Casey Bulter: Amateur Courier http://literfull12.deviantart.com/art/Casey-Bulter-Amateur-Courier-423208071 * I'm sweaty, and sore, and exhausted. I've spent hours going through the same basic drills, over and over again. A jab, a cross, and a front kick. Basic stuff. It's been a month since I had my life stolen from me. Some corporate nobodies hired a woman who barely exists on paper to make sure I didn't get to fight. Because they were afraid I'd win. And as my bare knuckles strike the heavy bag, as I feel a sting in my skin, I tell myself it's my fault. It's really not, but in a twisted way, it helps me cope. And not wearing my gear and working on my strikes, is a way to toughen myself up. All I'm sporting are grey sweat pants and a grey tee. Matches my disposition, I suppose. I hear the clicking of heels behind me, and the scent of lavender hits the air. I was happy to have the gym to myself, but once the pity party started in my head, I guess it's a good time for some social interaction. "You ever going to stop, Casey?" The gentle female voice asked. Melissa. A good friend, who right now I don't even want to look at. "Surprised you came to check up on me, seeing how you didn't bother to before," I chastise her. It's mean, and unfair, but so was being tied up in my own apartment, and not a damn person was concerned about me about me then. And she stops, and looks down at the floor. For a second, I can feel the anger, and the regret pour off her. "Well I guess it's straight to business then," she starts. I turn to face her, and notice she's wearing her business attire. Her straight red hair done up in a bun behind her head. She's wearing a a black business suit. "I'm to offer you work." "Not interested," I scoff. I reach behind my head to undo the hair tie keeping my blonde, shag cut hair back. "I don't need a job." "Well your brother says you do," she tells me. "Greg says your living off your savings, and that'll only last you another two months." "Where was this concern a month ago? Where was it when I needed it?" I question her. "We screwed up. I get it. But I'm offering you real work. It's easy and it pays well," she tells me. "My bosses are looking for a courier. Someone to deliver sensitive, or expensive material across the country, or internationally. It's literally a job where you'll get paid to travel." I pause. I consider it for just a second. It does sound nice, doesn't it? A job where I can move around, and see the sights. It's too good. "There's something else, isn't there?" I ask. "There's probably a long list of applicants who're more deserving. More trustworthy, and reliable, and not damaged. Why me?" And I see it in her eyes and on her face. She was hiding something. My good friend Melissa Gerard was hiding something. Shocker. "We've had some incidents recently. Couriers being Assaulted, and robbed. Murdered even," she continues. "And the bosses, they needed someone who could handle their self, and I thought of you." "Why not involve the authorities on these little runs, huh? Make sure things are safe, and kosher? Why not give the couriers guns?" "Because we might not be completely on the up and up, and to arm couriers would put too many eyes and responsibility on the company," she informs me. "Listen: you need a job and I need a courier. It's that simple. And I know I screwed up, and I know you're pissed, but I'm coming to you as a friend. Please." I should tell her to piss off. I should curse her out. But what happened to me isn't on her. I've always kept people at arms length. It's on me. And maybe, maybe I want a reason to hit people right now. Maybe I need one. "I'm in." It's a pretty sweet deal when I think about it. Getting to travel from place to place, all expenses covered. It's great, actually. On paper. The thing is though, I'm not actually delivering anything. The plan, and I wish Melissa told me about the plan, is that I'm the bait. They leaked that I'm carrying some crazy important documents, when in reality it's some poor employees medical records. I'm supposed to suss out who's attacking the couriers, and stop them. So I'm basically playing detective, when I should probably be seeking therapy. Nice. At least I scrounged a first class flight out of this, and a stay in a hotel for a night. In Seattle. Life is good. Except for the whole maimers and murderers bit. I step off the plane, and already I feel like I got eyes on me. I'm sporting a black sleeveless shirt, and over that I have my biker jacket with the buckle straps on the hem. I'm wearing black jeans, and black hiking boots. Maybe I just look like I want, or need to stand out. The point of this is for me to stand out, anyway. I see a driver lifting up a sign with my name on it, and I have to assume that Melissa set this up. And just so you know, assuming is bad. "You Ms. Butler?" The dark skinned man dressed exactly like every chauffeur in the history of forever asks. He's even got the tinted sunglasses. "Please just call me Casey," I tell him. I'm not comfortable being called miss. The car ride is pleasant. The driver doesn't say a word to me, but it's pleasant. The tinted windows of the car keep out prying eyes. It also occurs to me that I never asked the guy his name. I must look like an ass. But then, I notice the decreasing number of tall buildings, and the growing lack of people. "You sure we're going the right way, pal?" I ask, with a tinge of concern in my voice. "I've lived in this city my whole life, Casey. Trust me, I know where to go." And as he presses on, I notice the warehouses. It occurs to me that Melissa probably didn't call a car for me. And that this is a trap. "Stop the car," I demand. He doesn't listen. "Stop, dammit!" He's not listening to me. I don't want to hurt him, but he's not listening. In my panic, I fail to notice us pulling into one of the warehouses. And that's when he stops. "Happy?" he asks. And before I can crush his windpipe with my hands, as I lean towards the back of his seat to do just that, I hear the left passenger side door open. A hand tugs on my hair, and yanks me down. I feel like my hair is about to ripped from my scalp, as the hand of the bruiser drags me out. The hand belongs to an over-sized beast of a man, dressed in black, sporting a balaclava over his face. It's like the world shifted right there. All I saw was red. My fists, people said I hit like iron, and this guy gets a taste of that. I wail on his gut until he collapsed, and bring my foot across his face-- hard. I hear footsteps, meaning more people are here. They walk towards me slowly, Men and women all dressed in black, like my newly broken punching bag. Hope they saw what I did. I hope they know what's coming. Six in total, not counting the guy who drove me here. I slide my jacket off, and let it fall to the floor. "Okay, let's do this part, then," I mutter to myself. I use my right hand to gesture for them to come at me, while my left guards. They swarm at me. Better to rush me then come one at a time. I punch and kick, and scrape, but they've got numbers. Two go down before they trip me up. I fall face first as I'm wrestled to the ground, my arms being pinned behind my back. "Get off," I shout, but they've already started securing me. Tape is being wrapped around my ankles. I kick, struggle and curse, but now that they've got me, they're not inclined to let me go. "Can somebody shut her up," I hear a male voice say. I then feel a firm, sand paper like hand, clamp itself over my mouth, muffling my speech. "Operative Two, pay off the driver," another, decidedly less masculine voice says. I see a man walk to the driver side door, and hand him a duffle bag, which most likely has a decent amount of cash in it. "Alright let's lock this place down!" I hear another yell out, as others cross my arms and wind tape around them. I hear the car start up, and see the driver pull away. A second name to add to the "The People who've wronged Casey This Year" list. "I understand you're frustration right now," the skinny guy dressed in black says. "But you should understand ours, too. I mean, you beat a couple of our friends pretty badly, and you're only scuffed up a bit." I stare at him, dead eyed. I'd speak but him and buddies made sure to tape my mouth shut. Four pieces, covering my mouth, and keeping it shut. "Why don't we just kill her?" The tall, clearly African American (judging by the bits of her not covered in black clothing) woman chimes in. And it's a completely understandable question. "Because then we'd never know why she's carrying a toxicology report on a guy named Roger, instead of the root key for every major bank," he says. "I need to know if this is a set-up." "Then why'd we tape her mouth?" She asks. "Operative four, please don't make this a thing," he sighs. "Just saying there's some gaps in reasoning here," she continues. "thmm mm," I chime in. They both stare at me, and I can see it on the guys face that he gets it. He sighs, and reaches for the tape covering my mouth. He's not gentle with it though, and rips it away, quickly. "Thanks," I say, trying to mask the hurt stinging my lips. "Now I can inform you that, yes, it's a set-up, and that you're in deep shit." I'd say I'm smug, but the man strikes me across the face, and now I'm just pissed. "Too bad no one's going to find you. Or us. We smashed your phone figuring someone was tracking it," he informs me. "If anyone was running any sort of trace, it's worthless now. Now, you're just dead." He's probably right. I am dead. Melissa and me never accounted for any driver, and for me to be assaulted or snatched within the first couple hours. Yeah, I'm probably screwed. "Operative Zero!" A voice riddled with panic screams. He stumbles and trips in our direction. "what's wrong operative five?" The man I now know as Operative Zero asks. "The police, the police are here," the short, portly man riddled with panic says. And then I see the other two sweat, and fear fill their eyes. "Wow, that was fast right? Right? What's it been an hour or so? The luck I got!" I boast. "It's probably a good idea for you --what are you guys called?" "The Operatives," the woman says. "Wow, that's really lame," I state, leaning off the wall they placed me against, choking back laughter. "You guys should surrender. Retain some semblance of dignity." The whole operative thing was to hide their identities. I'm sure it was effective, but man I was so close to cracking up. "Thought you said you couldn't call the cops," I say, as Melissa hands me a coffee. "Well, we didn't, if that makes you feel better," she says. "The police got an anonymous tip from someone. Your driver. When we hadn't heard from you, we did some digging. We found him, and he turned out to be a very greedy man. Had to pay him twice as much as The Operatives. Shame on you for getting in the car with a complete stranger, by the way. " "I thought you were kind enough to spring for a driver," I muse. "Guess not." Melissa hands me an envelope, which is filled with what I can only assume is cash. "One job a month," she says. "That's the deal. You can do whatever you like in between jobs, but you drop everything when we call. You can be a private detective for all we care. There's twenty grand in the envelope, consider it a retainer, and for pain and suffering." "Detective, huh?" I continue to muse. Detective Casey Butler does have a nice ring to it. "Flight leaves in morning, by the way. Wanna grab some drinks?" Melissa asks. "It's better than drinking alone. And you're buying," I tell her. Yeah. This might work.