Red X: Urban Legend

Copyright © 2020 Barrett C Carver. All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a review. This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Chapter One: Sightseeing

Agent Winters saw this guy, once. A dedicated fan. A true believer.

What a fuckin' idiot.

This guy loved the U.S. Navy Seals, like they were his favourite rock band. He had buzzed hair, military clothes, the well-practised scowl... He probably had their posters all over his bedroom wall. Agent Winters would bet a hundred bucks on Navy Seals pyjamas.

His military coat was thoroughly used. It must have been used by someone before him - someone who actually served in the military.

He wore dog tags, which wouldn't help him cross any borders or prove his identity. They weren't photo I.D., and the cops would think he was just a survivalist nut.

His boots were obvious. Black. Shiny. Loud. They announced him, wherever he went. They drummed like a one-man parade.

But the worst? His pants.

His pants had blotchy grey squares, like bad modern art by robots. It was like old newspapers going to a disco - Wednesday Night Fever. Yay. Let's get rectangular, baby...

His pants were supposed to be 'urban camouflage.' That's what the grey, blotchy pattern was supposed to be. Roland Winters spotted him from a few blocks away, so... it didn't work. Not very camo.

In fact, it was pretentious bullshit. All of it. He was a mythological creature.

Winters, himself, was wearing a dress shirt, a blazer, and light beige slacks. He had a little bag for his laptop. He had glasses that made him look competent at something. Something professional and dull. Something he'd do on his laptop, with lots of spreadsheets.

Winters looked like every other schmuck trapped in a forty-hour work week. He was a commuter with his computer. A wage slave. If he wore a fedora, he'd put it on the hat rack by his front door, and call out, "Honey, I'm home!" And his wife would have meatloaf ready in the oven, and little Billy would say stuff like "Gee, pa! Golly, you're swell!"

Winters would puke, if he had to endure that in real life. How those people survived the 1950s? He had no idea. Just respect. He had solemn respect.

Back then, they knew how to make spies. Old school.

But now, Roland Winters looked like another cookie-cutter suburbanite. If you could see the forest for the trees, you might see him. He was the wooden one. He was so damned normal, it was stifling.

And he just shot three assassins in the face.

Twenty minutes ago, his laptop snapped apart into clean, distinct pieces, and reassembled with its 'power adapter' to chamber 7.62mm AP rounds. He took a sniping stance on the roof of the library, and aimed at a building across the street.

The story was this: three assassins were about to kill a federal judge. Political shit, as usual. Winters was sent to intercept them. He tracked them, and watched them from the roof of the library. He watched them for an hour. They'd set up an ambush point, using a third-floor apartment.

He waited for the word from The Agency - he waited for confirmation. That last buzz in his earpiece, telling him the hit was imminent. The last word, telling him the judge was truly in danger.

"Winters? You're cleared to engage."

That was all he needed.

-PLEET-

A gunman stumbled back into the apartment's bathroom. Winters shot him neatly in the forehead, and his whole upper body snapped upward before crumpling into the tub behind.

The other two heard the burst of window-glass, and the spotter whipped his head up. The spotter was alert enough to react.

The lead assassin had been waiting... just waiting there, focused, ready with his rifle, as his spotter did perimeter checks. The sniper used a long, broad-lensed scope for precision.

-PLITT-

Winters planted a bullet right next to the scope, between the sniper's eyes.

His ghost must've been humiliated, to die like that. A sniper being shot so cleanly? Winters scoffed. He'd rather have a poisonous shark jump out of his beer glass, when he was drunk, blind, crippled, and 140 years old. Something impossible. Something insane. Winters didn't want to die on the job - he didn't want failure to be the cause-of-death. That was the worst insult ever.

By now, the spotter freaked. He was the last man alive, but knew he was next. He dove for cover, and froze there. He yanked the sniper rifle down, and pulled it with him. Then he crawled to another window. He tried to find Winters.

Winters had his 'laptop display' that gave him thermographic imaging: it still couldn't see anything in the ambient heat of their room. They cooked the whole place by cranking the thermostat. They were smart enough to take that precaution.

He saw cold colours streaming into the room from his bullet-holes.

The assassin was still somewhere inside. He was hiding. It was impossible to make a shot with thermo. Winters needed to see him at a real, unobstructed angle. He had to see the assassin clearly, and the assassin was already searching for him. Sniper versus sniper.

All the assassin needed was to see Winters once. Just once. One shot.

All Winters needed was to see the assassin.

The situation seemed to equal. A coin-toss.

However, NOBODY had training like Winters. He was with The Agency. He was in the business of Getting Shit Done, and he was professional.

Winters shook his gear to expose his position. The sniper looked up and found Winters, clear as day. All Winters saw was the brief flicker of his scope. A flash in the dark, like a tiger's glare.

The assassin targeted him, but in that instant he gave access to his eyeball.

Within tenths of a second, Winters fired a shot.

-PLEET-

The round pierced straight in. Glass splintered like flechette into his skull. Scopes and lenses are NOT bulletproof. Neither was the assassin's eye.

Dead. Finished. Agent Winters scanned, and confirmed the site was clear.

He called back to The Agency.

"Vicki? That's a ding. Your pop tarts are done." He had the swagger of a game-show host.

"Uh... what?" The voice in his ear was more annoyed than confused.

That voice was a "Vicki." That was the nickname of The Agency's courtesy service, the department known as Vindication. This department defended honour, and was about hard, straight justice. It was as fair as the rest of the world, but without any bullshit whatsoever. It was a courtesy, in that sense - ugly grudges were settled. Some joked that Vicki was about kicking ass and writing epitaphs.

This counter-assassination had some extra motive behind it. The federal judge that had been targeted was especially valuable... she absolutely needed to live, because of work she'd do in the next few years.

The regular security goons missed this threat. The judge would've been killed.

'Bunch of dumb-asses, Winters thought. Yeah, they dropped the ball this time.

But Winters was hidden behind them to catch it. Dropped ball: retrieved. The good guys still scored in the end.

Roland Winters was like other operatives from The Agency: elite. At his level, the world of espionage was like high school antics. He had skills that most militaries didn't know existed. He respected people who served their country, but he did a lot of things they couldn't do. Usually, stuff they didn't even know about.

"Vix, baby? They're all done. Toasted. Popped. Served for frickin' breakfast." He knew he was being ridiculous. In his defense, he just killed three people in less than a minute. He dealt with that reality in his own way.

Plus, people never suspected anyone who talked like this.

"Winters? You're kind of a dick."

"But I'm YOUR kind of dick."

Such a smooth operator.

"Just drop by with your report and analyses. Oh, wait..."

The line was quiet.

"There's new intel here, from 'a friend.' Remember her? Make your report, and then meet back here at Central."

He held his breath.

No way. No way it was her.

But - it had to be his thief friend, Elissa. It had to be. A smile wrapped onto his face like a hug.

"Thanks for saving a high-profile subject, Agent Winters. And for keeping a low profile, this time."

"Of course! Covert counter-assassination is what Tiggers do best!"

"Ahh, shut the f-..." Click.

Vicki hung up on him.

He reassembled his laptop. He slapped it together like a dance, not like field-stripping a rifle. He popped on his fake Clark Kent glasses, and wandered down to the street. No-one was screaming yet. No bodies had been discovered. Slick.

And Elissa was back. She was waiting for him. He grinned from the inside out. God, he hadn't seen her for two years. He missed her like absolute death. He'd give anything to just sit with her again, with a cup of coffee. Just one kiss would send him to heaven.

A few lawyers were milling around the front steps of the library. They snubbed him. They looked at him like he was a socio-economic leper.

Now? Well, now he was just another guy on the bus. He spent the whole afternoon 'studying' at the library. Sometimes it's nice and quiet up on the roof, so he went up there for a bit. He had the whole roof of the library to himself. Very relaxing.

On the bus, Roland Winters looked like everyone else. He was just another unassuming, 9-to-5 office worker. He wore common dress clothes, with a little shoulder bag for his chunky laptop. He was in the ordered rows of seats along with so many others. They were all shepherded into their daily lives. Baa.

He could watch the whole city filter by. He drifted though hundreds of pedestrians and onlookers, each one of them wearing a mask of normality.

This, he nodded to himself, is Urban Camouflage. Yeah, baby... I am the maestro of unwashed masses. The Disco-Rectangle King...

There were so many honest, legit people walking around, they made excellent tactical cover. Legendary operatives were out there, commuting or walking their dog. Even some of those dogs had Agency training.

Roland waited, counting the bus stops... counting the footsteps... till he could meet Elissa. His belovèd Elissa. The notorious, world-class jewel thief. She was a true mastermind of infiltration. She was inhumanly agile. She was an outlaw, according to the laws of gravity. She invented kungfu on-the-fly. Elissa March: she was brilliant, and she was the real deal. There was nothing fake about her. Even her lies were stronger than Fort Knox. She was nuts, and she was the great love of his heart. His dearest Elissa...

Roland Winters counted himself lucky. No-one mentioned her before this job. The distraction would've gotten him killed, for sure.

Chapter Two: Blackmail Delivery Service

She had the chip. She'd wedged it under a fake fingernail. Now, she just had to get out alive.

Elissa found her way into this mob restaurant, and then into the back office, and then the secure safe under the boss's desk. Money was stacked inside, and some land deeds, but this one chip had blackmail. Blackmail worth millions of dollars. She could play it against whoever she wanted. She could play it however she wanted. This little black chip was a blank cheque.

She left the back office, made it to the hallway, and quickly moved to the side entrance. She was nearly out, and was looking directly at the huge, mahogany doors, when a bouncer stepped in her way.

"Where y'think you're going, Sweetie?"

He was fat, with a good baritone, and a terrible moustache. That strip of black over his mouth was offensive - like he had a black belt in dickhead. He smelled like spicy food, and his eyelids looked like closing time.

"Aww, I was, like, just going to the bathroom? But then, I remembered I left my cellphone, and I had to get it..."

Elissa put enough bubblegum in her voice to sound harmless. She played a convincing airhead.

Elissa could look like a million bucks, but she banked on her wits. She was lovely, but very dangerous. In fact, being dangerous made her downright foxy.

"You don't come here to use the bathroom."

The bouncer smiled dubiously, and crossed his arms. Bad idea, for a defensive posture. He was slow to extend his arms, or block a strike. He didn't think she was a significant threat.

"Ya, 'kay, but - like, your boss? Maybe he doesn't want to, like, be seen with me? I just took care of his, uh, specific needs. In his private office. Everyone has their thing... right? So maybe don't make a big deal out of this, and... well, expose him..." She raised an eyebrow sweetly.

Suddenly, she wasn't a bubblehead. She was a sly, smooth-talking escort.

Was she there to use the bathroom? No, she offered the boss 'questionable services.' That little white lie was for discretion. To protect the boss, and whatever personal fetish he had.

The bouncer shifted in place. He was cautious.

"Uhh... lemme just ask."

He unclipped a radio from his belt, and tapped its button.

"You had some, uh, 'company' this evening, boss?" The radio coughed static.

There was a stretch of silence. The radio clicked, and the boss mumbled as if bewildered:

"N-no..."

Was that confusion? or did it sound like embarrassment? Was he feigning innocence?

Elissa and the bouncer stood quietly, waiting for his response.

"The fuck you talkin' about, Marty?"

Elissa winced, like Marty the bouncer was getting flak. She pursed her lips meekly.

"Nevermind," the bouncer concluded.

Elissa tipped her head and shone her sweetest smile. She whispered:

"Told ya." She nodded with the bouncer, winking. "Just be professional, big guy. Keep it on the down-low. Better job security, at the end of the day. Both for your job, and mine."

She slipped by as he pondered this.

She was fast, but also deceptive: her hand went for the thick, wooden door, and lifted it open. That handhold slid to her elbow, then shoulders, and finally just her wrist trailing behind her. And she was gone. She was a magician; she performed sleight-of-hand, but with her entire body.

She strode away briskly. From the other side of the door, she heard punctuated static.

"Fuck! STOP HER!" buzzed the radio.

Shit.

Elissa had hoped they wouldn't notice the safe. The last part had to be cracked open with liquid nitrogen. It took too long - 45 seconds, total. Was she losing her touch?

"HOLD IT!"

She heard the tense clicking of a hammer pulled back. A snub-nosed revolver was aimed right at her. She couldn't run - she had to stop.

Ironically, she raised her hands, with the chip hidden under a fake fingernail. Her crime was held high for anyone to see... if they looked closely enough.

Again, he used the radio.

"Boss? Got her. Side entrance, just outside the doors." He kept his pistol trained on Elissa.

"So. You busted in here? Poisoned something? Stole shit? We're gonna find out."

She walked toward him, looking tired.

"I just take care of people," she said. "I get paid. I made a deal with your boss..."

She stepped even closer, with downcast eyes.

"...and I got some pretty friends. We can make a deal with you." Her eyes flashed up through her lashes. Her fingers drifted downward, skimming her chest.

"It's business," she purred, close enough for him to hear. She let her hips float in each step. Her pelvis swayed slowly... lazily. Winding like a snake.

"Business, huh?" He kept his pistol extended.

She nodded. She whispered, sweetly:

"Yeah..." Her eyes settled on his round body, and then closed. Her tongue slid in her cheek.

"So," she began, in her softest voice, "don't take it personal."

Her leg wheeled high in a crescent kick - her thigh parried his gun and her foot struck him in the temple. She spun, and threw another kick the same way - he was reeling, and was hit beside his ear. His feet clapped on the ground as he stumbled. In a third kick, she hooked his neck in her knee, and bent him face-first into the ground. His gun fell, clattered loosely, and shot the restaurant wall.

She could've choked him, but she didn't have time. She grabbed the gun, whipped its bullets from the cylinder, and threw it across the street.

She bolted, and disappeared into the city. That mob joint couldn't find her fast enough, and couldn't openly search for the chip - it was serious dirt. Or rather, it was a fucking gold mine. The powers-that-be could be overturned. Most likely, they'd pay top dollar to keep things quiet.

Life was always dangerous. She just took the upper hand.

Somehow, she was reminded of an old friend. A man she once loved... still loved. He was a playa, though - even ditched her for Euro trash, with no regrets or goodbyes. That was two years ago. What an asshole.

But the adrenaline, the danger, the diamond edge... this was life. This was real.

She couldn't understand why, but... life was the most real, when it was with him.

Maybe she'd find an excuse to see him? Offer him some news, from a good source?

Chapter Three: The False

"Got your intel, Elissa. Thank you. It's so, SO incredibly good to see you. You went dark for... well, way too long."

Winters held her hand for a second, as his heart broke to pieces.

Then, he carefully let go.

"But I checked your referral, and 'Walt' is out. Big red Nope. Not qualified, and for good reason." His eyebrows hinted at something.

"Ooh... this is gonna be good," she smiled convincingly. She held her coffee cup with both hands. It was a small latté. Her palms were desperate to wrap around something, like they were triggered.

"Yup," she scootched closer in her seat, and huddled over the tiny table. "Yup - this is a story, isn't it?"

He looked up to her, and watched her dancing blue eyes. Why was she so sweet to him? Why did she spend her time with him, like this? Why did she share all her 'beautiful' with him? She'd been gone for so long... He ached for her. Every day away from her took a year off his life.

But she's here now, Winters thought to himself. Damn... I'm just a fool in love.

"Elissa... it's pretty simple, really." He crooked a brow, like opening the lid of a secret.

"I appreciate the intel, but he's no good. Your pal, Benny? He rocks, and we need him. He's a tech genius. Thank you for the lead. But Walt? Nah. I actually knew this guy, once. Great guy. But he changed big-time. Gongs, incense... Tai chi, chai tea, probably wears bell-bottoms now. Big Sadhguru disciple.

"And when I say 'disciple'..." He looked at her sideways, like a visual nudge-in-the-ribs.

She snickered into her coffee mug.

"Yeah," he continued, "but I didn't see him chanting, wearing a hooded robe. Yet."

"Bell-bottoms are a warning sign," she said, lifting her finger.

Socrates would've had a huge crush on Elissa, if she was in his philosophy class. She was the odd, funky brunette with the tight-cheeked smile and swan's grace. She had insight, and a playful sense of humour. And she had a wit that followed every word, like a pretty kite on a string.

Elissa was tall-ish, willowy, and moved in pure elegance. When she walked, her arms drifted through the air with perfect balance. She moved with the same lightness as air. Every step was an even trade.

Roland's heart floated after her. Always.

Elissa wore her hair back. Though it was for practicality, it became another symbol of her style. She had an accented expression, even with her ponytail. It was part of her beauty, like everything else. It was so lively, the way it fell in rivers behind her thin shoulders...