Price of a Bounty

-Scott-

Introducing Elaine Ramsey



I was 16, the age of Eligibility, when I joined the military. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t completed my traditional schooling. The military took care of its own, and all training would be provided. I knew it would be a lifelong commitment to a Gov I didn’t agree with most of the time, but given the circumstances, I couldn’t really think of a better option.

Those who enlisted were given special tests. The doctors were pleased with my results. They said I would be an asset to the realm and registered me for the special operations regiment.

I left home with high hopes. I would have a job. I would be able to contribute to society. Better yet, I would be able to help my family. Members of the SOR received extra provisions. I’d immediately requested that my extras be sent home to help my sisters who always had so little.



***



A few weeks ago, Mrs. Elaine Ramsey requested a meeting with the Lieutenant General. She also requested that I sit in as a witness. It was a common practice, though why she requested me specifically, I had no idea, and I didn’t ask. No one ever questioned the head of Ramsey Corps, a tall and thin yet foreboding elderly woman. Near the end of the meeting she shared a personal concern.

“General, I’m embarrassed to say that I was recently robbed.”

The general glanced at me and seemed to consider his words carefully before he spoke. “I hope whatever was taken wasn’t…invaluable.”

“No, but it was a lot of money, and I would like it back. I was thinking maybe we could send in some of the soldiers, discreetly.”

“If our office gets involved, I’ll have to report it as part of the public record. Would you still like our help?”

“No, thank you,” she replied as she shook his hand. “I’ll find another way.”

“Right this way, Mrs. Ramsey.” I held open the door for her. “I’ll be happy to escort you to your car.”

After we’d left the building but before we reached her car, I continued quietly, “I know someone who is in the business of solving problems discreetly and off the record.”

“I’m interested.” She smiled.

“There would be a cost for her services.”

“Cost is not an issue, soldier, if the work is of good quality.”

So I gave her Keira’s alias and told her she should expect to hear from Madeline within the next few days. I’d never approved of my sister’s choice of occupation, yet I tried to help her out whenever an opportunity presented itself.





-Keira-

Getting Out



“Richard, retrieving the money was only part of the job, and there is no way Ramsey would have convinced Rose to kill you, not someone like her – that’s my job. We need to make it look like I killed Oren Johnson. It’s the only way you’ll be safe.”

“No, we’re talking about your safety. However, I believe we can come to an agreement. If Elaine Ramsey believes Oren Johnson is dead, she may leave us both alone.”

I nodded. All right then, we understood each other. “By the way, what do you want me to call you?”

“Most people call me Richard. My friends call me Rick.”

“And you prefer Guy but only with people who know your secret.” I paused for a beat, and then asked, “What does Scott call you?”

“That’s a good question, and one that you should ask him. What would Scott say about you, I wonder? Would he tell me to trust you?”

“Well, I’m no longer planning on killing you, so that’s a plus.” I smiled. “I’ll check in with Scott. If he thinks you’re worth it, then you’ll have nothing to worry about, at least not from me.”

Just then, Eberhardt opened the door and walked in with coffee and muffins. He looked at the gun on the table and then at both of us.

I turned back to Richard. “Do you have a contact on the police force?”

“Of course I do.” He walked briskly to his desk and reached for his transceiver. He placed a call but kept the vidscreen turned off. Instead, he gave a numerical code, which must have clearly identified him to the party on the other end, before he explained the reason for his call.

“What did I miss?” Eberhardt set breakfast on the table and picked up his gun.

I reached for a raspberry muffin and a cup of coffee, black. “It’s Rose. We think she’s working for Elaine Ramsey too.”

“No shit! Really?”

I smiled and licked some crumbs off my fingers.

Richard rejoined us. “I underestimated her too,” he said to Eberhardt. “The police will be here soon to investigate the robbery and death of Oren Johnson. We need to be out of here in half an hour.” He turned to me. “You’ll come with us?”

“No, I have to go to work, and so does Eberhardt.”

Eberhardt nodded. “I’ll stay and work with the police.”

I looked at Richard. “Try to leave without being spotted, and let me go first. I’ll be obvious and try to draw attention away from the building. If Mrs. Ramsey has hired anyone else, hopefully they’ll follow me. I’ll meet with her later this morning and tell her what happened to Oren.”

I retrieved my coat and purse from the bedroom and hurried to the front door. Before I reached it, Richard was at my side, his hand on my arm.

“Wait! Exactly what do you plan to tell her?”

I turned and gave him my full attention. “That I killed Oren Johnson. Don’t worry, I won’t tell her anything else.”

“How can I reach you?”

“It’s probably best that you don’t, but if you need to, contact Scott.”

I hurried through the hall, down the stairs and into the bright sunlight. Once on the street, I projected an air of confidence as I walked along, joining the flow of pedestrians and cyclists. Eventually, I paused and knocked on the window of a cab. It was a rusty old blue wagon. Hopefully, it would get me more than a few blocks before breaking down. I gave the driver directions to The String Bean, a restaurant a few blocks from my apartment.

I frequented The String Bean, since it was so close to home. Over time, the waitstaff and I had become friendly. Today, I walked in, chatted for a bit, and then exited through a side door. One could never be too cautious.

My apartment, located in one of Tkaron’s nicer Working Class neighborhoods, could have easily fit into Richard’s living room, but it was familiar and comfortable. It was home.

I kicked off my shoes and turned on an old techno musical device that had belonged to my mother. A woman’s voice rang out clearly. “Just direct your feet…to the sunny side of the street…” My mother had enjoyed music from the early 20th Century. The upbeat melodies and bright lyrics added color to our days. She’d told me that it masked the prevalent hardships of the time, hardships that seemed to be an ongoing experience for our people. I was drawn to the music because of the irony and because it reminded me of my mother.

I directed my feet past my bed and to my closet. The threadbare carpet was grey now. I had no idea what color it had been in its glory days.

Which outfit would work best for today? As always, I needed to look the part. I chose a pretty green dress speckled with tiny daisies. Shoes? White sandals. After a dab of lip color and something for my eyes, my look was complete, that of a lovely young saleswoman.