25 Kimmy
My apartment after midnight was pitch black, punctured only by the tremble of the light from my laptop screen. I hadn't planned to be up this late, but sometimes you get stuck in a feedback loop you can't break.
And tonight, it was about revenge. Or closure. Or maybe just the act of watching it all happen, frame by frame, so I could convince myself I was right to do this, I was right to hire a questionable organization to ruin three lives because they had ruined mine.
I was in my bed, scrolling through the news, reading the stories one after another. Each headline was an additional nail in the coffin of my former tormentors.
The first article was about Ronan Wick. I didn't need to read it again, but I did. The headline was direct. Wick was facing new federal charges in light of the ongoing investigation into his machinations.
There were court dates, additional bail conditions, quotes from some legal analysts about the severity of the charges.
There was a video embedded, too—a low-res clip of Wick being escorted through the courthouse.
He didn't look up. He just stared at the floor, at his shoes, trying to make himself small.
The comments below the article were a fistfight. I read them all.
There was a rush to it, just a sick, sour joy. Some primitive part of me wanted the whole world to see what he really was. Some other part—a part I hated more—felt a prickle of guilt about it all.
I closed the tab. Opened a different one.
The forgery scandal had gotten Jerico Thorne dropped by his last two investors. His face—everywhere, now—looked even worse than Wick's. Deflated. Caved in.
Again, emotions warred in my chest.
I pushed them down. The article said his office had been vandalized—someone spray-painted FRAUD on the glass doors, then posted the video to social media. I watched it a dozen times.
I let my head fall forward, eyes squeezed shut. My neck made a sound like gravel. My whole body felt hunched, coiled, like every muscle was bracing for an impact that never came.
I rubbed my thumb over the laptop trackpad, then typed in the last name.
Caius Valmont.
Nothing.
Or rather, nothing like the others. The first hits were all about some recent charity gala he'd attended with his wife, Celine.
The photos looked like a magazine shoot.
Celine's hair was perfect, her smile even more so.
Valmont was in a navy tux with a hand on her back, always posed for the camera.
Not a hair out of place. The captions called him philanthropist and scion.
There was no mention of anything darker.
I had this sudden urge to log on the platform and leave a comment of my own.
Rapist.
But that meant giving myself away.
My IP would be found out in seconds if any of his people were cleaning up anything online that didn't paint him in a good light. And I knew they did. I'd been one of those clean up jobs three years ago.
I searched deeper, tried every combination I could think of—scandal, rumors, fraud, even violence—but the results were all sanitized. Whatever Valmont did behind the curtain, the curtain was locked shut.
He hadn't suffered yet. The other two had.
It made me want to punch something, or maybe just curl up and disappear. I bounced between the two. I dug my thumbnail into the meat of my palm and stared at the screen until the words lost meaning.
I closed the laptop. The light vanished. My bedroom returned to darkness. The only brightness was the thin strip of city bleeding through the opening between the curtains. And the man in my life that went by Operative Seven.
Hesitantly, I reached out for the burner I kept on my nightstand while I slept.
I wanted to call him and ask him about Valmont.
No. It was a lie. I somehow cared more about hearing his voice than the progress of the job.
I held the phone in my hand for a few minutes, debating, recycling his words in my head.
The last target might take time.
I was getting attached, I realized. And it was the last thing I needed.
I put the burner back on the nightstand.
I ran in the mornings now instead of evenings.
For one, it was safer.
And secondly, I liked the feeling of owning the world before anyone else could mess it up. The city was a different organism at dawn—slower, softer, almost like it was pretending to be gentle. Only later the volume would ramp up and the streets would start acting feral.
It was always colder on the move. The air tasted like ice, sharp enough to hurt my teeth. The sky was still waking up, semi-dark but thinning on the east.
I ran south toward the same park.
For the first half-mile, my head was a mess of fragments. Images from the articles I'd read last night. Wick's ruined face. Thorne's thousand-yard stare. Valmont's hand at the curve of his wife's back, like a brand.
I tried to outrun them.
At the stoplight right before the entry to the park, I bounced in place, waiting for the crosswalk to clear.
There were a few other runners out—one in a neon vest, earbuds jammed in, another walking a pit bull that looked more bored than vicious.
It reminded me of the dog and the boy who lived next door to Margaret.
I could read the other people's body language with ease, all of them on autopilot, moving through the city like ghosts, trying to wake up. Same as me.
The park entrance was marked by a battered sign.
I ducked inside, exhaling the city and inhaling the green.
It wasn't a real forest, but it was as close as you could get this side of the city.
The path was asphalt, but there were dirt ones too.
I liked to disappear on those where the trees and the bushes were thicker.
I ran the loop, counting the lampposts—one, two, three, then the blind corner where the path cut behind a cypress and vanished from the view of those who kept to the asphalt road. I didn't slow as I rounded the curve. I knew this stretch very well.
It happened too fast—a figure stepped into the center of the trail as I turned the next corner.
I stopped so hard my sneakers nearly slid out from under me. My hand shot for the pepper spray I had in the oversized front pocket of my hoodie.
There was no light here and I couldn't see very well under the blanket of tree branches.
It was a man, tall, in all black, face covered by a shadow from a hood of his sweatshirt.
Before I could properly process what I was looking at, the man said, "It's me."
Operative Seven.
I recognized his deep velvety voice.
He pushed back the hood a little, revealing dark messy hair falling across his forehead. A black bandana covered the lower part of his face. All I saw were those unsettling eyes.
I felt a small relief and let the pepper spray drop back into the pocket, but my pulse didn't slow down. "Is this a joke?" I half rasped, half wheezed.
He didn't answer at first. Just took a step in my direction.
"You're really committed to this dramatic entrance thing," I added. "Don't need to sneak up on me like this."
He took another step forward, never breaking eye contact. It felt like he was reading my mind. "No one can see us talk."
"Is something wrong? Should I be worried?"
"Not more than usual." He then reached into his leather jacket he wore over the sweatshirt and pulled out a small box. He tossed it to me. I caught it awkwardly—it was a cheap burner phone, still in the packaging.
"What's this for?" I asked, noting his leather gloves.
"Use this number from now on. Do not call me on the other phone."
My eyes flicked to the stickie note taped to the back. "Did something happen?"
He hesitated. "Things are a little more complicated than I thought when it comes to target three."
"I take it he's difficult to expose?"
Operative Seven nodded. "He knows someone's coming."
My heart was suddenly thrashing against my rib cage. "How?"
"He has money, therefore he has resources."
"Don't lie to me…please."
"I'm not lying."
"If I'm in danger, just tell me."
"You're not if I'm around. I told you that before."
"Are you going to follow me everywhere?"
"Not unless you ask."
Tempting. I tucked the phone into my hoodie's pocket. "So what now?"
He stared at me for a good minute with those penetrating gray eyes, then said, "Show me your wrists."
"What?"
"Wrists. Hands out."
I hesitated, then stuck them out, palms up, like a kid showing clean fingernails. He didn't touch me at first. Just examined.
"Ever taken self-defense?" he asked.
"A little."
"Turn around."
"Why?"
"Just turn around."
The adrenaline crashed all over again. I felt it crawl up my spine, cold and electric. Still, I turned, listening to the sound of his breath—or maybe just my own.
He moved behind me. Close, but not too close. "I'll show you what to do if someone other than me tries to approach you outside." I smelled leather, and something like steel. "I'm going to grab you," he said next. "Don't overthink it."
My hands curled into fists. I felt my body tighten, all instinct. "Okay."
He was fast, but not scary fast. One arm looped around my neck, the other around my waist, just above the phone in the pocket. I tensed, breath catching in my throat. Then I heard his voice, inches from my ear. "Freeze. Don't panic. Just listen."
His breath fanned against my skin and slipped down my neck. I shivered. "Easy for you to say."
"Here's what you do," he went on, and then, step by step, he walked me through it.
"First, tuck your chin. Yes—good. That's so I can't cut off your air.
" His hold was strong, but controlled. I could feel the shape of every muscle in his arms, but also how he wasn't using all of it.
"Second, drop your weight. Not too much, just enough to make me work.
Third, find my hand—the one across your waist."
I reached for it. His glove was smooth, cool. I tried to pull, but it was like grabbing rebar.
"Now, pivot to your left," he instructed. "Good. Stomp my instep with your heel. Hard as you can."
I did it. The move landed, but he didn't even flinch. Still, I felt his grip relax, just for a second.
"That's your window. Twist your hips and pull down on my hand. Use your body weight. Not your arms."
I did, and suddenly I was loose, spinning around to face him, chest heaving.
He nodded once. "Good."
"Aren't you just letting me win this one?"
"I am because I'm teaching you and because I'm anticipating your next move, but most attackers will not."
I stretched my arms over my head for a second to release the tension. "Fine. If you say so."
"Again." He made some twirling gesture with his hand.
"Again?"
"You need not just theory but muscle memory too to be able to implement the move," he explained.
I groaned and rolled my eyes. Then regretted it. I probably looked like a brat right now.
"Let's go," he said.
I gave up. "Okay."
The next time, he moved faster. The choke came quicker, tighter, but the same instructions. Chin, drop, grab, stomp, twist. I broke free in half the time.
"Better," he said. "Again."
I turned, half-expecting him to give me a little breathing room, but he didn't. This time the grip was real.
I followed the steps, and felt his hold give, but when I was spinning to look at him, I stumbled forward, almost tripping and planting my face into his chest. He steadied me, hands catching my shoulders.
I braced, waiting for the next instruction, but he just stood there, looking down at me like he was seeing through all the layers of my fake bravado. Then he stepped back. "This can save your life."
I wiped a forearm across my brow, trying to keep it together. "Thanks," I said.
He shrugged. "Don't thank me. You might need it."
"Is this part of your job now? Teaching your client self-defense?"
There was a pause. He looked down at my hands, flexed his own. "Don't run this route again for a while."
"Where should I go?" I asked, confused.
"Someplace more public. Daylight hours only. And vary your routine." He rattled off the instructions with a cold certainty, but I could tell it wasn't just that. He was probably running a simulation in his head, accounting for every possibility.
I didn't argue. I just nodded, feeling the blood roar in my ears.
He was gone then, feet barely making a sound on the dirt.
I stood for a minute, processing the fact that he'd just taught me how to break a chokehold, and then vanished into a thin air, leaving nothing behind but the ghost of his tight grip and a new set of rules to live by.
Deep down, I understood that I had to prioritize safety, but all my mind clung to after today's encounter was the press of his body against mine.
Oh, this was dangerous, very dangerous.