Caldera

Chapter 3: Carlie

C R A S H

Their bodies rammed through the flimsy wooden door of Carlie Jackson's slum apartment, hard heads first. Splinters of wood and glass – and some of the bitch's teeth, hoped Carlie – fragged the dusty air around them.

Oh, but she wasn't done with the Little Princess yet. Carlie tried to close the deal with a left jab to the eye. Tate parried it then grabbed her with both hands for a head-butt. Carlie saw stars for all of a moment but recovered quickly enough, kicking her unwanted visitor in the gut. Tate crumpled on the floor, gasping. Clutching her stomach. Carlie smiled, however brief the satisfaction it would bring her.

Then that idiot kid Juan appeared out of nowhere. Fucking great. Carlie usually tolerated the little shit; but today, he was messing up her rhythm. That was all the distraction she needed.

"Get the fuck out of here!" she yelled.

Next thing she knew, a boot slammed on her jaw. But she was able to grab Tate's leg on the upswing after she connected, and down she tumbled again. By then, even a few minutes of a heated hand-to-hand combat had degenerated into a clumsy brawl. They were just wrestling now, awkwardly grasping for anything to hang on to.

Carlie tried to choke Tate's pretty neck (GOD, she hated seeing that smug, serene face of hers) with a gloved palm. Then she felt something yank her from behind. She yelped as strands of her blonde hair ripped. She screamed.

"You cunt!"

She wrested herself free from Tate's iron grip. Both of them found their respective pieces and drew them simultaneously. Carlie drew a bead on the dark-haired girl's eye with her Smith & Wesson Model 59. Reciprocating, Tate's Colt Python pointed squarely at her temple. The barrels of both weapons were just inches away from their faces.

"You limp-wristed bitch," Carlie spat. "You still using that vintage piece of shit?"

"With a gat," snarled Tate. "It doesn't matter whether you're smarter or bigger."

Carlie scoffed. Fuk the Police? Seriously? That might've been enough to break her flow; she'd laugh if she was in the mood. Her day was already shitty because of a hangover. Now this particular headache came waltzing in.

She should never have answered the door. Just like that Gloria Gaynor song said, she thought, she should've changed her fucking lock.

Oh, yeah... I guess I left it open. My bad.

She never bothered locking her door; she never needed to. After all, no one ever fucked with La Vikinga – The Viking – as the campesinos here called her. Funny thing was, Carlie didn't even have Nordic blood. She was mostly Irish and questionably part black. Perhaps not the Southern African-American variety, or even African, for that matter. More like Jamaican or Bahamian, if her green eyes were any indication.

Whatever, they knew enough about her to not be within even ten stinking feet of her shithole pad. If someone was lucky enough that she didn't blast them through the door, that poor fool may not survive the stench of her place. Housekeeping was optional here.

Carlie had been living in squalor for the past year or so, in a lovely town with the ironic name of Diamante, Puerto Rico. It wasn't so bad a place, if one could stomach being mugged or having their car jacked every two days. Fucking gangster's paradise.

She never had those problems, though. Her Dodge Charger, which used to be a police interceptor, never ever had a scratch. She slept well with that thought in mind.

Most of the bright ones knew that Carlie used to be La Asesina in a previous life. A sicario for the cartels. That one always made her smile. They weren't wrong.

She'd eke out her days at any one of the half-dozen dive bars, living on carnitas and cheap rum. Gazing at the dying embers of unsmoked Marlboros while she was tripping on thousand-yard stares. Once or twice, some idiot borracho would lose his mind over the sight of a golden-haired gringa and interrupt her reverie, thinking they could just wow her with their virility. Two seconds later, they'd find their faces unceremoniously planted on the dirty-ass floor.

No one ever fucks with La Vikinga.

Every now and then, some well-meaning folks asked if she was interested in helping them with their rat problems. Carlie would politely tell them she never cleaned house for free. She was no candy striper. No fucking Robin Hood. Whatever it was they imagined her to be, she was retired. Terminado. Her life was quiet here now, and she liked it that way. At least it was, until the Bitch showed up.

Of all the shitholes in Puerto Rico -- she had to show up in Carlie's.

Oh yeah – about that Bitch. Long ago, in a previous life, she was known as "Prima." The First. When she tried to go legit, she went by her new alias Tatiana Genovese. When Carlie had heard about that while stalking the two of them in Hokkaido, she burst out laughing, coffee literally spouting out of her nose. Who goes by a name like that? Half-Italian, with the surname of a famous murder victim or a crime family. The other half, she'd find out later, was either Kazakh or Uzbek, one of those "Stan" countries. She usually went by "Tate" these days. Sometimes, she'd use her nickname, Tiana... which he gave her.

Goddammit, she needed a smoke real bad. All those bad feelings were coming back.

Before she went up the stairs, she already got a whiff of the Princess' scent, which was two parts sweet and one part foreign. Even for a drunk like her, she could sniff the difference. Everyone in Diamante, even her, smelled the same way: Nasty.

She imagined the street urchins having figured Tate out with her production-value disguise. Which was probably why Little Johnny came rushing in, to try to ingratiate himself. Hoping to get a reward from La Vikinga. Except she'd beaten them to it.

Still, that was very sloppy of the Princess; Carlie expected her to at least try to be low key. No matter how skilled an operator she might be, if she wasn't taking time to soak it in like a native, she wasn't fooling anyone. While doing time with the Agency, Carlie advised, in vain, some noob Delta Force meatheads that they wouldn't go far in their mission if they insisted on doing their own thing instead of leaning on the pros to do the slow, pain-staking task of HUMINT.

Then again, Tate's indifference to hiding her presence might have been a thinly-veiled gauntlet.

Something inside Carlie snapped, the moment she saw her.

Until that point, she had been so close to forgetting all about her, about him. So close to overcoming all those horrible memories. The trauma as a child. Shane - and losing him. The fear, the anger that raged inside and nearly tore her apart when she served as Hades' Wraith. She was so close to reaching some semblance of recovery, nursing her wounds with alcohol and time.

In a blink, those delicate scabs were ripped apart at the sight of her. Little Miss Princess. There she was, the smug bitch, Dodgers cap over her pretty dark hair, which she'd let grow a little longer. In her hitman days, she had it cut short.

The Bitch had the audacity to enter her apartment. Hers. Sure, the door was unlocked, but still. All those ugly, heartbreaking memories – the last shootout between her and Shane – came flooding in. Fiona, and countless jobs for the Agency she'd rather forget. The two encounters when she and Tate had gotten to blows.

Where were they now, Round Three? She'd lost count.

So here they were at the present, pistols locked on each other. The fight had taken a lot out of her. Between that and the effects of the rum wearing off, what remained of Carlie's rage started to ebb, at least for the moment.

Tate slowly lowered the Colt. She decocked the hammer and holstered the revolver. Cautiously, Carlie followed suit, switching the safety off the 59 before tucking it away. She slumped against the wall and felt her scalp.

"My hair. Can't believe you ruined my hair," said Carlie, gasping. She felt blood trickle down her forehead.

Random, and enough to make Tate chuckle. Before Carlie knew it, she started laughing softly as well.

She composed herself, adding, "I know this ain't no social call."

"I'm here," Tate said in between gulps of air. "To talk about a job offer."