Pete ~ 2000ish words
well at the end of the gel tray. A d.c. electric current passing across
the tray would gently tug the material through the gel, separating it out
into DNA fragments of varying molecular weights. After a given length of
time, the current would switch off and the resultant strips of DNA
"barcode" would be photographed, the images fed into the computer system
and the results compared with the database previously gathered. The
entire process would take several hours to complete and was entirely
automated from this point on; there was no need for her to work any later
that evening. This was just as well, as she had a far more important
rendezvous to keep.
She took off her lab coat, and made her way to the door at the far end of
the laboratory. Pausing in front of the mirror-like surface of an
equipment cabinet, she examined her reflection. She saw a trim, athletic
figure looking back at her, the face framed by a cascade of blonde curls
with just the occasional glint of silver strands peppered amongst them.
Her bearing suggested a history of military experience and training. "Not
bad for someone pushing at the big 4-0," she muttered to herself in an
unashamedly self-satisfied manner.
Taking the lift to the ground floor, she stepped out of the main entrance
to Fenner Pharmaceutical Research Inc., and made her way to the car park.
When she reached the reliable Hyundai Lantra that she used for commuting
purposes, she unlocked the door, got in, buckled up, started the engine
and drove off in one continuous, fluid, practiced sequence of movements
and headed towards the exit gate of the compound. She paused in front of
the exit barrier, and waited for the gate guard to open it for her. Dan
was still on duty, she noted. He had been there to let her in when she
had arrived that morning, so he must be just about at the end of his
shift, too. He smiled at her and saluted as the barrier went up, and she
felt a warm glow spreading within her in response to his smile.
Several times in the past she had wished that she had a less formal
relationship with the strikingly handsome burly guard, but in all the
months that she had known him he had never exchanged more than the
required "Good morning, Doctor Harding" or "Good evening, Doctor Harding"
as she made her way past the check-point into or out of the parking area.
Nevertheless, she was sure that the warmth of his smile betrayed something
beyond mere professional courtesy, and this was an area of interest to her
that she would have liked to explore further, had circumstances allowed.
As she drove along she fantasized about accidentally meeting up with him
in a bar somewhere nearby. They would laugh at the coincidence of bumping
into each other in such a manner, share some idle gossip about their
mutual employer, have a few drinks together, and then...
She shook her head wistfully, and put Dan firmly out of her mind for the
time being. She would shortly be approaching her destination, and she
would need all her wits about her if she was going to survive the night to
come. Time enough to think about him tomorrow, if for her, there was
going to be a tomorrow. She drove to the car lot where she had been
instructed to leave her vehicle, and walked the few hundred yards to the
point at which the edge of the city abruptly met the edge of the forest.
Continuing along the marked footpath, she walked until she came to an open
area containing a scattering of picnic tables, adjacent to a small,
roughly paved car park. There was only one vehicle in the parking area, a
scruffy blue Ford Transit van, and there were no picnickers or other
occupants of the public area to be seen. She cautiously approached the
vehicle. As she came abreast with the driver's door, it opened suddenly
and a small, lithe, swarthy individual hopped out of the van and stood in
front of her. "M'loke!" he exclaimed, standing less than a foot away
from her. "M'mbembe." she replied as she had been instructed, and this
seemed to put the small man instantly at his ease. His face broke into a
wide grin, and he led her round to the back of the vehicle, opened the
rear doors fully and stood aside.
Inside, the floor of the van was piled high with a variety of what looked
like army surplus clothing, hardware and accessories. The side walls and
inside panels of the rear doors were lined with racks of rifles, pistols,
knives and other, more exotic weaponry. "You take what you want, missy,"
said the driver of the van, "But once you're done I'm out of here. No
coming back for more later, see? Choose wisely then." Emily thought
about the night to come, and looked up at the sky. Clouds had been
gathering all afternoon, and it looked like the evening might turn out to
be slightly damp, to put it mildly.
Her first choice among the clothing on the floor, therefore, was a
waterproof cape, camouflaged in a traditional mottling of green and brown
splotches. She also chose a good quality, wide bladed, eight-inch hunting
knife, not so much for its value as a weapon as for its all-round utility
as a general-purpose tool. Then her eyes scanned the walls of the van,
finally lighting on a Gungfu pistol-grip crossbow. She recalled the stats
tables: 150lb draw, bolt velocity of 240 feet per second, accurate up to
about 80 yards or so. Not a weapon for a certain kill at a distance,
perhaps, but up close... deadly, and more importantly, silent. An
assassin's tool, without a doubt. "That," she said, pointing at the
crossbow.
Her supplier raised an eyebrow in appreciation. "Interesting choice," he
murmured, as he lifted the weapon from its place on the rack and added a
quiver of bolts to go with it. Emily finally grabbed an old WW2 steel
helmet from the pile on the van's floor, as an afterthought. The mesh
covering the helmet might serve to enhance camouflage, she thought, if it
were woven with twigs and whatnot, but she was under no illusions about
its ability to fend off a bullet from a modern, high-velocity rifle, or
even a pistol of sufficient caliber.
"We done here?" asked the small man in a nervous manner. "We're done,"
said Emily. He swiftly closed the van doors, then turned to face her.
"Your target is about two miles north of here," he said, pointing. "Just
remenber, you're his target too. Good luck, missy." He returned to the
front of the van, got in and drove off. Emily turned and walked into the
forest, after tucking the knife into her belt, donning the camouflaged
cape and helmet, cocking the crossbow and loading a bolt into its slide.
Just as she passed the first line of trees, slow, heavy raindrops began to
fall.
The sky darkened prematurely, and night was ushered in by the gathering
storm. After trekking for about a mile into the forest, Emily began to
look about for a suitable location to set up the trap that she had
planned. A few hundred yards further on she found it, a small dell with a
stream running through it. Reeds grew along the banks of the stream, and
willow grew in abundance across the dell, hemmed in by the sturdier boles
of elm and oak trees. Using the knife, Emily started to gather thin
willow branches and reeds from beside the stream. Among her many and
varied interests, she had taken a course on basket-weaving at a local
craft fair a few years ago, and she began to put that skill to use now.
After a quarter of an hour or so, during which the rainfall had increased
to a torrential level, she had woven a shape roughly that of a squatting
human outline. She went back to the bank of the stream, its level already
swollen a good few inches by the rain just in the past few minutes, and
scooped aside a layer of sand and gravel from its edge. Digging down, her
fingers located what she had sought - a lower layer of soil rich in clay.
She scooped out several handfuls of the sticky substance and returned with
it to her woven figure, half-hidden in a tangle of undergrowth.
Swiftly flattening small sheets of the clay between her hands, she molded
it around the head of the figure, crudely fashioning lips, ears, a nose.
Taking off the waterproof cape, she draped it around the figure and put
the steel helmet over its head. From a distance, it would appear
sufficiently lifelike to draw the attention of any other killer who
might happen upon it, while stalking the forest that night. A sudden
flash of lightning lit up the dell, followed a moment later by a rumbling
crash of thunder. Gathering up her weapons, Emily trotted over to a
nearby oak tree and easily scaled the trunk. Spreading herself along the
widest, lowest branch overlooking her handiwork, she readied her crossbow
and settled down to wait.
Greg LeMar was a seasoned hunter, and had bagged his fair share of big
game back in the days when it was not considered "non-PC", not to mention
downright illegal, to do so. Not that either of these considerations had
stopped him from adding to his collection of trophies in recent years
either, of course. Still, he mused, nothing compared to a hunt like this.
Any animal, even a mouse, was capable of turning on its pursuer, if
cornered, but the human animal was the most cunning and vicious of all.
Hawks and spiders, he thought to himself. When you break it down, every
hunting strategy falls into one of the two categories. The hawk is
almost constantly on the move, yet resting on air currents and thermals,
always actively seeking out its prey. The spider, by contrast, spins its
web and lurks, waiting patiently for its prey to fall into its trap.
Which are you, me beauty, he thought to himself, a hawk or a spider? Are
you out there looking for me, or are you hunkered down somewhere, waiting
for me to come to you? Greg, of course, rather fancied himself to be of
the hawk persuasion, not willing to wait for his prey to come to him, but
seeking it out, looking for spoor, signs and hints of its recent passing.
The storm made it difficult to read the forest the way he normally would,
hell, it even made it difficult to see properly, but he was not deterred.
Entering the dell, he immediately spotted the white ovals, the stumps of
recently cut branches from the nearby willows, and knew his target had
passed this way recently. What was he doing with willow branches, he
thought, constructing a hide of some sort, perhaps? He swivelled from the
hip, side to side, his eyes and rifle barrel always precisely aligned so
that he could shoot in whatever direction he was looking within a split
second. Lightning flashed, and without any discernable delay thunder
crashed; the storm seemed to be directly overhead now. In that brief
instant of illumination, Greg spotted the figure crouched in the
undergrowth a few dozen yards ahead of him.
It was motionless, and turned slightly away from him, but Greg recognized
it for what it was. Gotcha, me beauty, he grinned evilly to himself, and
you don't even know I'm here yet! He aimed his rifle in the general
direction of the figure and waited for the next lightning bolt to give him
the split second of clear sight he needed to make a clean kill. His
patience was rewarded less than five seconds later when a jagged, multiple
bolt of lightning lit up the dell in stroboscopic fashion. In the
following brief light of the muzzle-flash from his rifle, he saw with
satisfaction that his bullet had sent the figure tumbling, and the helmet
flying off its head.
Greg LeMar neither heard nor felt the crossbow bolt that penetrated the
back of his neck, severing his spinal cord, killing him instantly.