Turbulent Past, Tempestuous Present

Seemingly they were two individuals scarred by the past, bound by a common desire for justice and redemption. Together, Shadow and Cattleya, a thread from his history now woven into her present, formed a truce and agreed to navigate the treacherous storms of their entangled destinies.

"The storm is letting up," Murdock observed while peering as the ocean's wild waves subsided and the winds diminished.

The dark intensive squall dissipated, moving inland as light rain showers. The lights blinked, flickered, and then brightened again as if mirroring the shifting emotions within Cattleya. As the sunlight broke through the clearing clouds, its rays flooded the room, casting a warm glow on everything it touched. Cattleya's gaze was drawn to the panoramic view of the ocean outside; her mind remained filled with conflicting thoughts and emotions.

Cattleya couldn't ignore the weight of her decision as she contemplated her agreement with Marshall Murdock. Revenge burned within her, a desire to avenge her father's death and bring justice to his name. But beneath the flames of vengeance, a glimmer of hope flickered, crying out for redemption. She yearned to escape and to escape the secrets of her father's dark legacy, shedding their stranglehold on her life.

Standing near the window, she watched Marshall Murdock, her wariness ingrained in her very being. The storm may have abated, but the tempest within her continued to rage. She knew she had to tread carefully with Murdock, never fully trusting a spy.

Sensing their continued contentiousness, Murdock attempted to defuse the lingering hostility.

"Some fresh air, then? I used to love walking the beach after a storm. The seashells ... scattered everywhere, so beautiful," he remarked, his voice laced with a hint of nostalgia.

The idea of beachcombing tempted Razor's daughter. Still, she hesitated. In the open air, others might see them, complicating matters if she had to resort to using her pistol.

"Perhaps, another time, Murdock," Cattleya replied evenly, her hand slipping back into her pocket, comfortably gripping the weight of her weapon and weighing her decisions.

As they stood there, a sense of shared understanding washed over them in that fleeting moment. Murdock's calm and non-defensive demeanor resonated with Cattleya, who also felt driven by her agenda and past experiences. They were united in their determination to achieve their goals despite their challenges.

Observing Cattleya's gun hand again in her pocket, Murdock offered a suggestion.

"A stroll on the beach some other time, then? Meanwhile, I'll work on how we can help one another," he replied, motioning toward the stairwell.

"You first," she announced, with a twitching signal of her pocketed hand, a subtle gesture to assert her position, not wanting Marshall behind her.

"Sure, give me a week to connect with some contacts and assemble something?" he proffered, turning toward the stairs. Leading the way down, his footsteps echoed on the well-worn oak stairway.

"I thought you were retired?" Cattleya's curiosity seeped into her words as she followed him, determined not to let him linger behind her.

"I still have an Agency friend I can count on to help. We'll need resources and funding; perhaps that old friend can assist with it. My pension isn't big enough for a full-fledged plan of action," Murdock smirked, his voice trailing off.

"Money isn't a problem," Cattleya interjected resolutely as she followed down the stairs. "And I don't trust your Agency. It leaks like a sieve." Contempt flowed out along with her words.

Her remark had been made with her father's Swiss bank account numbers in mind. These were kept in a safe deposit box in his bank in Colombia. She managed the banking now and had exclusive access to his accounts with the billions they held after his demise. The new drug cartel leadership had pried the family business out of her hands as she dealt with her grief, but it couldn't access the accounts and had spitefully put out a bounty for her and her sister's capture. That ended when the Medellín Narco-police found the new leader's body and five top bosses in a warehousing district.

Those bodies were discovered hung from meat hooks in a slaughterhouse. Their wives and children were left to bear the pain of losing a patriarch. Cattleya had quickly learned to speak the language of 'plata o plomo,' a bribe — or — a bullet. Legally and politically connected, her reputation and harsh actions had won her a badge of feared respect among the Narco-police and their prey. Like Razor, her notoriety grew in fame as one to be feared if you crossed her path. News reports called the unidentified cartel woman 'Orphan Maker.' It bought her some time, though tenuously so.

Out of the loop for the last four years, Shadow didn't fully comprehend Cattleya's metamorphosis nor the extent of the danger she presented.

"Sieve?" Murdock echoed her words as he paused halfway down the stairs, taken aback by her assertiveness; a note of intrigue sounded in his voice.

"How do you think I found you?" she smirked, following him as he advanced. Exiting the front door, she tossed a directive into the air, "Work out a plan. I'll be back — you have my word."

"Sieve?" he muttered again, contemplating the implications of her words as she departed, "Could it be so rife as that?" Her tone and the finality of her words had a ring of truth. He knew she would be back. Murdock watched as the silver Aston Martin sped down the palm-littered roadway in the storm's aftermath. Would her return be for his demise or a genuine commitment to justice?

"I had him! Could have killed him the minute he opened the door ... should have. Should have done it right then, and I wouldn't ..." Cattleya's frustrations spilled out, her voice blending with the wind as she furiously drove down the curved, rain-slickened two-lane roadway.

Her outcry as she raged aloud against the twist that had come about as she sought out Shadow, the spy who had occupied her thoughts for the last four years. She sped away, leaving him alive. That turn of events vexed her just like Murdock's seeming angst at her father's death.

Each gear-up-and-down shift of the seven-speed-stick Aston Martin helped ease some anxieties as she raced up the coastline's twisting turns. She didn't have a destination, just a desire to vent. Feeling the exhilaration of careening around the coastal highway's sharp hairpin turns, she slowly pushed her anger aside while shifting gears. A hundred miles down the road, as the horns from oncoming cars blared at near misses, she began to calm down. Dropping her speed below ninety miles an hour, she soon pulled into a service station and made for a pay phone.

"Pati, I found him!" she exclaimed eagerly, as the call to Colombia connected.

"Where are you?" Pati's voice, concerned and curious, echoed through the line.

"California, along the coast, miles from nowhere. He was on the beach," Cattleya shared, with determination and uncertainty coloring her words.

"Is he ... you know?" Pati's Colombian accent asked in English. Her cryptic question hung in the air, the unspoken words conveying their understanding. That voice belonged to Cattleya's younger twenty-seven-year-old sister.

Cattleya's voice halted momentarily, "No ... he isn't."

"He got away? How?" Pati asked chidingly, and with a measure of disbelief. She knew her sister well.

"He ... isn't going anywhere for now. I know this sounds crazy, but we talked, and somehow what he said seemed ... like ... a way for us to get out from under all of this," Cattleya explained, her voice tinged with hope though mixed with skepticism at the turn of events.

"But you're going to get this done. For Papi. You promised!" Pati's words held an undercurrent of determination and expectation.

"Mi amor, sometimes promises must be delayed to achieve other goals first. You know I always keep my promises, be patient."

Shifting subjects, Cattleya said, "I need your help ... for now, send me my gray shoebox — overnight. I plan to vacation here all week." Cattleya's voice carried a note of secrecy and trust.

"Gray shoes — got it. Same address as before?" Pati's voice shifted to a business-like tone, their covert conversation understood.

"Yes, send it by courier and use extra postage, please," Cattleya replied, her words laden with hidden meanings and coded language.

The words were hedged with innuendo for fear of telephone lines being under scrutiny. In the last four years, Cattleya had become a master of surveillance and didn't trust any communication lines — even those with her sister. The gray shoebox was code for $10,000,000 in cash. By courier — meant sent by a trusted diplomatic, armed courier. It helped to have connections in high places and access to backup support. Diplomatic pouches and armed couriers made the funds secure for delivery. If Murdock required funding, she stood ready — if his plan aligned with what she wanted to be done.

Sitting at an out-of-the-way table in a nearby bar and grill, Cattleya pondered the price of escape from the drug cartel's clutches; her mind swirled with thoughts of justice and hope. That gray shoebox delivery symbolized her resources and power level at high government levels; it held the key to her next move. The amount was a pittance from her coffers. If Murdock's words were sincere and he could devise a viable plan, he might get to live longer. But as she contemplated her options, she couldn't shake the weight of family blood ties and her loss. In her business dealings, her father had repeatedly advised, "Make use of your enemies' strengths before cutting your ties."

Suppose Shadow has a means of wiping out my competition. In that case, I can transition out of the business and be relatively safe from retribution, she thought, anticipating that day.

Cattleya had handled the family's banking business since her father's demise. At the same time, the drug dealings had been wrenched from her control by powerful cartel 'friends' of her father. The memories of her father's empire and the suffering it perpetuated haunted her. Her heart ached at the thought of those trapped in poverty, the drug production and distribution cycle, and the faceless users perpetuating the demand. But amidst the brooding, the idea of family — even if her father was a criminal — demanded justice and remained prominent in her tumultuous thoughts.

Her heart ached for those who continued to live in poverty with seemingly no way out as they farmed the coca, converted it into cocaine, and shipped it worldwide. Even with interdictions, the money flow was a hundred times more lucrative than any product lost or the cost of bribes. The never-ending cycle of suffering in the fields of Colombia and up the drug supply chain was seared into her mind like a scar from Razor's straight blade from past mistakes made.

Promises delayed, goals intertwined, Cattleya resolved to work with Murdock for now. In retribution, she was determined to bash the cartel, seek a way out of the drug world, and then return to address the family blood ties that bound her.

With that decision made, the Widow Maker leaned back in her chair, her gaze fixed on the clearing horizon while sipping on three fingers of bourbon. The quietness of the late afternoon crowd left her at ease as she swallowed the last of the bourbon —not bad, she thought.

Murdock indicated two others were involved in my father's demise. I have a week, she mused,that should give me time to leverage my American contacts and determine who those two are — perhaps deal with them before I get back to Murdock.

As a rare porterhouse steak luncheon arrived at her table, Cattleya put aside her thoughts and cut into it, watching the blood ooze across the plate. Given how she had set out this morning, it seemed a fitting meal; at least something's blood ran red on this day. That thought brought a light smirk to her lips as she ate silently, contemplating how to placate Pati.

In the conversation with Shadow, the storm within her may have momentarily quieted, but the storm of her beginning journey was tempestuously brewing.

"Hello?"

"Hello, James."

James' voice went silent.

You could almost hear his heartbeat growing faster as the chilled recognition of those two words from the estranged caller's voice sent a shiver through his body. The hairs on his neck prickled as goosebumps appeared upon his arms. Four years ago, that voice had been stilled in a car-bomb explosion. James Jordan had buried his friend, Marshall Murdock, in Arlington National Cemetery. He was the last of the Silver Shadow's team whose other members had succumbed to the violence that had invaded the Agency as its elite members were hunted one by one by a mysterious assassin.

"Buddy, can you spare a dime — a knife — and a gun?" The caller calmly asked James.

The anonymous voice from the grave asked as though it had never left the agency four years ago. Of course, it belonged to Marshall. A call that broke protocols, those that were supposed to assure his new identity was secure, and his life would play out in anonymity until the end of days.

James overcame his silence, hesitant and unsure of how he should respond to a dead man's voice. The code words were there from eons ago.

"This isn't a handout-kind-of place, buddy. Best you go to the old park and ask there; noon would be a good time to ask for a dime," James replied and hung up.

That afternoon, Marshall warily approached the park bench across from Langley. A lone figure sat reading a newspaper. So damned out of place in these days of electronic readers that he knew it was James, even without seeing his face.

"Mind if I sit?"

"It's a free park, free bench, and doesn't cost a dime — a knife — or a damned gun," the wry voice answered while lowering the paper.

"For a dead guy, you don't look so bad," James Jordan smirked, as he took in Murdock's aged appearance.

"I've been compromised," Murdock responded as he sat down, having swept the surrounding park grove for any hint of surveillance. "Those two belong to you?" He asked about the two men seemingly enjoying the afternoon sunshine.

"Yes," James answered. "Don't worry; they're here to ensure nothing happens."

"What happened, Marshall?" Jordan asked, casually flipping a page.

"Cattleya Ramirez happened," Shadow answered, staring at his friend.

The newspaper came down. James frowned. "The Razor's kid? How the hell did she find you?"

"Not sure. She didn't tell me. Just that the Agency is like a sieve, James."

"But you took care of her, right? She's dead, and you came to me for some help to bury her body?" he asked, in disbelief.

"She came for revenge. I saw it when her eyes lit up like the lightning strikes behind her," Murdock replied as he described his encounter.

"You're lucky she didn't skin you — she's Colombian. You know she's a stone-cold killer? Not the same woman you saved back in the jungles. She came out of that as damaged goods. Heads up, some investment bank, now. Scuttlebutt has it she launders money for two cartels still operating out of Medellín. Now, that's a damned good balancing act."

"I gather she wants out of that — after we talked for a while. I could use your help to correct some of what resulted from our actions down there," Murdock said.

Jordan looked at his old friend Murdock and replied, "You want to stir up a hornet's nest and get more of us killed?"

"I'll go it alone, not looking for a sweeping out of the place, just gathering some intel that could help damage the drug flow out of the country."

"That's no small task, Marshall. We've been at that for the last four years and haven't even made a dent in the volume of cocaine infiltrating our borders. What makes a retired field agent want to take a crack at that again?"

"The fact that I wake up at night thinking I screwed up the job — nearly killed an innocent kid in the process. Possibly made it worse than if we had just left it alone."

"That kid was nearly thirty — she may not have been dirty then — but now ...."

"James, she had me yesterday. She could have killed me right in my front doorway. Somewhere in those dark, haunting eyes, I sensed she had some of the same feelings that keep me awake."

"Doctors have pills for that. Makes your dick hard. Jump her bones, Marshall, then dump her in the ocean for the sharks — or try two shots of bourbon before bed, it works for me," Jordan's wry response was meant to lighten the mood, but Shadow brushed it aside, turning serious for the moment. Time was of the essence.

The afternoon shadows crept toward the two spies as they sat and discussed the possibilities of a small off-the-books clandestine action between agents — one active, the other retired, and on the cusp of stepping into a dark Colombian quagmire once again. Neither was aware that, at some distance, a long-range recording of their meeting was being filmed by a swarthy individual concealed in a nondescript van. The Agency wasn't the only organization with intelligence-gathering capabilities.

James Jordan's commitment was tenuous and limited in support. He had stuck his neck out for his friend — at the risk of losing his job and sparking an international incident if things went wrong. Blowback landing on the Agency's doorstep meant a loss of his pension and blacklisting for all other government employment — not to mention prison time as a possibility.

Still, Shadow felt that support would be adequate once he arrived in Colombia — he had wrangled surveillance feeds to come his way from Jordan. Real-time police intercept communications would be provided. The rest would be up to Marshall Murdock and his newly-found friend, Cattleya Rivera, to manage independently. Murdock hoped that Cattleya would find that an excellent first step in seeking out the interwoven connections among the cartels and eventually lead to a chink in their armor that tenuously linked them in a current truce for their mutual benefit.

As Marshall handed his boarding pass to the flight attendant on the return red-eye flight bound for California's LAX, a recollection of Cattleya's barbed remark resurfaced — about money not being an obstacle. James had divulged her remarkable ability to manage a bank, deftly redirecting funds from rival cartels into legitimate accounts—a masterful balancing act. Could it be that she had discreetly stashed a suitcase brimming with currency for such an opportune moment? In those four years since the Razor's death, she had come a long way from a naïve woman basking on Mediterranean beaches to a money launderer back in Colombia. Settling into his seat, Marshall leaned back, closed his eyes, and embarked on a mental journey to chart a detailed action plan. Financing would be a problem if it had to come from his retirement income.

Meanwhile, three seats behind him, a business-casual attired youth sat diligently safeguarding a gray diplomatic attaché case secured to his wrist. Below, in the belly of the colossal aircraft, rested three containers resembling suitcases adorned with distinctive Colombian diplomatic labels—destined to arrive in the vibrant city of Los Angeles.

The Colombian attaché fidgeted as the chain chaffed his wrist. Fighting fatigue, he struggled to remain awake, thinking about how he was charged with delivering three sizable containers in the aircraft's cargo hold.