oak desk, a gray haired man of sixty-two sits. I close the door behind me.

“What can I do for you?” he asks. There is no mistaking. He may be older, but the same evil I saw in the photograph resides in him. I pull out my gun.

“You killed my family.”

“Dearie, you're going to have to be more specific than that. Who are you?” His voice is sickeningly sweet.

“Amber Lewis. Perhaps you knew my father? Special agents Lewis of DANS?”

His face turns grave.

“He knew you were a lone shark, and he was about to prove it,” I continue. “At best, you would have gotten life. Considering the murders he would have pinned you with, the chair would have been more likely. You killed him for what he knew.”

Hook gets up and strides over to me. I keep the gun trained on him. He leans into my face; I can feel his breath. “This goes deeper than you know.”

“Then explain it to me,” I say coldly.

He returns to his chair. “You're going to ruin everything, girl.”

“You know, I don't really care.”

“Dammit, Amber!” he yells. I cringe. I might be no saint, but swearing is one thing I can't stand. It's wrong. “I'm not the bad guy here. Your father's mission was never about finding a lone shark. The DANS wouldn't be involved in something so trivial.” He pauses, trying to reign in his temper. “Your father wasn't the only one undercover.”

“I don't believe you.” I keep the gun pointed at his skull.

“It's the truth.”

“Then tell me what happened.”

“It was a deep undercover op designed to flush out several foreign spies, believed to be smuggling weapons into the country. Assault rifles, rocket launchers, and it was also believed some form of chemical weapon. I was planted five years before your father. I was supposed to be a little fish, designed to give your father credibility. After his death, the mission became my responsibility. We are this close to finding their leader. But because of you, we're going to have a full out chemical war on our hands.”

“You could be making this up,” I say.

He reaches for something in his desk.

“Stop.” I make a point of the gun in my hand.

He reaches in slowly, holding his right hand in the air. A small piece of paper emerges. He casually tosses it towards me. Without taking my eyes—or gun—off him, I pick it up.

“Your father wanted me to give that to you if anything happened. We never dreamed your mother would be killed; I couldn't find you after his death.”

“Up against the wall,” I tell him.

He complies without question.

I read the note, using my peripheral vision to scan for movement. The note explains nothing; it is just an “I love you” letter. But at the bottom, I see a little drawing of a stick girl. My father always did that in his letters to me. The little girl, in her pretty dress and with a bow in her hair, was me.

A very long time ago.

“If there really was going to be a war, why hasn't it happened yet?” I ask.

“It's not like TV, Amber. Wars take time and careful planning. And we're almost out of time.”

I bit my lip. There are conflicting thoughts inside me. “Is there any was to save the op?” I say at length.

“By letting me out of here. Alive.”

“Why?”

“I have to meet someone,” Hook says.

“I'm coming with you.”

“The hel—”

I cut him of by squeezing the trigger slightly, not quite enough to fire. “Let me repeat: I'm coming with you.”

“Fine.”

We walk out to his car. Some expensive looking foreign model. The drive is long. Wherever the meet is, it's not close by.

“Where you there that night?” I ask solemnly. I don't expect an answer.

“Yes,” he says. “I was there when your parents were killed.”

“And you did nothing?”

“I couldn't.” He takes his eyes of the road momentarily to look at me. “There was too much to lose.”

I am right. He is evil.

We ride along in silence.

The rain still shows no sign of aborting when we stop.

“In this alley,” he says, pointing between two old warehouses. There are no streetlights. All I can see is where the car headlights shine; when they are turned off, I am completely blind. Hook fumbles around the car.

A light comes on—he must have a flashlight. I follow him as he darts for the alley. The rain has almost stopped between the warehouses. There must be some sort of roof up top. Shadows move. I see a tall man appear in the light. His face is covered with a wide-brimmed hat, but I can see he has a long nose.

“You have the merchandise?” he ask. His voice is surprisingly deep for one of his stature.

“You got the cash?”

I see the man's teeth bared in a grin. He produces a large sack. The Hook's eyes gleam greedily.

“See for yourself,” the tall man says. He allows Hook to unzip the bag. I see a lot of zero's peeking through the yawning gap in the zipper.

“Here.” The Hook tosses him a small object. It looks like a vile.

The man makes a hissing sound and dives for it. “Don't do that! If this breaks...”

“I know, I know. We'll all be dead.”

Something is wrong. I can't imagine Hook working for DANS. There is something else too, but I can't quite place it.

“Both of you, against the wall,” I shout, waving my gun from person to person. “Now!”

They comply.

“Hook. You're not really undercover.”

He smiles. A fiendish, scary smile. “Oh, I used to be. Technically still am. All I told you about the war and the chemical weapons is true. But well, this fellow over here pays better.”

I start to pull back the trigger.

“Wait,” Hook says calmly. “Do that, and the vile might break when it hits the cement. It contains a deadly strand of the cold virus—the beauty of it is everyone will think it's natural. You'll be dead before the night is up.”

“As long as you go with me,” I hiss.

“Wait, wait,” the tall man begs. “If I give you this vile, will you let me leave unharmed?”

“Now give me one good reason why I should do that?” I say.

“So you get Hook, and we both get our lives.”

“My life is pretty much shot as it is,” I say. “Might as well take you with me.”

“Wait!” I didn't think it was possible, but the man's pleading tone sounds even more desperate. “How do you know Hook was bought off?”

I think about it. I don't have to answer him, but part of me wants to. “It was something I saw.” I think hard. “Hook's car. There is no way he could have afforded it. As he put it, he was a small fish. Small fish don't have millions to throw around.”

I pull back the trigger. Both bodies fall to the ground. It was Hook I aimed at, but the tall man acts as if it was him I hit. I walk up to him. “Get up, you're not dead,” I say as I give him a brutal kick in the side.

I approach Hook carefully. He's not quite dead. He's trying to say something; I bend down to hear. “It wasn't me who killed your father. I just did your mother.”

I am filled with more repulsion and hatred for this man than ever before. “Who killed my father?” I scream.

He gasps for air, a smile stretched across his lips. His eyes fix on me with an evil, glassy stare. He is dead.

When I look up, the other man is gone, along with the vile. I slump to the ground, all the pain of that day so long ago burning fresh in my memory. I feel empty, more so than ever before. My body shivers from the rain washing over me. I'm not sorry Hook is dead; I would do it again. I'm sorry that he wasn't able—wouldn't—tell me who the other murder was. I don't care how long it takes. I will find them.

I will kill them.