"So what happens now?" she asked herself, standing outside City Hall. "Well I'll tell you what happens, Brittany," she replied to herself, running for the park. "You'll cut through the park before the cops come, get to the sorority house, put on some clothes, and then kill those three bitches."
Brittany Summers, twenty years old, business major, and member in good standing of the Phi Kappa Phi sorority, cursed an invective, near Homeric stream as she made her way through Benfield park. "How could I be so goddamn stupid?" she asked for the fifteenth time. "Fuck! This is worse than pledge week."
She thanked Providence most of the town were on the other side of the park, celebrating its 150
th
anniversary. She didn't want to explain her bare-ass nudity to the cops.
The plan was simple really. Drive up to city hall with the girls, strip, and do a streak around the building, just as the mayor and council were leaving. Brit, the fastest runner, would take lead. Terri, Chloe, and Shari would follow with the banner. The result was supposed to be a red-faced mayor, a humiliated council, a college prank for the ages, and a notable protest against the town's anti-immigrant policies.
The girls stripped but, when Brittany started her run, the following footsteps she expected were, instead, replaced by giggles and the sound of car doors slamming. She turned just in time to see Terri and the girls speed away, with Shari smirking, and Chloe flipping her the bird.
"Fuck! You fucking bitches!"
Brittany's parents would be appalled at her language, even though her ex-Marine father regularly cursed a blue streak that would wither trees. She was that angry. Brittany knew precisely why the girls stabbed her in the back.
But I thought the whole thing was settled.
So now she had to make her way through a dark public park in nothing but a pair of sneakers. Where anything could happen. Anything. Like walking into a scene where a man's head is blown off before her eyes.
A brutal murder was the last thing Brittany expected to see. This was a small college town. Men, especially this man, do not get their brains and bits of skull splattered across a field, where children played soccer just hours ago. Not in this place. The gun that facilitated this act was near invisible in the dark. The man who performed it, was not; nor was his companion. The two men looked up at her startled gasp.
The next second decided the rest of Brittany's life. A life measured in seconds were it not for two things.
First, one of the men, somewhat indistinct in the dim light, looked at her and said, before the other turned his gun on her, "Hey! Melanie, nice of you to join us. Sorry you had to see that. Just a business disagreement between our employers."
The second was Brittany herself. A woman taught by her parents to be a survivor. A necessity for a young woman navigating, what her parents saw, a hostile world. Especially college these days.
A father used to peril, who taught his daughter to think on her feet. A mother from a war-torn country, who taught her daughter the value of sangfroid. She took in the scene, and the man's words, in a split second.
These men killed another. I can't outrun them. One will shoot me. Play along. Figure a way out of this.
"Um, who was that?"
"Don't bother yourself," the man said, a queer look on his face.
The other guy, shorter and stockier than the other, asked, "This the entertainment?"
"Yes," his opposite replied.
"Why she have no clothes?"
"I guess she wanted to get started. So the party isn't here then?"
"No party here. Take her to car."
"Uh, shouldn't I get my clothes first?"
And get as far away from these psychos as I can, and call the police?
"No time for clothes. We leave now!"
The other man hesitated as if pondering something.
"What the matter?" the stocky man asked.
"Nothing, I just don't like the change in plans."
"We pay big money. Screw plans. You and girl be rich after this."
"Well, when you put it that way," the taller man grinned. He took Brittany's hand. She hesitated just for a second before the man leaned in and whispered surreptitiously, "Come with me or we're both dead, now!"
The three disappeared into the park, leaving the dead body.
Interlude.
In a small office, in a nondescript building, two men met. One was a tall red-faced man in constant sweat. The other was short, bald, pale, and nervous.
"What do you mean she didn't make the rendezvous?!" shouted the Sweaty Man. The Sweaty Man shouted many things to many people. Shouting was his normal way of speaking.
"She got hit by a car. Some college girls speeding," the Nervous Man stuttered.
"She okay?" the Sweaty Man grunted.
"Serious, but not life-threatening."
"Well this is a fine fuck-up for the mission! Because some college brats couldn't drive straight! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"
"I think it's too soon to tell. Jim Blake was picked for a reason. He's a master at improvisation, and the transmitter is still working, so we know he's still alive."
"Do we know where he is?"
"Apparently a private airport, just outside the town."