Box of Truth & Lies

The trailer park’s singular street lamp flickered yellow in the cold, misty night. A lean female figure, dressed in black sweats and a gray oversized hoodie, casually walked out in front of a trailer, a tousled mess of brown hair twisted into a bun. The gravel driveway crunched under her house shoes as she rolled the outdoor trash can back toward her single-wide mobile home.

The trailer was an old 1960s model and in desperate need of repairs: ripped skirting, rusty peeling blue paint, rickety steps, a dead doorbell and blurry window panes.

The young woman pulled the bin up beside her trailer and then climbed the steps. A low whirring sound, like miniature propellers, hummed in the distance. She stiffened. The humming got closer and closer. Her stomach dropped, and she leaned against the unopened door frame, waiting.

The noise paused just above her and slowly descended. She looked up at the sleek steel gray drone, little dots of red and green blinking at her. A small package hung from a mechanical claw at the base of it, gently swinging back and forth.

They told me I was done after last time, she angrily thought to herself.

The drone hovered over the deck. The claw clinked to release, and the package landed on the deck with a soft plunk. The drone rose in the air and disappeared into the mist and fog.

She didn’t want to touch the package, didn’t want to go near it. But she had no choice. Reluctantly she bent down and grabbed the package. It was wrapped in brown craft paper and tied with white twine. No shipping or return label. No addressee. But she knew what it was.

She quickly glanced around her to make sure none of her neighbors were peeking out from behind their crooked, torn blinds. She opened the door and stepped inside. She locked the handle, turned the deadbolt, and bolted a series of more locks.

Shuffling over to a lumpy, forest green sofa, she flicked on a dim reading lamp and sat down. Taking a deep, resigned breath, she removed the wrapping to find a plain box. Inside of that was another wrapped package and a wrinkled, coffee-stained envelope. The seal on the envelope soured her stomach. She knew what it indicated, and it was the last thing she wanted to see.

She put the envelope aside and opened the smaller package, careful to avoid ripping the satin black and silver pipe-embossed paper. Odd that they would send her something in such nice wrapping. It was even tied with a black velvet ribbon. She found a small black lock box with a four-digit combination dial underneath the ornate paper. She knew the code:

7429

An assortment of items lay inside the lock box: colored contacts, a passport, a driver’s license, shot records, cash, plane tickets from Portland to Bosnia, and a dinged-up silver flip phone.

Setting the box aside, she picked up the soiled envelope. The strong scents of burnt Brazilian coffee and luxury tobacco practically leapt up from the envelope. She unfolded the thick stationary paper and quickly read the words on the page.

Pickup: 11th and Montrose Blvd

A set of coordinates followed the street intersection along with a name. She sucked in a sharp breath. She knew that name. Like, she knew them, knew them. She angrily crumpled the paper in her fist and shoved herself off the couch, snatching the lock box as she went.

She walked over to a dated metal and laminate kitchen table and set the items on it. A chunky black laptop lay charging on one end. She flipped it open, typed in a long, complex password, and reopened a software window.

She nervously swept loose strands of hair away from her pale face. She had to hurry. Time was running out.

Grabbing the cell phone, she plugged a cable into the bottom charge port, attaching it to the laptop. Once it connected to the software, she stepped back and paced the tiny kitchen.

She jumped as the dented cell phone buzzed on the yellowed table top. Her blood ran cold and her breath caught in her throat.

God, she didn’t want to answer it. Her eyes darted over to the junk drawer across the kitchen. Her hand twitched with the urge to grab the hammer inside.

But smashing that dang cell phone wouldn’t do any good. If she didn’t answer, she had fifteen minutes before all hell broke loose. And that was being optimistic.

She flipped the phone up and placed it to her ear. A deep, mechanical voice spoke on the other end.

“Intersect pickup at 2300 hours. You will be briefed enroute.”

She was silent, waiting. Bold green letters flashed across the computer screen:

CALLER COORDINATES LOCKED.

“Do you copy?”

She closed her eyes in relief and steadied her voice. “Copy.”

With a click, the line went dead.

The tracking had worked. Latitude and longitude coordinates displayed in thin letters underneath the message. She copied them down on the crumpled paper beside her before stepping into the bedroom.

She pulled a black backpack, a gun case, and another lock box out of the closet. Setting everything on the bed, she unpacked a black polyester bulletproof jumpsuit, boots, hip holsters, and a cross-body mag harness. She quickly changed out of her sweats and hoodie.

In the bathroom, she braided her hair into one strand then stopped and looked at her smudged reflection. Nausea rolled through her stomach. She gripped the rim of the grimy porcelain sink and tried to steady her hands.

“One last time,” she whispered to herself.

One. Last. Time.

She knew it wouldn’t be. She had no say, no control. They would make her do it, again and again. She was good at her job, and whoever “they” were, they knew it. She knew that they knew. It was all a big, bloody mess - literally.

But she would find out who was behind this package and every mysterious package that ended up on her doorstep. Who was behind the demands, the threats - all of it!

She went back to the laptop and unplugged the phone. Pulling up a search engine, she plugged in the job coordinates. It located an office building in downtown Portland, about an hour drive away.

She cleared the search and entered the tracked coordinates. When the location popped up, she nearly collapsed. Her chest constricted so violently she grabbed at her front as if she had been shot. Panic rolled through her. She knew the location - well.

No! It can’t be!

Hatred took over her panic. Her hands clenched into tight fists. It all made sense now:

The drone deliveries. The ornate wrapping paper. The familiar target names. The coffee stained envelope and the familiar smells on the stationary.

Her head spun. Her mind raced. The writing had practically been on the wall. How had she not figured it out sooner?

Oh, he would pay for this!

Reality came back to her. She checked her watch.

2200 hours. Time to get going.

Grabbing her sweats and hoodie, she threw them over her bodysuit and holsters. She stuffed the contents of her own lockbox into a drawstring sack and threw it into her backpack along with the other lockbox. She tossed a few energy bars and a bottle of water inside as well. Just before leaving, she hit a button on the laptop to wipe its hard drive. She grabbed the cell phone and her keys and headed out the door, locking it behind her.

Thirty minutes later, she arrived at the pickup point on 11th and Montrose. She waited on a metal bench at the bus stop. At exactly 2300 hours, a black SUV with tinted windows pulled up. The back door opened and she hopped in.

Three men, dressed in black, complete with facemasks and dark glasses, sat inside, one in the driver’s seat, one in the passenger, and one in the backseat with her. The vehicle sped off into the night, toward the highway.

The man in the passenger seat piped up. “You will be dropped off six blocks from the coordinates. The target will be exiting the building from an elevator in the parking garage on the second floor.” He paused and handed her a small scrap of paper with a vehicle make, model, and license plate number. “When the target exits the elevator…well, you know the drill.”

She nodded.

They continued on in silence for another fifteen minutes. Though she was the epitome of calm on the outside, her insides were shaking. Slowly, she slipped a hand into the front pocket of her hoodie. Her finger wrapped around the Glock.

What happened next was so quick, she barely knew she was the one doing it. She fired two shots, and the man beside her and in the passenger seat grunted and slumped forward. Both of them, dead.

The shocked driver started to reach for his own weapon, but she was quicker, her silencer pushed into the back of his skull.

“Pull over,” she demanded. “NOW!”

He did as he was told and pulled over on the abandoned country highway. As soon as he put the SUV in park, she squeezed the trigger. He fell forward against the seatbelt.

She had no time to waste. She unlocked the door and crawled out. She dragged the driver out and cleaned the blood off. Once in the driver’s seat, she turned the vehicle around and drove to the second set of coordinates.

Her hands death-gripped the steering wheel. She could barely breathe. Twenty, thirty minutes passed by. The country road twisted and turned, thickly lined with tall pines. She pulled into the grass and, one by one, dragged the dead men out of the vehicle and into the trees.

Then she set off on foot. After about a mile’s hike, a stone wall came into view, and she stopped. She shed her sweats and hoodie and shoved them inside the backpack, placing it at the base of a tree.

Muscle memory took over as she crept around the edge of the wall. A massive Victorian mansion came into view on the other side. She peaked over the top of the stones and immediately spotted two green lights on the roof closest to her. She drew her handgun, took aim, and put both cameras out of commission.

Hopping over the wall and scurrying across the side lawn, she came to a trellis and silently climbed up before pulling herself on the roof. The top tower window on this side had a broken latch, and the room was unoccupied. She winced as it creaked open. Hopping inside she stifled a cough as dust billowed around her.

Tiptoeing across the room, she opened the door and listened. No sign of anything or anyone awake. She drew her gun once more and held it in front of her with both hands. With careful steps, she walked the length of the hall. Down to the third floor, the second floor, all the while her eyes vigilant, her ears alert.

As she peered down to the first floor from the stair landing, she caught sight a warm light glowing underneath the study doors. She cautiously made her way down, checked both hall directions, and inched toward the closed door. The scent of luxury Nicaraguan tobacco filled her nostrils. Papers rustled on the other side.

He’s here.

Bracing herself, she swung the door open and stepped inside, her gun pointed at the man behind the desk. His head shot up and his eyebrows arched in surprise.

“Well if it isn’t the Raven, herself,” he said coolly.

“Don’t call me that!” she spat. “You know my real name. Don’t take away the last bit of me that still exists.”

He smiled softly, and not a warm, welcoming kind of smile.

“I see you’ve outsmarted me,” he admitted. “What tipped you off?”

“Really? Pipe embossed wrapping paper? Brazilian coffee stains on the envelope? 7429 as the lockbox codes - the same as this address?” she rattled off. “And I would know the smell of your Regius Double Corona cigars anywhere. ”

He huffed a resigned laugh. “I guess at some point the cat’s got to forget where he lays the trap, huh?”

She was not amused with his twisted sense of humor. He had lied to her, cast her aside, and then secretly manipulated and used her for his bloody work. It was him the whole time!

“Do you feel guilty at all? Like, even just a little bit?”

“No.” His reply was simple, flat, void of all emotion. Deadly. “I don’t have time to feel guilty…and neither do you.”

He rose to his feet and casually stepped out from behind his massive polished mahogany desk. He was a tall man, rising over six feet. Though he wore a relaxed brown tailored suit, he had a surprisingly lean muscular frame for the age of fifty-five. His charcoal gray hair, sprinkled with white, was neatly swept back with hair gel. His matching chevron mustache sat perched above his grim mouth. Steel blue eyes, rimmed with wrinkles and dark circles, peered down at her beneath thick trimmed eyebrows.

He appeared innocent and not all dangerous, just like any other CEO rounding toward retirement. But she knew better. She wasn’t stupid.

And neither was he. He knew his enemies, and he knew his allies were just one or two dissociations away from becoming his enemies. The silenced handgun strapped to his chest never left him. He was armed and dangerous.

She was no different, the armed and dangerous part, that is. And she was neither ally nor enemy. No, she was much worse. She was his greatest asset and his worst nightmare, and she knew it.

He stepped toward her. She aimed for his chest. He stopped and put his hands up in defense.

“Come on, Paige” he crooned softly. “Let’s sit and talk things over.”

Her hand holding the gun shook. Every fiber inside of her was wavering. She didn’t want to do this. Oh god, she didn’t want to do this.

She licked her lips, swallowed, and shook her hand firmly. “No,” she replied, straining to keep her tone even. “We’ve - you’ve - done enough talking. We’re done. I’m done. It’s over.”

He stood in silence, a small, amused smile playing across his lips that twitched his mustache. His eyes were alight with dark humor.

“Is that so?”

She was ready for what happened next. In one swift motion, he simultaneously lunged toward her and retrieved his hidden handgun. He aimed at her and fired.

But she was ready. She dropped and rolled out of his line of fire and sprung onto her knees. She fired two rounds. The first bullet pierced his right shoulder, and the second hit his wrist.

“Argh!”

The gun fell from his injured hand as she approached him, gun aimed at his head. She had him - finally.

He stared at the barrel of her Glock as he fell to his knees, clutching his shattered wrist. There was no trace of regret in his eyes for everything he had done.

“You don’t have...to do this,” he panted. “We can...work something out. We always have.”

Tears stung her eyes. Her throat tightened with a twist of emotions. She had to do this. It was the only way to make things right, the only way she would ever be free. She breathed deeply, pressing the silencer against his forehead.

“I wish that were true.”

Her index finger squeezed on the trigger. As the muted snap sounded, she turned away and closed her eyes. She heard his body slump to the floor with a thump.

The hand holding the gun trembled violently. As she lowered her arm, she braved herself to look at the man below her. He was dead. No question about it. His unseeing eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling, a small crimson-rimmed hole perfectly in the center of his forehead. A growing pool of blood slid across the polished oak floors.

“I’m sorry, Dad” she whispered, silent tears streaming down her face. “This was the only way.”

She retreated to the glass-paned windows of the study and drew back the curtains. Unclasping the lock hinge, she swung it open. The cold night wind sent the curtains into a frenzy and dried the tears on her cheeks. She jumped behind the neatly trimmed bushes in the flowerbed below . Looking to both sides, she spotted security cameras on either side of the roof awning. Taking aim from her crouched position, she silently took both out and placed the gun back in its holster

Cautiously she rose from her hiding spot after waiting and surveying the grounds. No security guards. Not even the dogs. She glanced back up at the open window, reached up, and gently pushed it shut.

She turned and darted across the manicured lawn. Reaching the back wall, she threw herself upward and pushed with her arms until she was seated on top. She swung her legs over the other side and jumped down into the forest beyond.

Her heart reverberated in her chest. She could hardly hear anything over the blood roaring in her ears and the labored, hitched breathing of her lungs as she snatched her backpack off the ground.

Thunder rumbled into the night. She ran through a cold torrential downpour toward the highway and didn’t look back.

It was all over.

And she...she was free at last.