Some Actions Speak Just Like Words

She found the package in locker 201, Newark Penn Station, as specified.

The small black Moleskine notebook was contained within a clear plastic case with an address taped to it that she disregarded, having already memorized the details of the the drop. Her orders were simple: deliver the book to the client. An easy pay check.

At least it had been.

She first noticed the tail as she drove out of the station. A silver sedan with a male driver and one passenger. They were well-trained, almost innocuous in their pursuit. But she was well-trained, too. A few simple manoeuvres and there could be no doubt. They were following.

She took stock of her position and cursed under her breath. The route she would be forced to take would send her in the wrong direction, wasting valuable time. There was a deadline, see. There always was. Good agents fulfilled their deliveries on time, and bad agents didn't get a chance to improve.

The sedan kept its distance as she made her move, turning abruptly down a side street and accelerating rapidly. The electric engine whirred quietly behind her, and she silently thanked her own good sense for her choice of vehicle. Before the trailing car made the corner she was already turning into the next. As expected, the tail roared into life in anticipation of losing their quarry, but it was too late. Another corner, then another, and finally a backtracking turn found her resume her route, alone at last.

Letting out a breath of relief, she settled in for the moderate trip ahead. The little black notebook lay on the passenger seat. She glanced at it, briefly wondering upon its contents. A pointless fancy, she knew, as nothing could convince her to betray her orders in such a way. Yet she wondered regardless.

A list of names?

Unlawful accounts?

Ciphers...?

A car collided with her drivers side and she was whipped cruelly sideways, pain flaring in her shoulder. Glass showered her as the whole world tumbled like the inside of a clothes dryer. She screamed, but it was lost in the cacophony of tearing metal and shattering glass.

Then, a sickening thud, and darkness.

"Amelia?"

She met the eyes of the suited man sitting across from her. Even in this lavish office he stood apart from the wealth on display. Impeccably dressed and practically emanating power, he regarded her with a steely gaze meant to wither. She returned it unflinchingly.

"I'm just lucky," she replied.

"Trained to be lucky, I'd say," said the suited man, garnering a smirk. She knew he was taking a measure of her, so she didn't back down. After a few moments he conceded, "The job is yours."

The implacable sound of her own heartbeat finally roused her. The Earth had flipped, it seemed, and she hung unceremoniously from its newly adopted ceiling. Groaning, she reached for the seat belt release only to find her right arm no longer obeyed her and, turning, she grimaced at the sight of her dislocated appendage. Her other arm would have to suffice, for now.

The release clicked and she collapsed into the wreckage. The drivers side door was elsewhere, so she gingerly crawled out onto the damp asphalt. A male voice called out a warning and on impulse she cast her pains away, forcing herself to her feet to stand tall against the oncoming assailant.

His first punch was a straight jab, Easily avoidable, and precisely what she'd hoped for. Planting her feet, she positioned herself so that the blow would land on her damaged shoulder. There was a sickening crack upon impact as the joint was reset, and a primal roar of agony escaped her throat. For a moment she thought she might black out from the pain, but her senses coalesced just in time.

The next attack was a wild left-handed strike. She ducked under the blow and delivered an upward thrust below the chin. Blood spattered and he recoiled in pain. A direct cross bought him down for good.

A gunshot assailed her eardrums, and she felt the displacement of air as a bullet whistled by head. Counting the shots, she sought cover behind the car that had struck her as more projectiles impacted the metal. As she reached the other side she heard an unmistakeable 'click'.

Her opponent was empty.

She lunged forward, covering the distance before he was able to reload. Her kick benefitted from her momentum, striking him between the legs with enough force to lift him off the ground. He swung haphazardly and she countered easily. Her next attack stunned with an elbow to the temple, and finally a right hook to the jaw knocked him out cold.

Breathing heavily, she checked her watch. Less than an hour to deadline. She glanced at her assailants' vehicle and quickly discarded the thought; it was clearly immobile. She had yet to recover the notebook, and would have to move to a more populous place to hijack some transport. A close call.

She sought the pockets of her fallen foes. Neither carried ID, but on the first she discovered two stacks of money, ten thousand dollars apiece.

"Trained to be lucky," she said to herself, grinning as she pocketed the 20k in her coat.

The other man held the Moleskine notebook, no longer sealed in its protective plastic case. She felt along the soft cover for damage and was once again compelled to open it and learn ins secrets. Such tumult over such small a thing, she thought. Surely a glimpse would change nothing...

"Gah! Get with it," she chastised herself, forcefully secreting the book in her coat pocket. Success meant nothing without integrity. The more pressing matter was transport, and the lack thereof. She hurried down a side street, desperately seeking anything with wheels.

Rain pattered the window of her apartment as she considered the order, gently swirling a scotch on-the-rocks.

Newark Penn Station, Locker 201

Black Moleskine notebook

Liability: Extreme

Alias: Incognito

Support: Nil

175 Nicolosi Dr, SI

She stood, tossing back her drink and gasping as the harsh liquid ran down her throat. She had an early start tomorrow, and there was much to do.

She stood at the threshold of the impressive Staten Island estate, flanked by tall cast-iron gates that had opened as if in greeting upon her arrival. A nearby intercom crackled to life and a courtly voice transmitted through.

"You're expected, Miss. Please meet me at the front entry."

Shrugging, she obeyed, making her way beyond the immaculate lawn dotted with sculpture and topiary. The doors of the estate swung open and an elderly, well-dressed gentleman sauntered out, a triumphant look on his face. He smiled widely and gestured that she should follow him indoors.

Once inside, she was directed to an opulent study overflowing with expensive paraphernalia, consolidated by a large mahogany desk. The old gentleman - her client - proffered his hand into which she placed the notebook. He then bade her sit in a comfortable-looking high-backed chair while he took his place behind the desk and promptly opened the book to peruse its contents.

She sat uneasily, as this was highly irregular, watching silently as he read through several pages. Then, he met her gaze and said, “Amelia?”

A shiver ran down Amelia's spine. To this man, she should be no more than an anonymous delivery driver. Warily, she nodded.

He seemed pleased. “Would you kindly recount for me - in as much detail as possible - the series of events that lead you here today?”

Amelia paused, considering her position. Never in her years of service had she been acknowledged by her clients with anything beyond cursory gratitude and polite dismissal. The cost was per-ordained; the results as expected. Typically, what transpired between payment and delivery was an unspoken evil accepted by all involved parties, and disregarded as such.

Amelia was silent for too long, so the gentleman pressed once again, “Begin with your gaining entry to the locker.” He smiled knowingly, “You must be skilled with a lock pick.”

Still wary, Amelia began to describe the events of the preceding day. He sat engaged throughout, nodding pointedly during several key moments. She concluded with her arrival at the gentleman's estate, then sat judiciously observing his response.

“Remarkable! A simply phenomenal tale.” He seemed to gush. “However... you neglected to mention a most pertinent detail.”

Amelia felt herself tense as the gentleman's bearing turned sinister.

“What of the money you found on that fellows personage? Twenty thousand dollars! I believe it's in your coat pocket,” he said.

Amelia's blood ran cold.

The gentleman chuckled maliciously and gestured beyond her. Strong hands came down and gripped her shoulders, pinning her to the chair. She cried out as a hand reached inside her coat and removed the bills she'd secreted there, soliciting another chuckle from her client. She fought desperately against the two men that held her, but it was fruitless.

Amelia seethed at the gentleman, “Bastard, you set me up! Why?! I can't give you anything!”

The gentleman rose and moved to stand before the stricken young woman. He said, “Oh, but you've already given me a great deal, Amelia.” Then he opened the notebook and held it before her eyes...

The small black Moleskine notebook was contained within a clear plastic case with an address taped to it that she disregarded, having already memorised the details of the drop. Her orders were simple: deliver the book to the client. An easy pay check.

She blinked confusedly, and skipped forward to another excerpt.

A car collided with her drivers side and she was whipped cruelly sideways, pain flaring in her shoulder. Glass showered her as the whole world tumbled like the inside of a clothes dryer.

Her heart skipped a beat, yet she forced herself to read further.

He took hold of the notebook and discarded the clear plastic casing. Before backing out of the wreckage he looked at the driver and was briefly taken aback by her youthfulness and beauty, still evident despite the lacerations to her brow. He winced at her clearly dislocated shoulder before crawling outward onto the street.

The gentleman removed the notebook, and Amelia's reality seemed to warp as she struggled to make sense of it. The notebook, the tail, the crash... was it all staged?! No, it was more than that. Almost as though...

“Have you figured it out, Amelia?” the gentleman asked, regarding her with feigned sympathy as he held the book aloft. “This notebook records the actions and thoughts of whoever possesses it! To think that something so miraculous could exist in our excruciatingly normal world...,” he trailed off, considering the narrative of Amelia's subconscious creation. “It reads like fiction, describing events and thoughts cohesively. Twice it records memories in lieu of current events, like 'flashbacks'. Very interesting. I wonder...”

Confined, Amelia couldn't resist as the gentleman placed the notebook into her lap. She glanced down and found it open, blank pages staring ominously back at her her. Then words began to coalesce on the page before her eyes.

The gentleman made an almost imperceptible gesture to his henchmen, but it was lost on the transfixed young woman. She didn't notice the needle until it -

- THE END -