The Hit, page 29
“They took me to a party. Kimberly was there. They noticed that I was watching her intently. They said that they’d arranged for me and her to hook up in a back room, and they pushed me down the hall. I didn’t know what hook up was. I thought it was alone time to talk first, then decide to become a couple, maybe even make it to second base.”
Halen shuddered and shook away the image of her mom being felt up by Tracer.
“When I entered the room, it was dark. A girl was there who I thought was Kim. We kissed and she helped me out of my clothes. I thought that I was hooking up with Kim. She coaxed me to have sex with her. I thought that I was, until they flipped the lights on. Twenty people cheered and rooted for the show. The girl who had pretended to be Kimberly and helped me out of my clothes was standing off to the side cheering with her arm wrapped around the president of the fraternity.
“They held Kimberly down and forced me to continue. She was so drunk that she barely knew what was going on. When I tried to stop and leave, they held me there until I finished.”
“That’s why you don’t like that word?” Halen asked.
Tracer nodded. “I’ve killed all but two of them.”
“Oh.”
“I never saw Kimberly again after that. When I was contracted for this job, I didn’t deal with her. I only saw her from a distance. I didn’t recognize who she was. I only guessed who you might be after seeing your birthmark.”
“My name, Kettleman?”
“It’s not an uncommon name. It didn’t register until the bar in Montana. That is when I changed my plans, but I knew you’d still be in danger if I just left.”
“That’s why you taught me what you did.”
“Yes.” Tracer looked into Halen’s eyes for a moment. “I guess I should hang it up. I’ve been looking for a good reason for years. I guess I have one now. There’s no need to continue. It gets tiring, and I’m getting old.”
Tracer handed a canvas bag over to Halen.
“What’s this?” Halen looked at Tracer, then at the black bag.
“I took a job and a down payment. I didn’t complete the job. I went to return the money as a breach of contract but couldn’t find the client. When I did, I found that they couldn’t receive the refunds. I can’t keep it, I didn’t fulfill the contract. Therefore, it must go to the next of kin.”
Halen unzipped the bag and peeked inside. She pulled out two bundles, each a half-inch thick: one a bundle of fifty-dollar bills and the other a stack of twenties. She looked further in the bag and saw multiple bundles of all denominations. Her eyes went wide.
“How much is in here?” Halen asked in a whisper, afraid to say anything out loud, like it was a secret.
Tracer held up two fingers, then five, close to his chest. Halen mouthed the words two-hundred-fifty thosand.
“Yes,” Tracer said. “The rest was to be paid after. Obviously I won’t be seeing that.”
“You could have easily retired to another country with this. No one would ever know.” Halen half hinted at the possible option.
“I have enough,” Tracer said.
“You can take this. I don’t want it.” Halen offered it back to him.
Tracer shook his head. “No. I didn’t finish the job. I don’t get paid. That’s just good business.”
“I know it’s good business, but I’m not deserving of it,” Halen said.
“You will be. Find something good to do with it. You know that you’re going to play hell getting your money back from your parents. That stuff is going to cost you money. And you’re going to need something to live on until then.”
“I’d trade it all,” she said.
“For what?”
Halen set the bag on the coffee table and wrapped her arms around the man, hugging him tightly. Tracer started to throw his arms up in defense but stopped. Halen sank her head down onto his shoulder and breathed deep the scent of his leather coat and the gentle fragrance of Polo. It was the best way she could show how much she appreciated him and the valuable lessons he’d taught her.
Tracer froze. Halen noticed that he didn’t return the hug. “It won’t hurt if you hug me back,” she said, still clinging to him.
Tracer folded his arms around her, barely touching her.
“A little tighter please,” she whispered into his shoulder.
He gripped her tighter, but Halen felt that his arms were like wood, stiff and unemotional.
Boom boom boom. The door shook with violent blows.
“FBI! Open up!”
The loud voice hadn’t even died out when someone kicked at the door.
Halen turned to the noise, then back to Tracer. “Wait!” she cried out. “Where are you going?”
Tracer stopped, his hand gripping the rail to the balcony, and looked at her. The chair gave way to a third kick. Splinters shot in all directions as the wood fractured under the assault.
“FBI. Stop right there!” the officer said as Tracer jumped from the balcony with the bag full of cash.
Halen wanted to run after him but held her hands up as FBI agents swarmed her apartment.
Two agents bolted to the balcony and looked down. There was nothing. They looked to the sides and there was nothing. He had disappeared. Pistols drawn, they continued to watch for any movement. A whirl of fans buzzed to life two floors lower, and a large drone carrying Tracer flew out from the balcony.
The drone flew toward the Miami River. The streets were lit with red and blue flashing lights. There was nowhere to go. He couldn’t outrun those on the ground with the drone. Halen heard a helicopter approach, and a loudspeaker announced the police presence in the air. Its giant spotlight lit up the night sky and focused on the drone.
An agent fired his pistol at Tracer. Halen was forced to her knees and handcuffed. She heard shouts and sirens. The buzz of the drone faded away and someone called through the radio to get boats into the river.
Halen resisted the urge to cry so it wouldn’t be evident that she had an emotional tie to the man. She didn’t resist and stayed frozen in place. Everything became a blur as she answered question after question into the early morning while her heart grieved.
It was winter again in Miami. Halen had just left Regina’s office. She had partnered with Regina to help bring her children’s show to the public. Clay & Doey, a claymation production, became a mild success during their testing phase. They used some old school technology and built an at-home DIY kit for kids to create their own claymation and submit them for a chance to be broadcast on a future episode.
Halen rounded the corner of sketch artists who were finishing up the design art for the at-home DIY kit. She entered her own office and sat down to the spreadsheet she had left open. Their budget had been stretched to the max. Any profits were going to be razor thin, and their producers expected the project to be further along. Halen had a few more strings to pull to get the project done, but they would for sure be in the red with another investor munching at any profits.
Halen leaned her elbows on the desk and ran her fingers through her hair, then pulled at her neck as she sat back. She needed an emergency sip. She tried to hide it, but she had heard whispers. It wasn’t like she had to drive home. Her home was a ten-by-ten back room. Her parents’ estate was still tied up in the courts, along with all her money, as it had been co-mingled with her parents’ money and no one could say for sure who had what. She lost the apartment a month later and moved in with Deenya. She’d stayed for a few months, picking up odd acting jobs and helping where she could until Deenya and Cheshlan moved in with Clayton, with Deenya sporting an engagement ring.
Halen was left with the seed money from an investor for Regina’s show. She used whatever influence she still had to scrape together enough money to rent a shabby studio where she became the producer and the night watchman, as it wasn’t exactly in a desirable part of town.
She grasped the handle of a drawer where she hid several cheap bottles of wine. Her depression demanded company, and she didn’t want to burden anyone else with her shortcomings.
Her hand was still on the handle as her eyes lingered on the computer screen and paused. The argument to refrain from drinking was quickly lost. Jerking the drawer open, she reached for the smooth, polished glass, but it wasn’t there. In its place was a gift-wrapped box. The bright Happy Birthday lettering was plastered at all different angles in bright green, blue and red. A small card was taped to the top of the box.
She opened the card and read out loud. “Trade. No more booze. Deal?” Halen cocked her head and pulled the box out. In the drawer, it was plain to see that the three bottles of wine were gone.
Someone knew where she hid her wine. And someone was insistent on leaving a message. She looked around, but only saw people bent to their work, trying their best to get this project off the ground and get their names on the credit roll.
Halen slid a finger under the flap of paper and pried it up. She turned the box on all sides, gently undoing the paper and setting the bright colors aside. She pulled a letter opener from another drawer, cut the tape and opened the box.
Halen gasped. Inside was bundle after bundle of cash. Underneath was an old, weathered box. The corners were frayed and the print had faded, but she instantly knew what it was. She pulled the box out and set it on her desk. She was no longer concerned about the stacks of cash still in the box. She sat back in her chair and stared at the backgammon game that she had played countless times in an isolated cave in the middle of the Canadian wilderness.
The note on top of the box had only one word: courage. A tear tugged at her eye as she lifted the lid of the game. Inside, she didn’t find the game—she found something more powerful than all the money that had sat on top of this box.
Her jaw dropped as she realized the significance of the gift. The hair stood up on her arms and neck as she felt the spirit of the bear wrap its energy around her. She slipped the loop over her head and let it settle against her chest, each of the ten claws radiating from her neck. Closing her eyes, she hugged the tufts of hair and the large four-inch claws from the grizzly that Tracer had killed.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for allowing me to share this story with you. It has been a great milestone for me, developing my writing and learning how to craft a captivating story. The challenge of keeping characters organized and interesting has kept me on my toes along with learning more tricks of the editing trade. Editing is the bane of my existence, but a necessary evil. I will do my best to shoulder this burden the best I can without sacrificing time to write the next book.
My job is never done as I choose to keep learning and developing new and interesting stories for your reading enjoyment, with the help of my editor, of course. The second book of the Secret to Life series will be out soon, continuing that saga of the Rington family. As for future stories, I am tickling the ideas for a YA steampunk series, a sci-fi horror series and a dystopian series that sends humankind backward in evolution. I’m writing a bit in each, waiting to see which one will consume my attention first and force its way into the spotlight.
You can find more of my literary works at
storyteller-alex-r-price.com
Thank you for reading, and I look forward to seeing you in the next pages.
All the best,
Alex R Price
Alex R Price, The Hit
