“Perhaps I would,” Virginia says. She's lean, and according to the file the social worker showed me before she dropped me off at the house, she's former military. She looks it too, with muscles outlined against her chocolate-brown skin, and eyes that look like they've seen some shit. “But I wouldn't be helping those people who treat me that way by acting like an inconsiderate baby.”
“Excuse me, bitch?” I snap, sitting up. “I ain't no goddamn baby.”
“First of all, it's 'I am not a baby'. Second of all, in this house, you will not curse me, nor any other person who is my guest. What you do outside I cannot control, but you will show respect to me and my house.”
“Or else what? You send me back to the orphanage? Return to sender, address unknown?”
Virginia gives me a little smile, which pisses me off for some reason. “Well, you can't be all bad, you at least have some knowledge of Elvis. As for what will happen... no, I will not send you back, for two reasons. First off, because I don't fail, and sending you back means that I fail. But more importantly, because I won't let you fail, and sending you back will guarantee you that you will end up a failure in life. You're not going to get another foster home, not with three strikes against you. Even if you are a pretty little white girl, the only place you'll end up is some pervert's house. And while I may not live in the best home in New Orleans, that's by choice, and you will not fail on my watch.”
“I ain't no failure!” I scream, getting to my feet. “You take that back!”
“Make me,” Virginia says softly, shifting her right foot back. “If you can.”
I charge her, my right hand already cocking back in a punch that comes from the depths of my rage, but instead of hitting her, I'm redirected. She sends me spinning through the air and crashing to the hardwood floor of the dining room. Virginia keeps a hold of my wrist and twists, and I howl, tears of anger and pain already flowing as she turns me over onto my stomach. She wrenches my hand around and up until I feel my little finger touching between my shoulder blades and her knee on my spine near my waist.
“Your anger makes you strong, Katrina. But you must learn to control it. Now tell me, before I have reason to dislocate your shoulder, why are you so angry?”
I cry, trying to look up to see her, but I can't, no matter how hard I kick or fight. Finally, I howl, letting the truth out. “My parents! They got blowed up!”
Virginia eases off her arm lock slightly but keeps a strong grip on my wrist. “Tell me what happened.”
I close my eyes and struggle against the memories, but they come flooding out anyway, carrying me away. “Mama and Papa, we were at the Fair Grounds. We'd gone for the horse show... I'd begged them to take me after that movie, and after the hurricane. Mama said that she'd dropped her phone, and I told her I'd go get it. I run back and see it on the ground near the door to the elevator, and turn around. The car... the car blowed up! The fire... it's so hot... MAMA! PAPA! DON'T LEAVE ME!”
I'm sobbing, and Virginia releases my arm to pull me up into an embrace. She lets me sob and scream my horror, anger, and everything into her chest. When the tears finally stop, Virginia lifts me to my knees and looks into my eyes. “This is very, very important, Katrina. What do you want to do with this rage?”
I sniff and wipe at my nose, looking into Virginia's sand-colored eyes. “I want to kill whoever killed Mama and Papa.”
I know I shouldn't say it. The social workers tell me that it's wrong to feel this way, that I'm supposed to live and let live like Pastor Gibb who comes by the orphanage says we should do...but I'm no Jesus. I want something darker.
But Virginia doesn't flinch, and instead she nods, brushing a lock of hair out of my eyes. “Good. You're being honest, which is a good thing. Then I make you a promise. Your training will not be easy. You may not survive your vengeance. But I swear to you, as someone who's been there... you will not fail.”
I open my eyes to see the candle's burned itself out. I smile, feeling refreshed. Using meditation to supplement sleep wasn't something that Virginia taught me, but I can't deny that I learned a lot from her. She was the first in a long line of instructors, of teachers who gave me the skills that have finally brought me to this point.
I shift positions, rolling onto my back because I know my feet are going to be asleep still after kneeling for what's most likely been an hour or more. As blood flow slowly returns to my toes, I feel a pain that gradually subsides into the familiar pins and needles sensation that's always a part of this process. My feet are still tingling when I hear the door to my loft unlock. I sit up immediately—only a few people have a key to my place, but still I'm wary. It pays to be careful, and pays more to be paranoid.
The door opens, and the soft lighting above my door shows me it's Darcy. She's another one of my mentors, but more importantly, she's my best friend. She's thirty-two years old, but Virginia introduced us six years ago, on my sixteenth birthday. Meeting Darcy was my birthday gift from Virginia, and in the long run has been the best gift I've ever gotten. “Darce, I'm over here.”
“Damn girl, I know you want to cut down on your electricity bill, but you could run this entire setup right now with two nine-volts and a hamster wheel,” Darcy says, making her way through the dim space. “What, short on money again?”
“You know that's not the problem,” I tell her, although there have been times in the past when I barely had two dimes to rub together and another payday nowhere in sight. “The skills you taught me provide better than that.”
An anarchic, idealistic hacktivist, it took Darcy a long time to come around to my point of view on things, and agreeing to teach me more than the basics of computer science. Not that my education was ever traditional, but nowadays, under the hacker handle Coup De Grace, I'm able to earn enough to put food in my stomach and keep the lights on.
“Yeah, of course I know,” Darcy says, her boots clomping on the floor. She and I share somewhat similar viewpoints on fashion, and that's one of the things we bonded over first. Well, that and a hatred of all things Microsloth. “Jeff saw the pics a half hour ago. I dropped Henry off with his grandmother and hightailed it over here, telling her a client had a computer issue. She doesn't quite understand my work, so it's cool like that.”
“You didn't need to rush over here. I'm fine,” I say, getting to my feet. My little toes are still tingling, but it's not too bad. “Have you seen them?”
“Sho'nuff. Didn't think he'd be so... short. Thick, but short.” She holds the tips of her index fingers close together, indicating his length.
I laugh and get up. I know she’s talking shit because she knows my hatred of the family. He damn sure wasn’t short. “Actually, he's bigger than the average man. I'd say a solid eight or nine, although I didn't have my ruler with me. I'm guessing the jacket hid some, and the angle of the photo hid some more. They get any of me?”
“They got your body and hair, but the photos released so far don't show your face. Don't matter, though, since you're off-grid so much. But from what I did see...you were lookin' good, girl.”
Darcy's comment about me being off-grid is true. Katrina Grammercy has no driver's license, no photo IDs, no voter registration card, not even a library card. Everything is handled through 'Net identities and anonymous numbered accounts, or face to face with no paper trail. Cuts down on my income... but money isn't what I need. And it's definitely not what motivates me.
“Well, regardless, you and I both know that Peter DeLaCoeur's going to be coming for me. I just need enough time to take him the rest of the way down,” I say.
“And your friend? I know he's a womanizing asshole, Kat, but he was your best friend when you were kids. You take Papa DLC down, you take down Jacky-boy, too.”
I sigh and shake my head. It surprised me, but it actually hurt when I saw the look in Jackson's eyes. Once he realized who I was, there was a distinct look of betrayal I saw before I got out of the car. “You know there's no other way, Darce. I can't attack the DeLaCoe
urs head on. Hell, I can't even hack their systems. Peter runs his business the old-fashioned way, with a lot of offline backups, and he only keeps paper trails on the stuff that's legit. From what I can tell, his memory's the only thing that keeps track of his illegal dealings. I need to pull the king out of his fortress, or else I'm dead before I get anywhere near him.”
“You could be dead either way,” Darcy reminds me. “And that, to me at least, is a greater loss than not getting your revenge.”
This is one of the few areas where we still disagree, but we're at peace with the situation. By that I mean I'm at peace with Darcy continually trying to get me to have a more positive outlook on life, and she's at peace with wasting her time trying to achieve that. “Not revenge, Darce. Vengeance. There's a difference,” I say.
“So you've told me for the past six years. But you know I disagree.”
We walk toward my sitting area, if you can call it that. My sitting area is mostly two old, patched-up wooden chairs from the boxing gym. The accompanying “table” is nothing more than a board of plywood sitting on top of two old computer towers. Since Darcy's here, I turn on the light, which is a solar-powered LED lantern that recharges during the day from the small amount of sunlight that comes in through the only window that isn't boarded up in the warehouse. “Darcy, if you really disagreed with me that much, you'd tell Jeff. If he busted a hacker like me, he'd get a promotion for sure. At the very least, it'd get him off patrols and a detective's shield.”
“And betray my best friend?” Darcy asks, shaking her head. “No honey, me and Jeff, we got ourselves an understanding. He don't ask about what I do besides put together custom computers for people, and I've backed off my online stuff for the most part. He helps me sometimes too though, when our purposes align.”
I chuckle. “Backed off? Since Henry's been born, I barely see you on the boards anymore. Let alone see your traces around the systems.”
Darcy smirks and shrugs. “Ah, it's all good. I keep up-to-date, and besides, I make more money building kits for Tulane kids than I ever did trying to change the world one server at a time. And you know, if you really need my help, well, BlakDhal1A can always make a comeback.”
“You still worry about me though,” I say with a smile. “Why?”
“You know why, Kat. I already buried my family one time, when Katrina came through. I don't wanna bury you, too.”
“If by setting one’s heart right every morning and evening, one is able to live as though his body were already dead, he gains freedom in the Way,” I quote to Darcy, smiling softly. “The Hagakure.”
“I hate that fucking book,” she counters, then sighs. “All right Kitty-Kat, you my sister. You wanna run headlong to your doom... I'll be there to make sure you at least get a proper funeral. We'll have jazz and everything.”
I stand up, and Darcy follows. We hug at the door, and I give Darcy a bit of a smile. “Don't sweat it, Darce. Give my regards to Jeff and Henry. Someday I'd like to meet them in person.”
“I'd like that, too. Good night, Kat.”
“Goodnight, Darcy.”
Chapter 4
Jackson
I find Nathan in his workshop, where he's patiently cleaning each spring and screw of his Colt. While the military may have shifted to the Beretta 9mm, Nathan's old school, and shoots American, using the Colt 1911 as his preferred carry piece. Until today, I was able to lie enough to myself that the chromed cannon was used only for practice and defense. Dangling from the coat rack next to his workbench is a single hanger that has both his suit jacket and dress shirt. There's not a single wrinkle or crease in the whole works, and I can also make out that his tie has been draped around the hanger with equal care. He's sitting on a barstool in front of a drafting table in just his suit pants and a wife beater undershirt, intensely focused on his weaponry.
“Hello, Nathan.” His workshop is an odd comparison in contrasts. Along one wall is his gun cabinet—containing not only pistols, but larger guns and weapons. No surprise there, since you'd expect that from someone who works in private security. But across the room is a wooden rack that's devoted entirely to tea. The rack is five feet wide by two feet tall, and the entire thing is filled with canisters of loose leaf teas plus an electric hot water dispenser. I didn't even know they made that many different types of tea, and he's got them all organized by type, flavor, and country of origin. In the corner next to the tea area is his fish tank, which contains a dozen different tropical fish all swimming peacefully. I guess it's great he has hobbies beyond being a scary motherfucker, but it's just... weird, I guess.
“Hello, Mr. Jackson. Is there something I can do for you?” Nathan takes a small toothbrush from a cleaning kit and begins scrubbing the trigger area of the pistol. Periodically he pauses to dip the brush into a small bowl with some nastyass smelling solvent before resuming brushing away.
“I came to talk with you about the errand Pops is sending you on. I trust we can keep this conversation between us?”
It's a risk, but one I have to take. Nathan's always been loyal to Pops, and I know that even approaching the man I could be risking a lot of anger. But this is Katrina... I can't sit back this time.
Nathan, however, scrubs at his trigger assembly a little bit longer, saying nothing before setting the whole thing down. “What did you hear?” he says coolly.
“That he wants Katrina Grammercy... dealt with. And something about ten years ago. What the hell does that mean?”
Nathan shakes his head, refusing to answer. Instead, he picks up the barrel of his pistol and something that looks like a round, giant Q-tip. I think it's called a bore swab? Anyway, he starts using it to wipe out the barrel a few times before he responds. “He did ask me to deal with Katrina. Do you have an issue with that?”
I blink in surprise. I wasn't expecting him to answer me, let alone admit to anything. “You're goddamned right I have an issue with it, Nathan! I mean, I've assumed for a while you had... skills, but to use them just because someone made me look like an ass?”
“Actually, she made you look like a dick,” Nathan jokes softly, and I stop. I've known Nathan for most of my life, and I think this is the first time I've ever heard him make a joke. I didn't know the man even had a sense of humor. I just assumed it had been shot off in the same war where he'd gotten that wicked-looking scar.
“I... Damn, Nathan, I didn't know you could make jokes. Not a bad one at that,” I say with a small laugh. “But seriously, though, it's just some pictures on the Internet. That's no reason to have a young woman... oh fuck it, let's talk like men. It's no reason to have someone killed!”
Nathan goes still for a moment, and I worry that I've crossed a line or something. He pulls the bore swab out of the barrel of the gun, setting everything aside before turning to face me. “And what would you know about good reasons to kill someone, hmm? Before I started working for Peter DeLaCoeur, I was in the Special Forces. I've killed people for a lot less,” he says softly.
“That was in the military. It's different.”
“Is it? Jackson, when I was at Campbell, we were sent to Somalia right after the end of the first Gulf War. This would have been right around the time you were getting your first teeth. It's not on the official list of deployments, but we were sent up to try and pacify a country that was embroiled in a civil war that's still going on today. The 75th Rangers might get the glory and the blame for that Charlie Foxtrot, but we were there, too.” He pauses, and shakes his head before continuing.
“The problem was that we couldn't find anyone worth turning the country over to. Each warlord was just as depraved and morally bankrupt as the next. It wasn't even a matter of having to choose between the lesser of two evils, it was more like deciding by randomly tossing a dart at a list of names. I saw things... I did things that made human life very, very cheap. I saw plenty of people killed, and for a lot less than some embarrassing photos.”
“It still isn't right, Nathan. Whatever happened twenty ye
ars ago... that was then, this is now. And what the hell's this about Katrina's parents?”
Nathan starts reassembling his pistol, slowly making sure each piece is perfectly aligned before he makes tiny adjustments with a miniature screwdriver set. “Samuel and Theresa Grammercy were killed when their car exploded in a parking garage near the Fair Grounds ten years ago. Katrina survived because she was fifty feet away, partially shielded by a concrete pillar that protected her from the worst of the bomb blast.”
“A bomb ordered by my father,” I say bluntly. “You can say it; I want the truth.”
“It may have been ordered by Peter, yes,” Nathan says quietly. “It may very well have been.”
“And is it possible that maybe you were involved in planting that bomb?” I ask. Nathan slides the barrel of his Colt back into the sliding upper part and checks the action.
“If you're asking me if I have experience with explosives, the answer is yes. Special Forces trained me in those and a lot more. But I didn't kill Samuel and Theresa. I didn't really like Samuel, but he was a family man, and someone who was doing a little bit of good in this town. I certainly would not have blown them up in front of their daughter. Besides, weren't you two close back then?”
“We were good friends,” I admit. “I met her when I was six, I think? We were in the same class through most of elementary school.”
“Did you have feelings for her? She was blossoming into a young woman right about the time her parents died, and you were... well, if my memory is correct, that was about the time you started showing an interest in women.”
It's my turn to remain silent as I think back on the past. Had I been interested in Katrina? I remember thinking she was cool, and not yucky like I thought most girls were back then. And she was really cute, in a way that... oh, fuck this, I can't tell Nathan all this. I can't even be honest with myself. “She and I... she was a special friend, which makes what happened in the limo not just embarrassing, but painful, Nathan. Regardless, I don't want her killed over it. It's not right, dammit!”
Alpha's Baby: A Secret Baby Romance Page 27