Hayley Lankford: In The Cross Hairs.
It was going to be a beautiful day. There was just enough breeze in the air to move the flags outside of the modern, glass and steel building of the Malpaso Oil headquarters slightly. The building announced its presence like an American in a Hawaiian shirt at a dinner party, unsubtle and garish. In an hour the pavements would be packed with people walking faster than the angry traffic, but that was later. For now, all was calm.
The Malpaso reception area was as big and proud as the exterior. The exterior walls were all glass. Other than a small reception desk there was nothing but open space. The air was air-conditioned and stale with none of the early morning freshness of the outside air. At the back of the lobby, behind the safety of the reception desk, was a bank of five gleaming elevator doors.
An elevator door opened and Ms. Hayley Lankford stepped out. She was in her early thirties and dressed in a tailor-made trouser suit. She was a woman who could impress without trying. A woman for whom style and elegance came naturally.
The black skirt suit had been made in Thailand; she'd had it cut specifically to emphasise her curves. She found that was an effective way of controlling where people, mostly men, looked.
The jacket was unbuttoned and under it was a grey satin blouse, open just enough to hint at her impressive cleavage.
Her dyed blonde hair was piled up neatly on the top of her head. She was tall and her four inch heeled court shoes placed her near six feet tall. She didn't shy from her height; she walked confidently with her shoulders back, ready to defeat the world.
Out of the elevator behind her stepped two men, one of whom matched Lankford's height while the other eclipsed both. They wore expensive but boring suits, plain white shirts, and striped ties.
The taller of the men was in his mid-fifties. He had a fleshy face with mean, thin lips. His body appeared slim apart from a belly which even the expensive suit couldn't hide. He was the CEO of Malpaso Oil, Mr Christopher Moral.
The shorter man was younger and leaner. He had broad shoulders that slimmed down to a thin waist. His face was like a slab of stone, hard, wide and tanned. His face bore almost no emotion at all. He was Peter Martin, head of Malpaso security.
The two men had to quicken their step to catch up with Lankford, who was by now close to the revolving doors at the front of the building.
"I was impressed with your work in Vienna," Moral said catching Lankford as she stopped at the door. Moral then turned to the other man. "I want you to use Miss Lankford on the Alaskan project."
"Of course Sir," Martin said, with as little emotion in his voice as in his face.
Lankford said nothing, remaining polite and professional.
Moral nodded his thanks and then followed by Martin they walked outside into the morning sunlight.
Lankford knew something was wrong. Her nerves were tingling. She didn't know what it was yet. What trouble could there be here in the middle of a big city? Not much. Nothing to set off her instincts. But, there was something, something was off, there was danger here. But where?
After years of experience in diplomatic protection duties, Lankford fell back into her training and routines. With her nerves on high alert, Lankford's eyes scanned up and down the street, then the roofline opposite.
The sun blinded her, but there was a shape up on the roof. She put her hand up to block out the worst of the light; the shape was a man.
There could be no good reason for a man to be up on that roof watching them, not low down like that and not so early in the morning. He could be only one of a few things, the most likely being a sniper.
To her right Lankford could see the pick up car approaching out of the corner of her eye. If she could get everyone inside that car then they'd all be safe. She guessed it would be about ninety seconds.
Lankford stepped in front of Moral. Instinct had acted; it wasn't her job to protect him. She wasn't his Close Protection Officer, but old habits die hard.
The car stopped and then suddenly exploded.
A sheet of flame and heat came from beneath the car, quickly enclosing the vehicle and then moving outwards.
The force of the explosion lifted Lankford off her feet and threw her into Moral.
Lankford was engulfed by the heat of the blast. She had just registered it was an explosion when she felt an agonising pain. Shards of flying metal buried themselves into her back. Unconsciousness claimed her, and she faded into blackness.
X
Six months later Hayley Lankford sat on a small metal framed single bed that filled the room. The air-conditioning unit in the corner was running full force and yet the room felt like an oven. The room was plain: a bed, a nightstand, a small desk. The emphasis on function made her feel like she was living in a hotel room designed and run by the Army.
"Yes, I promise I'll be careful Mum," she said, trying not to roll her eyes at the pixelated version of her mother on the laptop screen. "Don't worry about me. You just take care of Dad and let me know what the doctor says."
"Ok bye darling," her mother said as she reached forward toward her own laptop. Just before the call cut off, though, she said, "Oh, maybe you might want to speak to David? See how he is?"
"David and I are divorced Mum," Lankford said with frustration. "He doesn't want to speak to me."
"Well, maybe if you tried talking to him about what happened. Did you discuss anything before you rushed straight back to work?"
"Mum, look, I've got to get on. I'm busy with my reports."
"Okay, sorry darling. You get on. I'll speak to you next week."
Lankford sighed as the screen went blank, and idly cast her eye over her contact list to see if there was anyone else to talk to. Only her ex-husband was online, and she couldn't face speaking to him. She was pretty sure he wouldn't answer the call, despite what her mother thought.
Feeling lonely, she shut the screen down and put it on the floor next to the bed. She could feel the scars on her back aching. The rehab therapists had been harassing her to stretch and move to maintain her fitness and ease the pain.
Instead she lay back and put her hands behind her head. Her body was glistening with sweat from the heat. She lay in just her small strappy top and her thong. Both were so wet that they clung to her skin.
Her thong was a black silk with white lace trim. Lankford knew it was too racy for sitting around and skyping, but it helped her to feel better about herself. Her large unsupported breasts were sliding outward towards her armpits, with her nipples pressing through the material.
Her clothes were by the side of her bed in a small pile. First were her boots, then her neatly folded camel coloured safari style suit and on top of that was the matching bra to her thong. The bra, like the thong, stood out as the only feminine thing in the otherwise masculine room.
"Where the fuck am I again?" she asked herself, as she stared up at the exposed girders that ran the length of the ceiling. She wondered why no one had covered them.
The windowless room gave her no real clues. She could be in any of Malpaso's outposts around the world. She'd been to so many it was hard to tell them apart. In her new job as a security advisor, it was her job to visit the "overseas interests".
"Thank you for saving my life," Moral had said. "I want you working for me. I've got big plans for you."
Lankford accepted with little emotion. She was still recovering from the car bomb, but what had really left her numb was the folder of paperwork sitting beside her bed that her husband, her soon-to-be ex-husband, had left for her.
It didn't matter where she was. One Malpaso installation was just like the next; a closed world inside miles of fencing. Every visit lasted fourteen days, of which this was the tenth. Then she would be in an identical room at another Malpaso installation for another fourteen days. And so on and on for the next six months.
Tomorrow was going to be a test. Day eleven always was. The balancing act between egos and reality. This was the meeting with the head of security and the site manager. She would present them her findings. They would argue. She would provide evidence. They would argue. She would prove her findings. They would try and go above her head. Then, finally, her report would be adopted and the changes set in motion.
Her report was already written. These sites had the same problems, so the reports were getting easier with each iteration.
She ran one of her hands over her long legs and stomach and tried to think about the last time she'd been alone in a man's company. She discarded the uncomfortable one-night stands she'd had since her divorce. They didn't warrant remembering, let alone fantasising. She thought further back, to her ex-husband. There had been tender memories, good memories, but they had all been tainted, and dissolved into a big painful mess.
Her hands slid between her leg and stroked her inner thigh lightly. Thailand. She remembered how the male masseuse had used far too much oil on her. She hadn't questioned it, but he must have done it deliberately, for his own pleasure. Perhaps fulfilling a fantasy all his own. The oil had caused her body to shine erotically in the low light.
There was a loud banging on the metal door of her room, an incessant banging.
Lankford sat upright. She felt a chill sweep over her. Something was wrong again. She could feel it. The clock read seven pm. She wondered what was going on as she stripped off her t-shirt and reached for her large bra. She found herself wishing she could have a normal size bra.
"Who's that?" she said, fiddling with her bra, preparing to cover her sweaty breasts.
The banging on the door stopped. Something wasn't right with this at all. Lankford abandoned the bra and reached for the Glock 17 under her pillow. Her hands had just wrapped around it when the door burst open.
A young man rushed into the room. He was six foot, muscled, white, and around eighteen years old. He was in domestic combat trousers and a loose fitting t-shirt. He would have been a threat even without the submachine gun in his hands. This man was not a professional. He was nervous and, therefore unpredictable. A dangerous combination.
He hadn't expected to find a topless woman in one of these rooms. He didn't scan the room like he should, or look at her gun, or her eyes. No, this young man's eyes were focused on her impressive breasts.
