John Ringo - Cally's War

“No data on the target’s movements exists that is inconsistent with the first route.”

“He takes the same route every time?” Does the guy have a death wish, or what?

“Brilliant. Keep this up and you may actually begin to understand some of the many things that could go wrong with this situation. Not that it’ll do any good,” it pronounced morosely.

“Fine. Without getting caught by the host computers, hack in and watch the cameras along his route. If he’s moving along the route now, or whenever he starts moving along the route, tell me, place a dot on the screen to show his probable location along the route, updating the information whenever you get more data from the cameras.”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Why, is he en route?” she queried sharply.

“No. I just thought if you were one of those people who handles disaster better when you don’t know it’s coming…”

“Buckley, other than telling me when the target leaves the Tower to start over here, or telling me if he starts to go somewhere else, shut up.”

“Touchy today, aren’t we?” It fell silent.

Cally checked the cheap briefcase she’d gotten from an office supply store in the mall. Change of clothes, sealed in plastic, good. Okay, drugs, wine cooler, plastic ties, multiple pairs of pantyhose, gags, gloves, switchblade, soundbox… She took the small, gray box with a switch on top and flipped it on. “Testing, testing, testing.” The sounds of traffic became muffled and her voice was hollow and muted. She turned it off and clipped it to her belt before taking the switchblade out and shoving it in her pocket. It was a useful weapon when you wanted to avoid killing someone, as it usually immediately convinced them you would kill them, and ensured their full cooperation in whatever you asked of them. Well, with certain psychological types, anyway. Right now the non-target’s healthy sense of terror was the woman’s best chance of staying alive.

She opened the wine cooler and took a couple of swallows, making a bit of room at the top. Then she took the bottle with the red mark and carefully poured the drugs into the wine. The drug bottle went back in a pocket of the briefcase, and the cap back on the wine cooler. She swirled it around very gently. Won’t take much to mix it up, but we don’t want any soda-pop showers.

She put a small red mark on the label with one of the markers and the wine cooler bottle went back in the case, along with a fresh one, and took out a small pink nametag and pinned it to the lapel of her jacket. The tag announced that she was Lisa Johnson and bore the familiar logo of a well-known cosmetics company. She glanced at her watch. Four-twelve.

“Buckley.”

“We’re about to die, aren’t we?”

“No, buckley. Keep looking for the target’s car, but I also need you to access the cameras I placed in apartment 302C and tell me whether there’s anyone home and where they are.”

“Ah, the confidence of youth. Two in the apartment.”

“Two?!”

“One in the kitchen, one under the couch.”

“Under the…” I’m gonna kill him. “ Buckley, ignore the damn cat. How many human beings in 302C?”

“Obviously, you’re underestimating the damage a properly enraged house cat can do. One human, adult female, in the kitchen.”

“Right. Tell me if she leaves the apartment or anyone else enters.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thank you, buckley,” she added.

“You know, it’s not too late to fly home and forget the whole thing,” it offered hopefully.

“Shut up, buckley.” The car was silent for a few moments. “Oh, except for telling me when the target leaves and updating his progress along the route here.”

“Right.”

She tried to avoid tapping her nails as she waited. The one thing that had been hardest to train out all those years ago had been a tendency to fidget while waiting for something important. It still took an act of will. She punched up some music on the car’s system, just whatever was next on the cube, and suppressed the desire to tap her nails as the melancholy opening piano lines of “Hello” drifted into the enclosed space. She wrinkled her nose, “No angst, thank you very much,” and paged through until she found “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” It wasn’t so much that the modern remix was better than the original as it was that it was less… dated. Several members of the original band had purchased rejuv by signing up for a colonization tour on Diess early on, then had proceeded on an exhausting round of after-hours concerts, earning enough from their fellow colonists, Fleet, and Fleet Strike personnel to buy back their contracts and pay their passage home.

Of course, a band full of juvs was controversial back here on Earth, but they were a rock band. They were used to it. She told the system to play the whole album.

The scream of the guitars opening “Godzilla” was just as powerful as ever, and she honestly regretted having to punch the sound off when the buckley chimed in warning that the target was on his way.

“Is the woman in 302C still in the kitchen, buckley?”

“Unfortunately. Would you like a list of the ten worst things that could go wrong with this mission?”

“No!”

“Really, it’s no trouble at all,” it offered helpfully.

“Shut up, buckley.”

“Right.”

Cally stood at the door of 302C. She had the top of the briefcase unzipped, but held the handles together in one hand so the things inside didn’t show. She shut her eyes for a moment and pulled on her sales persona. As she opened them a wide, bright smile spread across her face, lighting her eyes with enthusiasm. She rang the bell and waited.

In a minute, she heard a rustling sound on the other side of the door. Probably the mistress looking through the peephole. The door opened.

“Uh… hello?” The woman’s hair was in hot rollers, her face bare like she’d just washed it.

“Hi, I’m Lisa from Pink Passion Cosmetics, and I wondered if you’d be interested in our free five-minute makeover this afternoon?” She radiated helpful good cheer.

“Five minutes… I don’t have to buy anything?” The girl’s eyes had widened at the word “free.” She looked at the saleswoman’s fresh, expertly made-up face thoughtfully.

“Not a thing. I give you the makeover, leave you a catalog and my number, and if you decide you want anything from it, you call me . If you don’t, you don’t.” She gave a friendly, slightly conspiratorial smile.

“Five minutes.” The girl looked at her watch. “Uh, sure. Come on in.” She stood back and gestured for the assassin to come in.

Cally casually put a hand to her belt as she walked through the door and flipped the small switch. An instant after the mistress closed the door, Cally had dropped the briefcase and was on her, knocking her to the floor beside it and landing on top, switchblade at the other woman’s throat.

“Lady, you have two choices. Die messily right here, right now, or cooperate and live. I don’t care which you pick.” She pressed the knife slightly into the woman’s throat for emphasis. There was a trick to holding it at just the right angle to feel pointy enough to get the other person’s attention without actually breaking the skin. It was especially tricky with a knife that was reasonably sharp, as this one was. Fortunately, she had a lot of practice.

“Oh my God, ohmygod, don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me. Ohmygod. What do you want? I’ll do what you want, just please don’t kill me.”

“I don’t need to kill you, I just need to borrow your apartment for a little while.” She fished in the bag and came up with the cooler, checking it quickly for the telltale red mark. “Drink this. It’s drugged, of course. To make you sleep and get you out of my way.” She handed it to the frightened woman.