Identity - Rewritten

Chapter Thirty

August 2008

The woman has gone by many aliases in her time. They have gathered under her fingernails like dirt, and they coat her skin like a shield of armor, and she doesn't attempt to shake them; she is a ghost, and they remind her that there was once a time when she was not.

The fish tank behind her is backlit and bright, a contrast to the rest of the dark ill-lit room. It colors her pale skin cerulean, dances on her knuckles. She remembers a time when all she did was coat those knuckles in blood– never her own, always someone else's– and she remembers how much she liked it. She remembers the feeling of skin on skin on bone, of the sharp snap of a man's jaw beneath her fingers: mostly, she remembers the power. The rush.

Some people turn away from that side of themselves. They feel the adrenaline, and they compartmentalize it, shove it in a box in the back of their head and pretend they never took pleasure from hurting– from killing.

She was never that stupid.

A sharp rap on the door separates her from her thoughts. Laumonier pokes his head and shoulders through the door.

"Your one o'clock is here to see you."

The words nearly make her laugh, because they're said like she's some high standing, corporate CEO and not the scum of the earth– the lowest of the low.

But she likes being this way.

"Send him in," the woman says, voice low and dripping with authority. She swivels around in her chair to face the huge tank behind herself– she always was one for theatrics– and crosses her arms, observing a small shark as it flits by. Quick like lightning, it snaps up one of the other fish, which was put there specifically for such a purpose, and continues on its way. She smiles.

The woman can hear when her one o'clock, a younger man, finally enters the room; his footsteps are heavy on the thin carpet.

"You rang?" his voice is thick and sarcastic. She remembers a time when she was that way as well, and has a rather strong urge to turn around and shoot the boy where he stands.

Instead, she replies, "I did. Take a seat."

The young man complies without protest, and she swivels away from the fish tank in order to face him.

He has short, raven hair, and a strong jaw dotted with stubble. There are tattoos peeking out from the neck of his shirt, and his face is adorned with multiple piercings on his eyebrows and nose; if she were anyone else, she's find his body mods and dark expression intimidating.

But she is not anyone else. She does not find him intimidating.

"I have a job for you." Her ruby lips wrap around the words. "I want it done tonight, quickly and quietly, and I want it to look like a robbery gone wrong." She reaches into a drawer on his desk and pulls out a manila folder, her french-tipped nails scraping quietly against the paper. She slides carefully it across the smooth tabletop toward him.

He opens it and leafs through. His eyes are carefully guarded, but the woman can see the surprise behind them. The target is, most likely, not at all what he was expecting.

"I have an asset that needs a reminder," she continues. It is all the explanation she plans on giving.

The young man finally looks up from the file. "I'll put my best people on it."

She sits back in her chair, a queen in her castle. "I would expect no less. At least three of them plus yourself would be preferred."

The man shifts in his seat, legs still spread wide in from of himself. "You think we'll need that many?"