Wanted

Not in the Job Description

~ Chapter 1 ~

Mallie

I pulled the fur-lined hood of my warmest coat over my curly blonde hair - my best attempt at combating the frigid wind that had been whipping through the city non-stop for at least two days. Even through the thick fleece gloves I fortunately had the sense to slip on, every one of the fingers on my left hand was numb. I had to wiggle them just to make sure they hadn't snapped off. In my other hand, I clutched my leather-bound notebook tightly to my chest, trying to prevent the slushy snow from ruining its pages. My quicker-than-usual footsteps echoed off of the deserted buildings that lined the Detroit street on which I was walking.

Most decent people wouldn't dare venture so far into gang territory, especially considering the gangs on that side of town were sometimes made up of Wanted. However, as much as I wasn't thrilled with the idea of being exposed to anyone who may have intended to harm me, it was in my job description. There was no one to blame but myself.

As a journalist, despite being young and fairly new to the game, I was more than used to action and being right in the thick of it. This, however, was the only legitimately dangerous assignment I'd ever been asked to complete. Fortunately, the sole downside to that particular job offer was exactly what I was about to get over with.

The NewsNet that had recently hired me was generous enough to pay for all of my moving expenses from the suburbs of Boston to downtown Detroit, even going so far as to take care of my first three month's rent. The contract seemed almost too good to be true for a twenty-two-year-old's first official job, so I had no qualms with agreeing to it.

I rounded the next corner, boots flicking up a salt-slush combination onto the back of my pants, and was greeted with the sight of the crime scene my next story would be featuring. A shiver wracked my body, but that time, it wasn't from the late night winter chill.

The gruesome corpse of Detroit's Vice President of the Treasury was still hanging limply from the chain link fence that surrounded the Detroit Dump. Clearly, it was in the same condition as when the crime was first committed just a few hours earlier; the public had yet to even be made aware of it. The only alteration I could see was the yellow police tape that just barely separated the crime from the street.

A closer examination made my stomach churn. The man was attached to the fence with several zip-ties that had been bound to his wrists. His throat was slit from ear to ear, and drops of blood had already started to congeal on the sidewalk in front of me, the pile of snow below his body almost entirely melted. Burns on his face indicated he was probably electrocuted. I already had confirmation that he was tortured before his death.

This could have looked like the doings of your average psycho, except the body was tied to the fence at least twenty feet up. There was no way any regular person could have reached that high without machinery, and the lack of wheel impressions through the days-old snow eliminated that theory almost immediately. Without a single trace of doubt, this crime was committed by Wanted.

I took a deep breath, only briefly whisper-cursed for getting myself into such a situation, then ducked under the tape, pulling my notebook away from my chest. I began jotting down notes and, before I knew it, the rest of the world blurred out of focus as I fell into the rhythm of my own little universe of words and storytelling.

I was in the middle of a sentence when a sickening wave of paranoia crashed into the forefront of my mind so forcefully I dropped my pen. Out of raw instinct, my back went rigid and goosebumps erupted across my neck and arms. No sooner had my brain even attempted to process my surroundings than the unmistakable sound of a gunshot pulsated in my ears. I had no time to react in any way other than involuntarily squeezing my eyes shut.

I awaited the pain, but it never came. Slowly and tentatively, I opened my eyes, only to be greeted with a gray bullet hovering right in front of the middle of my forehead. It had frozen in mid-air less than a centimeter away from the place where it would have undoubtedly torn a hole through my skull. I turned in the direction of the bullet's origin to see the silhouette of a man crouched like a predator on a nearby rooftop.

I watched as the bullet dropped to the ground with a light tinkling sound. When I looked up again, the shadow-cloaked figure was making its way toward me.