Turbulent Past, Tempestuous Present

This 15,100-word story is for the Literotica Crime & Punishment 2023 Story Event. My thanks to Kenjisato for his grammatical review and corrections in this submission.

"Hell would be precisely like this," Murdock mused, amber bourbon swirling in his glass, a reflection of the storm's fiery light. Lightning arced across the sky, an electrified dance amidst the clouds' roiling rage. Beyond his living room window, the ocean scene served as an omen, an unsettling precursor to the impending tempest of fate. Over time, his mind had transformed into a turbulent sea, the waves of his past crashing against the shores of his present. In the last year, his oceanside home had become a ship in a bottle. Imprisoned within, his past sins clung to him like sea salt on his lips. A former government shadow, Marshall Murdock, glimpsed his life's reflection in the swirling bourbon.

Nestled in the embrace of his leather chair, he carefully poured another generous portion of Blanton's Single Barrel Kentucky Bourbon into his Glencairn Whisky glass, savoring the anticipation like a seasoned lover. As its advertisement had promised, the glass's tapered design captured the bourbon's essence, much like the memories he tried to bottle within himself. He swirled the liquid, watching its delicate dance, the interplay of sweetness and bite, a symphony of flavors that whispered stories of charred oak and distant lands. The aroma swirled around him, giving him momentary respite from the storm's turmoil and unforgiving rage.

His gaze drifted to the beach, a panoramic view of his thoughts and the relentless sea. But nature wasn't his only adversary; a tempest brewed within him, a maelstrom of past choices and regret. Each lightning strike was a memory, each thunderclap a reminder of missions undertaken and lives altered.

His beachside home had become a sanctuary, a cocoon of introspection, yet the storm outside echoed his internal chaos. The wind howled like a ghostly lament, rain hammered against the windows, a cacophony of regret that drowned out the world. Murdock's hand went instinctively to his neck, fingers brushing against the scars hidden beneath his shirt, a tactile memory of a life he had embraced and escaped. A foreboding sixth-sense feeling tingled as he rubbed the hairs on his neck.

At that moment, the lights flickered, a prelude to darkness. The storm's wrath reached inside, and the room dimmed, shadows elongating like specters of his past. The waves of the tempest outside were mirrored in his heart. The lightning's dance became a tapestry of faces, comrades, and adversaries, each woven into the fabric of his life. Like a dark shadow, the idealism that once drove him had become tainted by lingering doubt and uncertainty in his retirement. His pride in serving his country had waned in his last year of service. He left it as he had come into it, like his nickname, Shadow, and disappeared without a trace. Was Murdock's price as a loner without a family worth the righteousness he sought, born of idealism and the patriotic call to duty to protect his country?

He took a deep breath, trying to shake off the specters while carefully placing his nearly empty glass on the dimly lit coffee table. Memories were unforgiving companions, and the bourbon offered no more reprieve. The last sip was bitter as if distilled from regret itself. As he set the glass down, a knock echoed through a pause between peals of thunder. Its sound disturbed his meticulously crafted solitude and his thoughts of the storm. Turning, he walked downstairs to open the imposing front door. Marshall hesitated, his heartbeats merging with the rain's rhythm. With each step toward the imposing front door, the past closed in like a vise, its grip unrelenting. Murdock's fingers curled around the doorknob, his breath mingling with the storm's fury beyond. The door creaked open, and there she stood—Cattleya. Drenched, disheveled, a storm personified in human form.

Backlit by lightning, she was a haunting silhouette, a specter from a time he wished to forget. A descendant of chaos and bloodshed, she embodied a legacy of pain and vendetta. Named for Colombia's national flower, her eyes bore the weight of her Hispanic and native Colombian lineage, her jawline etched with the determination of her purpose. The daughter of Razor, once hunted by Murdock's team, now stood on the precipice of his life, a harbinger of reckoning.

He knew her history, the sins her father had sown, the lives he had torn apart. Razor Rivera's, Cattleya's, and Marshall's paths had converged before, like meteors on a collision course. As her eyes met him, a silent understanding passed between them—two adversaries bound by fate's inexorable grip.

In the storm's chaos, a dance of destiny unfolded. Murdock's past and Cattleya's vengeance were threads in a tapestry woven by time and choice. Lightning burned their shadows on the threshold of his sanctuary, and the storm roared its approval.

In Razor's case, Cattleya had been a loose end, one now standing in his doorway. He noted her right hand tucked inside the pocket of her dripping raingear as she stared up at him. In Shadow's experience, a loose end always came back to bite the Agency. Her tracking him down after a well-crafted story of his demise only meant trouble. The last time he saw Cattleya, she was in her early 30s. Four years later, that loose end had tracked him down — to what end?

"I've been searching for you," Cattleya said, her voice trembling with anger as memories of her father's demise flashed before her. Razor's daughter breathed heavily as her emotions caught in her throat.

"You took everything from me. My father, my world," she stammered, hesitantly balancing her need to quickly complete her mission and a lingering desire to savor the terror she expected to flood his eyes.

Murdock studied her carefully, his gaze softening with understanding. He detected the shape of a gun barrel poking against the inside her pocket; her hand, he knew, was on its trigger.

"I didn't take your father from you," he replied quietly. "He made choices that led him down a dark path. Choices that brought pain and suffering to you — and many others."

Shadow took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the storm behind her. He stepped back, motioning for her to enter the dimly lit entry, out of the raging elements.

If she wanted me dead, she would have done that when I opened the door, Murdock calculated as he stepped aside.

She followed into his sanctuary — out of the storm. This wasn't how she planned it, but she hesitantly accepted his offer of refuge from the storm's might. She closed the door, leaning her back against it. He heard her deep breathing even over the muffled rumble of the storm. In the dimly lit entryway, their eyes refocused on one another. Murdock was a master of reading expressions; it was part of his tradecraft. Those looks, branded on her face, didn't require spoken words to clarify her intent. Cattleya's tormented face was an open book.

Marshall nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation, as he spoke, "Let's take this upstairs."

He led the way up to the living room, a cinematic view of the storm's increasing rage. Murdock could feel the anger of the uninvited guest radiating from her core, even into the shadows. Her loathing permeated the air as she stood at a distance, far enough away to respond to any sudden move.

Cattleya's eyes filled with anger as memories of her father's demise flashed before her.

"I saw it all," she hissed. "I saw you. You're the one responsible."

She had come for revenge after four years of pent-up fury.

"Catti, it takes five pounds of pressure to pull the trigger," her father used to tell her during their extensive weapons training sessions. She was exerting at least three pounds of trigger pressure without a tremor — adding two more would complete her mission. The sharp report of a gun blast, she had envisioned, would end with a curl of blue smoke rising as his body slumped to the floor. Still, Cattleya wanted answers before carrying out her agenda. It took every ounce of her willpower to hold back from discharging her cocked SIG Sauer P938 Legion.

Shadow didn't deny her statements. Instead, he replied, "Tell me, Cattleya, what do you remember of that day?"

She hesitated at his odd question. He seemed so damn calm, she thought.

Why is he asking? she wondered. Is he stalling for time?

She was confident enough, believing she had the upper hand, that she allowed him to live a while longer — easing up on the SIG Sauer's trigger.

"I remember — it was my birthday," she answered, fidgeting, fighting to recall the hazy event. "It started as a wonderful day for me. I remember the excitement and then the chaos as gunfire erupted. My father cried out,'Cattleya, get into the jeep!' So, I ran. Father jumped in, and we sped off. When I turned to look back, I saw you in pursuit. You were on a mountain bike, taken from the ranch, riding furiously after us."

Her words tumbled out, a few at a time, as she recalled fragmented recollections of that day. She blinked in a moment of confusion.

"I remember being lifted into the air — hitting the ground hard — tumbling like a rag doll. Then I don't remember anything after ... But I remember you — being there — looking down at me,"

The hazy memory of that event tumbled as bits and pieces of the incident unfolded. Then another flash of lightning lit up the room, followed by the rumble of thunder. For a moment, it diverted her attention.

Murdock slowly reached for the decanter and poured a second glass. Her attention turned away from the storm's rumble, her fragmented memories, and to the drink he offered. The bourbon aroma filled the room, mingling with the storm's scent. She extended her arm, her hand shaking slightly as she took the glass.

"Bourbon. Sorry, I don't have the tequila you like," he remarked, as he slowly sat down across from her.

She stood by the panoramic windows with her right hand inside the raincoat's pocket. Her eyes remained wary. Cattleya kept her distance, tightening her finger on the trigger as she swallowed half the glass. The lingering sweet taste of caramel and vanilla from the charred oak barrel clung to her palate, helping to calm some of her jitters.

"Cattleya, it was pouring down torrents of rain that day. Your father took the turn too fast, hitting a tree stump in the tail. You flew out, and the jeep careened down the cliff into the ravine. I picked you up and got you to a village medical facility. You were unconscious for two days. You saw me looking down on you when you awoke in the hospital. That's when I knew you were going to make it. I left you at that point. I couldn't stay. Your father's men were hunting for us."

"Us?"

Her mind picked up on the clue. There were more than this silver-haired old soldier who was responsible.

"My team, those that survived. I lost three men that day; three of us made it out. Our intel said you were on a plane to France, and the hacienda was lightly guarded."

"I was supposed to fly out, but the weather canceled that. It was raining ... I remember now. I was covered in mud. The afternoon looked just like this," she replied, as another jagged flicker of lightning streaked across the sky, followed by a rolling peal of thunder.

Murdock's countenance blanked momentarily as one of the most dangerous missions he and his six-man team had received flashed before him. He had been assigned a covert operation. It was a deep insertion into the Colombian jungles. Three of them made it out after what the Agency's leadership deemed a successful mission — yet yielded a tragic loss of life. Three more unnamed stars were added to that solemn wall as a reminder of the price of national security. The others, the Colombianos, who perished at the hacienda, were not on the list for recognition.

Marshall's expression became taciturn, a mixture of remorse and determination. He didn't mince his words as he recounted the events for her.

"I was sent to kill your father. Instead, when I found out you were there, I intended to capture, not kill him. You weren't part of the plan ... what happened to you was because of your father's actions. Your father was at the wheel of that jeep when it went over the cliff. I didn't force that. The fatal fall over the precipice completed my mission, but I've carried the weight of those actions ever since."

Shadow's gaze met hers again, and he felt the weight of guilt pressing against his chest. He knew he had to confess the truth, to lay bare the choices her father had made and the pain the Razor had inflicted on others. She deserved to know the truth about her father's death and why it was sanctioned. The words tumbled out as he continued to relate the chain of events leading up to his demise. His voice was laced with genuine remorse and an inner conflict that had haunted him for years. Softly, his words seeped out as he laid out the reasons for the mission.

"I understand your anger, Cattleya," Murdock spoke, winding down his tale, his voice tinged with regret and longing. "Your father's choices, the drug world he oversaw, the lives he took ... I was part of that world. But I want you to know I've carried the weight of those actions. The doubts about the righteousness of my missions have eaten away at my soul."

"You think your remorse changes anything?" Cattleya's razor-sharp voice pierced the air amidst the storm's roar outside. "My father may have made his choices, but you were the one who hunted him down. You were the one who took him away from me."

Cattleya's eyes narrowed, but something in Murdock's sincerity touched a nerve. She saw the struggle etched on his face, the lines of pain that mirrored her own. In the four years of seeking out her father's killer, she had time to reflect on those actions and the violence ensnarled around his profession. She had also realized over time that the cycle of violence needed to be broken, and perhaps, just perhaps ... Shadow held a piece of the puzzle in that redemption. She had expected justice and redemption to come and end with his death — a bullet in his head. Then ... she learned a bit more about him.

Damn him, she fumed in conflict over hearing his story. He had saved her life. Did she owe something for that? Still, he had caused her father's death — didn't that cancel her debt?

Murdock's gaze remained steadfast; his voice filled with earnestness as he addressed her.

"Cattleya, our pasts are intertwined in ways we can't ignore. But the future is still unwritten. We have a chance to make it right. I can't undo the past. But I can try to make amends, to seek justice for those who've suffered. I sense you came seeking answers, something more than just vengeance. I'm troubled by the same things, Cattleya, and could use your help. Together, we can get far beyond our initial encounter on that day and bring justice to people affected by the cartels today. Isn't that worth an effort on our part?"

Cattleya's anger flickered and dimmed momentarily. Her trigger finger eased its firm grip. She had expected a defensive attack, but Marshall Murdock had bared his soul instead. Her mind had played out this confrontational scene with him dozens of times in her dreams as he begged for his life — right up to the moment she pulled the trigger. But he was so damned calm as though he expected, maybe even welcomed, the ending of his life.

Bastard! She boiled inwardly at his plea as she watched him sit there so calmly and offer to share his desire for justice and redemption. Yet, at that moment, something also stirred in her, uniting them amidst that fierce storm roiling onshore.

Still, the definition of justice for each adversary was different. Marshall's was atonement to assure others had not died in vain. Cattleya's was — blood-related vengeance.

Cattleya's anger began to waver, replaced by previously unconsidered possibilities and curiosity.

"Why are you telling me this now?" she asked, her voice tinged with vulnerability, having learned his actions had both taken her father's life and saved her own.

"Because I've retired from that life," Shadow replied, his voice filled with resignation. "I wanted to find solace, to disconnect from that time of darkness. But your presence has made me realize that our actions' consequences extend far beyond our missions. Even the mission you are on now," he added, acknowledging the possible outcome of her unexpected arrival.

Cattleya's features softened, her gaze searching; she saw a glint of sincerity in his eyes.

"What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Murdock expressed his challenge, "I want to break the cycle, Cattleya. I want to find a way to use our experiences to make a positive difference. Perhaps you and I can do that together?"

Cattleya's brows furrowed in contemplation as the storm raged outside. Murdock's words echoed in her mind, challenging her perspective. Revenge had consumed her, but now the possibility of something greater flickered before her. She had realized the harm her father had done when, upon his death, she was forced to slip into his dystopian role.

She quickly came to see the violence and degradation that had been kept from her innocent eyes. The deaths, the massive stranglehold on the finca workers in the poppy fields, and the corruption of those in the government to whom her father had handed out 'plata o plomo,' silver or lead, a bribe — or — a bullet. Previously, those had not been a part of her utopian world.

"I don't know if I can trust you," she admitted, her voice filled with vulnerability.

Marshall nodded, his face etched with understanding. "Trust takes time," he said softly. "But if we can find common ground and work together, we can bring justice to those who continue to profit from the pain and suffering caused by the drug trade."

"Fine," Cattleya finally relented, her voice softened. "But don't think this changes anything. We find the truth, and then we're done."

Her private thoughts held answers as to who profited from the drug cartel's change in hierarchy, though she didn't volunteer that information to Marshall Murdock.

The storm outside began to subside as if reflecting the shifting emotions within the room. Cattleya looked out at the fading tempest, contemplating the choices before her. She swallowed the last two fingers of the bourbon and set the glass down. Revenge or redemption? Hatred or hope? The options were balanced on a razor's edge in the humid air between them.

Marshall Murdock studied the change in her demeanor, a glimmer of hope igniting his eyes. Cattleya's hand slid out of the raincoat pocket, the tension diffusing. He felt a sense of relief, having dodged a bullet. As he extended his hand as a sign of peace, Cattleya warily reached out with her right hand in a gesture of an unspoken truce. Clasped, the jester made a silent pact to confront their pasts and forge a new path forward, united by a shared desire for justice and a belief in the power of redemption. The Shadow had his view of justice — Cattleya her own; for the moment, those weren't the same; but it was a start.