The Grey Rose

A small figure in grey strode along the busy sidewalk, her step springy and purposeful. The drab trench coat swelled and billowed behind her as a gust of wind blew along the street. She grabbed her black fedora to stop it from blowing away; she was fond of that hat. Inhaling deeply as she walked, she smelled the breeze.. It carried the smell of a rainstorm: damp, cold, metallic, and brooding. She smiled without showing her teeth, thin, pale lips stretching across an equally pale face.

It was cold this late in the fall, and the people about her hurried along as quickly as they could to get to their warm homes. Though most in the crowd are taller than her, she is easily able to evade collision. Her high boots, though steel-tipped, didn’t make a sound on the concrete. Her plain outfit was intentional; to help her escape notice, and her diminutive size allowed her to slip along unnoted. That was just the way she liked it.

The woman in grey ducked into an alley, still inconspicuous. She moved a grimy trashcan aside, revealing the handle to an equally grimy door. Producing a key from some obscure pocket of her coat, she unlocked it and entered into the darkness beyond. The door swung shut on silent hinges, closing and locking behind her with a resounding clank. It was heavier than it looked. Inside, the ceiling was low and dark, so she flipped a light switch. The naked bulb flickered to life and illuminated a steep, winding staircase with narrow steps and no banister. She descended them with her hands in her pockets, whistling all the way. At the bottom, she flipped another light switch. The light at the top of the stairs flicked off, and the light at the bottom flicked on.

Another door presented itself to her, and this one was formidable. It was blast-proof, made of layer upon layer of metals and plastics. She tapped in the combination for the lock and it swung open. She had to struggle to pull it shut behind her, for it weighed much more than her slight body. It swung home with a clank. A short hallway rested between her and the next room. Suddenly, a tawny shape came barreling down it and practically bowled her over. She laughed and pushed it down as the dog licked her face. Its eyes met hers and she understood the silent plea. With another chuckle, she took off her coat and hat, hanging them on the peg. The dog followed her eagerly down the hall and into the place that she called home.

The room they emerged into could only be described as shabby. The ceiling was low and made of bare stone, and the walls were covered in old wood paneling. An old couch sat against one wall, facing a cracked TV set. A radio accompanied it, though how either of them was able to get a signal was a mystery. A heater purred in one corner, next to a huge writing desk that was littered with papers and files. Three doorways were connected to the sitting room. One was to the left, another to the right, and one directly across from the hall. Through that doorway was a kitchen that consisted of a small fridge, an electric range, a fireplace, a few cupboards, and a sink. There was hardly any space in the kitchen, and it smelled of takeout Chinese food. Back in the sitting room, the woman kicked off her boots. She followed the dog into the kitchen and poured a bowl of kibble for him.

“There you go, Begavard. No more for tonight, though. Don’t want you to get fat,” She told him. Begavard, the dog, was too absorbed in his food to pay her any attention. She left him to it and went back to the sitting room. The couch seemed inviting, but she had to look for something. She knew she’d left it here somewhere… She went into the room on the left, pushing aside the shower curtain that served as a door. Her bedroom was neat, but Spartan in its lack of furnishings. The lamp on the bedside table had no lampshade while a tatty throw rug decorated the floor. A wardrobe in one corner was only half full, and the mirror next to it needed polishing. The drawers, however, were full of neatly arranged books and magazines.

The woman looked around, her dark eyes roving her bedroom critically. She shook her head and moved on to the alcove next to the bedroom. That was the bathroom, and the only thing in it was a shower, a toilet, and a medicine cabinet. She opened the medicine cabinet, which looked more like an emergency first aid kit than a regular person’s collection. On the top shelf was her last box of nicotine-free cigarettes; she was proud to be down to the last one, as she was quitting smoking. Almost reverently, she cracked the seal and retrieved one, sticking the pack in her back pocket. Lighting the cigarette as she walked, she crossed the sitting room and entered the doorway on the left. This one had another short hallway to travel before she reached the door. This door, like the door to the apartment, was blast-proof. It had a completely different combination for the lock, which she entered very carefully. The door clicked open and she passed through.

This room, in stark contrast to the rest of the apartment, was high-tech. The walls and floor were steel while the light came from fluorescent fixtures on the ceiling. And along the walls were shelves. Weapons of every type, shape, and size rested on the ledges behind glass. The woman knew how to use each and every one of them. She laid her palm on the scanner by the shelf; it examined her hand then bleeped in acceptance. The glass covering retracted, and she was able to pick the weapons off the shelf. She fondled a katana, swung it experimentally then set it back on the shelf. A .22 pistol came next, one with beautiful engravings on the ivory handle. She set it down with a snort. With greater relish, she grabbed a handgun off the shelf. It was the .45 standard police issue, heavy and utilitarian. She loaded a clip and took off the safety. It felt familiar in her hand, and she smiled. She put the safety back on and strapped the holster back around her waist, where it belonged. She normally had it with her, but this particular meeting required she leave it behind. Thus equipped, she reached the other end of the room.

A huge screen occupied the wall, and for now it was dark. A chair sat in front of the keyboard, which was not actually a keyboard but a complicated touchscreen. She sat in the chair and touched the power button. The screen and keyboard lit up and hummed to life. A request for a password popped up. She typed it in and the computer showed her the desktop. Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard as she gathered her thoughts, and then she was rifling through her files. They weren’t actually hers, of course. From her computer she could hack into every database in the world, from the government of the U.S.A. to some random person’s financial records.

She found the file she’d been looking for in the CIA’s records. The photo was of a man who she knew all too well. It was the notorious drug lord, Andréas Ramirez. She glared at the face, with its beady, close-set eyes and thick jowls. She hated it, more than anything. She hated it because her name was Rosa Ramirez and the man in the file was her father, and he had killed her beautiful mother in cold blood.

Out of curiosity, Rosa looked up her own file. It had the same red markings as her father’s: dangerous individual, bounty on her head. She smiled, and it helped to lift her black mood. She printed her file and her father’s and took them back to the sitting room. Reclining on the couch, she read her father’s file cover to cover while eating the leftover Chinese from last night. With every word, two things in her grew: her hatred for her father and her contempt for the U.S. government. Had she been ready and on the move, she could have caught him in half the time that they were taking. Begavard took one look at her face and slunk off to the bedroom.

Rosa finished her meal just as she was closing her father’s file. She discarded the empty cartons and picked up her own file. Opening it, she wondered at the picture of herself. The picture was an unflattering portrayal of a strange-looking person. They had not been able to take an official picture of her; her driver’s license was fake, she had no credit cards, and her immigration files were so old the pictures looked nothing like her; so someone had grabbed a quick snapshot of her on the street. Her long, black hair was the only hint of her Hispanic origins. She always kept it up in a ponytail, to stop it from in her face. In this picture, her hair had sprung halfway loose and she was trying to fix it while at the same time crossing the street. The hair was in stark contrast to her skin, which was pale as it gets. That was why she always wore a hat outside: her skin was photosensitive. Her lips were thin and pale, unlike her mother’s. Her face was screwed up in an annoyed scowl, so that her strong features seemed crude. Her pale blue eyes seemed even lighter in the picture because they were turned upward, and the light glanced right off of the irises. In the background, a taxi had stopped abruptly to avoid hitting her. Next to it, her slight form seemed even more diminutive. Also, as she’d moved her hands up to her head, the grey trench coat had moved so that her hip holster was visible to the cameraman. “Jeez, that’s a bad picture of me.” She thought to herself. But just as she thought it, she was noticing something. She looked closer at the driver of the taxi that had almost run her over. The resolution was bad, but she could see that he was a heavyset man with a bald head and a vulgar tattoo on his arm. She remembered him! He’d given her the finger at that crosswalk less than a week ago! She could recall that moment exactly, on the ninth of June! Today was the fourteenth.

Rosa flipped through the rest of the file and her suspicions were confirmed. They were much closer behind her than she’d realized. She cursed under her breath. There was not a moment to waste. She had to leave, now, before they closed in for the kill. Her base might be blast-proofed, but it wasn’t stocked for a siege.

She slammed the file closed and ran to her room. Dragging her bag out of the bottom of the wardrobe, she began to pack her clothes. With neat industry, she folded them small and placed them in row by row, so that they took up the minimum space. She wasn’t able to pack them all, but that didn’t matter. She hardly wore some of them anyway. She pulled out her breifcase. Into this, she put all the papers and files from the desk.

Rosa bit her lip as she walked into the last room, the one with the computer and the weapon shelves. Compared to the entire array, the few she could take seemed paltry. She took two handguns, one on each hip. She also took two long knives to keep around. Another, smaller knife went into her boot while the set of twin katanas went into their scabbards and crossed behind her back. She looked at the huge collection with regret and longing. Her last stop was at the computer. She booted it up, but stopped and stroked the console lovingly. Yet the ticking clock reminded her of her limited time. She snapped out of her moment of nostalgia and entered a complicated series of commands into the terminal. It gave her with a request for password. With trembling fingers she entered it. The computer dinged, and out of the wall slid a piece of metal. She slid it open, and it revealed itself to be a tiny computer screen that looked like a cell phone. She smiled a little as she clicked a button on the touchscreen. A holographic keyboard lit up the table before her, and she typed in the shutdown sequence for the computer, which was already wiped anyway. At least she could still do her thing from the small computer.

Rosa whistled to Begavard and he came trotting around the corner. She told him to sit by the door, and he did. She placed her bags next to him. Her next step was to go back into the computer room and fetch a bagful of C4. She placed generous gobs of it in strategic places in each room. She then hooked each one up to a wire and connected them to a timing detonator, which she set by the door. It took her only minutes to complete the circuit. She started the timer and snatched up her bags.

“Come on, Begavard!” she called as she ran up the stairs. In the alley, she locked the door as soon as the dog had come through and tossed the key in the trash. She ran the few blocks to the motor shed, even though she attracted attention. She must look a funny sight, she realized, with a bag, a suitcase, and a dog at her heels, sprinting on the sidewalks. But she made it to the motor shed in a minute and quickly checked out her motorcycle. She tapped her fingers impatiently as the clerk finished her papers. As soon as he was done, she snatched the papers up and walked her motorbike through the double doors. The papers went in the dumpster and Begavard went in the backseat. Her bags she strapped down in the second seat with the dog.

By the time Rosa heard sirens wailing, she was miles away. She’d made a series of zigzags across the city before actually setting out, which left a confused trail on the traffic cameras The cameras also didn’t know about the huge loop she’d made around the city once she was on the freeway, so that they thought she had left for the west while she was actually headed south.

She put on an extra turn of speed and the motorbike leapt forward. A thrill of nervous excitement made her wriggle in her seat. The evidence was destroyed. She’d started a bit earlier than planned, but her next base was almost ready anyway. She was finally on her mission…

News Headline, December 22th, 2014 :

Drug Lord Andréas Ramirez Viciously Murdered, Cartel Wiped Out!