Chapter One - Misappropriated

Chapter One - Misappropriated

Felipe de Jesús Calderón Hinojosa

Born: 1962. Assumed office: December 1st, 2006.

He is the 56th president of Mexico, the 16th of those to be of the National Action Party. During the election process, his narrow victory was contested by his rival, Andrés Manuel López Obrador. However, the victory was confirmed by the Federal Election Tribunal.

Let us not forget that Calderón only won by 0.56% of the vote. Rumours have circulated and brought to question the authenticity of those election results. Some people do not trust Calderón and believe he needs to be removed from office. One such person is my most recent patron. I’ve been offered $200 000 to retire Calderón early, and as such, plan to do so. It doesn’t concern me why my customer wants Calderón dead, or if there’s even a reason. I’m a gun for hire; it’s not my job to care about such frivolous things.

Sunday afternoon sunlight struggled to shine through the smog and dirty window pane of my suite. I just checked in a few minutes and hauled my bag up here to the ninth floor. This hotel is expensive, but well worth the cost. As I walked by it, I turned on the suite’s flat screen and flipped over to Channel 4, the news.

I turned up the volume on the T.V. and walked into the bathroom to run a scalding hot bath. Naturally, I first drew closed the curtains and double locked the door to the room before getting into the tub. I left the door open so I could hear the news as I soaked away a days’ worth of impurities from my body. I dunked my head under the water to wet my hair, and what I heard when I came up caused me to leave my bath at once.

“President Calderón was found dead in his office today,” the anchorwoman was far too cheerful when she said this.

It was impossible that the president was dead. He had any security measures Mexico could provide. There was no way he could be dead, unless this was the work of another assassin. Did enough people want Calderón dead that he had multiple killers after him?

The ringing of my cell phone snapped my attention back into real time. I flipped it open and crushed it to my ear, practically growling a “hello”.

“Nevaeh! You work more quickly than I thought!” Mr. Walters, my customer had called me. He believed I had killed the president.

“Sorry to disappoint,” I grumbled, pulling on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, “but this wasn’t my handiwork.”

“Really?” He sounded disappointed that it was not his hired hand that had slain Calderón.

“Yes,” I stared at T.V. which now showed images of war and bloodshed in the Middle East, not seeing.

“Too bad. Well, at least that lying prick is dead. I’m happy. Goodbye!” With that he hung up.

Even a scalding bath did not appeal to me at the moment. Never once before had I had a target stolen from me. The feeling made me lust for blood. And I should have that blood soon enough, just as soon as I found the person who did this. Too shaken to do much else, I sat myself on the couch in front of the T.V. and watched the news.

For hours I slumped on the couch, looking for any clue as to who had committed the act. I found none, of course. As the 11 O’clock news drew to a close, I clicked off the television and went to lie in bed. Although I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, I forced myself to try. After nearly an hour of squeezing my eyes shut and trying to empty my mind, I got out of bed.

Whenever I can’t sleep, which has become quite often, I exercise. I laced up my running shoes and stepped out the door, clutch purse in hand. Because I knew it was late and most people would be asleep, I made my way quietly down the hall and clipped my purse onto my belt. I was in no mood to see the city tonight, so I slipped into the stairwell instead for my exercise and began my descent.

My steps were loud and echoed throughout the stairwell as if it were an amphitheatre. The sound was practically deafening, but I did not stop. Down, down, I went, slapping the railings on the landings. By the time I reached the ground floor, my hands were stinging and red, but I did not stop, could not. I turned on my heel and started to climb upwards at a run. Slap the railing as I pass. I can’t stop now, I have to keep going. Up, up, slap. 10 seconds? Too slow, I’m too slow. Run, run faster! Up, up, slap. You worthless piece of-- Do you see what you’re doing to me? This is all your fault! Your fault! Your fault! The words burn in my mind, searing themselves into my brain. As if they weren’t already there.

After a couple more flights, my mind finally went blank, just as I expected it to. I was in my zone and in no hurry to leave. This was the only place I’d ever found in my mind where there was no pain, and I would stay here forever if I could. Up, up, slap. Turn on the ninth floor and start down again without breaking stride. Down, down, slap. I soon lost track of time.

My cell phone ringing away inside my purse brought my mind back down to Earth. Reluctantly I stopped climbing and answered the call.

“Who is this?” My manners had been forgotten and I silently prayed this person would not take offence to my vulgar greeting.

“Your next customer.” The voice wasn’t human. Well, technically it was, but it was masked by a voice changer and ended up sounding something like Darth Vader.

“And?” One of my eyebrows rose. Some of my past customers had been weird, crazy even, but none of them trusted me so little as to hide their voice from me. It was strange; he didn’t trust me to hear his voice, yet thought to consult me in the killing of another. Not a logical decision to call me if he thought I was going to come after him. I didn’t pretend to know what he was thinking.

“An associate will meet you in the lobby of you hotel at 8:00. Do not be late.” At the time, I did not suspect anything was amiss, though in hindsight, maybe I should have.

Neither of us said goodbye. I hung up and looked at the time. 6:53, time enough to get cleaned up and ready. I started up the stairs again, now hearing my legs crying in protest. Up, up, slap.



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The man stopped walking and held his briefcase out to me. As I wasn’t sure what it contained, I didn’t touch the case, but simply raised an eyebrow at him. For a minute he just stood there, holding the briefcase, saying nothing. I tired of this quickly, so I took the briefcase from him. He wore dark sunglasses, so it was impossible for me to see his expression, though I doubted he even wore one. Without having spoken one word to me throughout our entire meeting, the man left me. His footsteps made no sound as he marched right out of the dank alleyway he’d led me down.

When I was sure he’d gone, I knelt down with the briefcase and set it on the ground. The locks on the case clicked as I opened them and gently pried the lid open. Inside I saw a manila file folder with the words Carianni, Nevaeh printed in red block letters on the cover. Curious, I examined the contents of the folder. There was a biography of the U.S. president, printed off of Wikipedia, stashed inside, along with a list of mission objectives and details. It surprised me that this customer chose me, and yet prepared a folder of what exactly they wanted me to do, as if they thought I wasn’t competent. Then again, the president of the United States is a very high profile target. I crammed the papers back into the folder and locked the briefcase. As there was nothing left for me to do in Mexico, it only made sense for me to leave right away for Annapolis, Maryland, my landing point in America.

I straightened up, briefcase in hand. Pressed against my forehead, I felt something no killer ever expects to feel, the cold steel barrel of a loaded gun, ready to fire. Without so much as a flinch, I flicked my eyes to those of my opponent. They were a clear blue, the eyes of an angel: beautiful but cold, unreal. I could think of no reason for this confrontation, and that frightened me. For if there was no real reason, then it could be nothing other than an assassination, myself the target, something I never imagined would happen. To my surprise, the other assassin lowered his arm. Saying nothing, he turned and stalked off, without having fired a shot.

This morning had been an odd one indeed. Shaking my head in disbelief, I left the alleyway myself, the opposite direction the men had gone. There was no sense in lingering in this city any longer than necessary, so I headed straight for the airport to buy a one-way ticket to the United States of America. The air was dusty and smoggy, although it was barely 9:00. On my way to the airport, I fell victim to a couple of coughing fits, which gained me the disgusted glares of several passers-by. Of course, they meant nothing to me. Somehow, the airport managed to be busy, even on a Monday morning. I vacantly assumed that it must have been the fresh death of the president that was driving people to leave.

The woman behind the ticket booth practically snarled at me when I asked for a ticket to Annapolis. “You think you just go parading into the States right after a president has been killed?” I thought I heard her mutter “stupid Americans” under her breath after she said that, but I couldn’t be sure. She was the stupid one for assuming I was an American, because I’m not. In fact, I hate Americans.

“Yes, I do think that,” I flashed a venom smile at her as I handed her my American passport. It’s a fake, of course, but she doesn’t know that.

Reluctantly, the woman handed me my ticket, returning my smile. I checked the ticket for my time of departure. It said that the flight didn’t leave until 4:00 this afternoon. That’s simply wonderful, now what was I going to do for the next six hours? My mind drew a blank. As I could think of nothing better to do, I slipped my laptop out of its case in my suitcase and switched it on. For now, I would have to occupy myself with making reservations in Annapolis.

After checking out the few places to stay in Annapolis, Maryland, I chose one. Using my nearly dead cell phone, I dialled the hotel and asked for a room for 2 nights. Really, 2 nights ought to be enough for me to get my job done. The man running the desk at the hotel was very friendly, and I think his warm voice may have made my heart skip a beat, had I not been who I was. I charged the room to my MasterCard© and hung up the phone. Naturally, my phone decided to die right after that. I would need it later while on the plane to speak with my customer. I plugged my phone into my laptop to charge it at least somewhat for later.

Usually, I didn’t follow up on my patron’s calls with calls of my own, but this was not the usual case for me. It’s very rare when two assassins are sent to one target, and literally unheard of for it to happen to me. Although really it may not seem like such a big deal, I was suspicious. There was something going on here, I could tell, and I fully intended to find out what it was.

Reservations made, I opened my e-mail to see if there was anything of any remote importance to me. Sadly, I found nothing, which meant I had to attempt to find something else to entertain myself with. I noticed the advertisement flashing beside my inbox. It colourfully illustrated something called an iPod. Intrigued, and quite bored, I clicked on the ad. It took me to a page on Apple’s website strictly dedicated to what they called an iPod touch. I scanned the page, uninterested.

My laptop lurched at my face out of the blue. I glared up at the teenaged boy who had just knocked into my laptop in the crowded airport. He was nodding his head and just looked so content. It was almost as if he were stoned. Who was I kidding, he probably was. At least, I assumed that until I saw the stringy white headphone cord swinging around him, plugged into the bottom of an iPod. I looked once more at the webpage in front of me. It wasn’t the device itself that made that boy euphoric, that much I knew, but there must have been something else about the iPod that did.

I turned to Google for answers. What I found shocked me. It was simply the music that people listened to that made them euphoric. They were willing to dish out something like $300 just to have the convenience of listening to music whenever they pleased. Although I thought it absolutely absurd, I did a search for the Apple store nearest to my hotel in Annapolis. There was one right in town. I told myself that no matter how ridiculous it was, I wanted to feel the euphoria that music seemed to give that teenaged boy. In reality, I shouldn’t call him a teenaged boy, as he’s likely older than I am, but I’ve lived more than he has. Stealing a glance at the clock on my laptop, I glumly noted that there were still 5 and a half hours until my flight.



END OF CHAPTER ONE