The Complete CV

Her smile complemented her sunny demeanour as her blonde ponytail swung in time with her bounce-like steps. Bernie couldn't help but notice that she seemed to have quite an athletic build under the brown coveralls. She carried a small pink rucksack in her hands and seemed to be searching inside it for something.

"Hey Bernie, Saul said I could take your shift." She said as she approached him. Bernie scratched his head.

"Really, how long for?" he asked, confused at his supervisor's sudden switch.

"Permanently." The young woman said, suddenly serious.

"Wha..." Bernie barely had chance to speak as he saw her pull a silenced pistol out of her bag. The bullets slammed into his chest, knocking him backwards into the van. He struggled to get up, his mind racing and his body screaming at him in pain. As Bernie lifted his head he saw the barrel of the pistol pointing straight at his face.

"Bye bye Bernie." She fired once more – and Bernie Kovacs was dead. She carefully placed the pistol back into the rucksack, hoisted his lifeless legs into the back of the van and slammed the doors shut.

****

Mike Williams was running late and he knew it. The party was in full swing downstairs and he wasn't ready yet. The costume just didn't fit right as he tried adjusting it – and the guests downstairs were utterly unforgiving.

"Mike," the voice of his wife Linda came from the other side of the bedroom door. "Hurry up!"

"I'm coming," he answered. "But I just can't get these bloody shoes to tie up."

"Forget about it," She hissed. "Just get down there, otherwise the day is going to be ruined."

"Okay, okay." He said, cursing under his breath.

The UPS van pulled up outside the house on the quiet suburban street. She reached into the rucksack and pulled out some gloves. Easing them onto her hands and working the skin-tight leather over her flesh, she flexed her fingers. Once she was happy, she picked up the hollow package from the passenger seat and secured her pistol inside.

She ran through it in her head. Manny had been very specific. Get him to come to the door; sign for the package then shoot him in the eye. The act would send a clear message to all the others who worked for Manny – either you worked for him, or you didn't work at all. Period.

She opened the door, got out of the van and crossed the road, cradling the package in her hands.

****

Mike struggled to get down the stairs – his vision impaired by his contact lenses. After what seemed like an eternity, he reached the bottom. The doorbell rang.

"Aw crap!" Mike cursed. "Linda? Linda?" She probably couldn't hear him over the cacophony coming from the living room and the back garden. He shook his head and reached for the door.

****

She could see the shape approaching through the frosted glass. She could feel her pulse racing as the adrenaline flowed through her system. Her right hand gripped the butt of the pistol – she could feel the cold metal through the leather gloves as it calmed her boiling blood.

The door opened.

And that point, Hannah's world fell apart.

The figure stood there, filling the doorway. The whiteface makeup covered all his visible flesh from the neck upwards. His lips were a gaudy red and two big blooms of pink adorned his cheeks. The tip of his nose was a bulbous red lump to match the colour of his ears and hair. The costume was garish, with bright yellow ruffles around his collar and an undersized pointed hat perched on the top of his head.

Hannah felt her head start to spin and her knees buckle. She saw the large blue oversized shoes that Mike had struggled to negotiate the stairs with less than five minutes ago and she screamed, dropping her package and it's lethal cargo.

The memories flooded back – as he took one step forward, she found herself thrown back into her childhood. Memories of a dark room and a man who abused a position of trust, of the smell of stale sweat and cigars, and the tears rolled down her face, now as they did when she was six years old. Her body became jelly as her mind retreated from the here and now into Hannah's own personal hell.

"Linda! Linda!" Mike cried out. "Call 911! We need an ambulance!" He looked down and saw the pistol lying on his doorstep. "And you'd better get the Police too!"

****

The paramedics secured her to the gurney as she shook. Her face was nearly the same shade of white as the make adorning Mike's face. He shook his head as the female detective who had called herself Hawthorne finished making her notes.

"Any idea who she is?" she asked, nodding towards the gibbering wreck being taken away with a secure escort. Mike shook his head.

"Never seen her before in my life." Mike answered.

"Mmm," Hawthorne answered. "You work for DeLuca construction, right?"

"Yeah, I'm an accountant for them." Mike answered. "You don't think this has anything to do with them do you? I mean, I've heard the rumours..." Hawthorne handed him a business card.

"We'll talk in the next couple of days Mr Williams," Hawthorne said, as she looked him up and down. "It's called Coulrophobia you know."

"Yeah, fear of clowns." Mike answered as he watched the ambulance pull away.

"Well, a word to the wise from your friend Pennywise," Hawthorne said as she made her exit. "Go inside and enjoy your son's birthday. I'll be in touch."

MVP

CitiCorp Stadium, Arizona

The locker room was emptying as the player's filtered away. The euphoria that came with the win was being tempered by the messages his body was sending his brain. Rod "Okie" Jackson picked up an ice pack and pressed it against his left shoulder as he shook his head.

"Man, what a day." He muttered to himself. He held the pack against his shoulder for a few more seconds before putting it back down on the bench. Lifting his arms above his head he managed to discard the Under Armour padding that had absorbed most of the impact of the collision between himself and the San Diego Thunderbolt defensive end sometime around the mid way point of the third quarter. It clattered against the metal locker as he shed it from his body.

Rod slumped down onto the wooden bench and leaned against his locker. His eyes closed for a moment as his mind recalled the events of the game – particularly those of the last few moments. As he opened them he saw the Alvin Rozelle trophy sitting on the bench next to him and a set of keys to a brand new Cadillac of his choice. He allowed himself to smile.

He had just won the Super Bowl and had been awarded the most valuable player award.

****

Replacing one of the cheerleaders had been straightforward. She had identified one who was a similar height, build and also had blonde hair, waited in her apartment and silenced her with a single shot to the head – after all, she couldn't risk damaging the outfit.

Meredith got changed into the dead cheerleader's outfit and then scooped up her kit bag. If she did this right she'd be out of the stadium before anyone noticed the girl was missing.

****

Wes Wierzbowski threw his kit bag onto the bus – as one of the less well-known players he didn't have the luxury of his own transport home. Still, he was happy to have made an impact – an undrafted, skinny white kid who had made the team against all odds had made a fingertip tackle to prevent a touchdown in the final minutes on a desperation play.

As the bag landed in the luggage hold it was then that Wes realised that he'd forgotten something.

His helmet was still in the locker room. He cursed his own stupidity as he trudged back towards the locker room.

****

Rod placed the trophy on a table by the door before he turned back to pick up his kit bag. As he turned around he saw his path blocked by an attractive young woman. He thought he recognised her –wasn't she one of the cheerleaders?He thought to himself. She had a weird smile on her face as Rod looked at her.

"Hey there," he said. "You know, normally I'd be up for it after a game, but I'm beat tonight baby – maybe we can hook up once we're back on the East Coast?"

The answer to his question was delivered from the barrel of a silenced pistol. The bullet struck Rod in the leg; disrupting his balance and making him fall back against the lockers. He clutched the wound as the woman took a step towards him. Rod screamed obscenities at her as she cradled the pistol in her hands.

"You cost Manny big time tonight Okie," she said in a sickeningly sweet voice. "He's really pissed."

"Manny?" Rod answered between sharp intakes of breath. "Look sugar, I can make it up to him – I can get him his money – whatever he lost, I'll double it."

"Double it? Really?" She answered. "Oooh, that's sounds good to me, but you made Manny look stupid in front of his boys – and you know what happens to people who make Manny look stupid."

"Please baby, you don't have to do this – I'll pay you whatever you want, just don't do this." Rod pleaded with her as she pointed the pistol at him.

"You know, that sounds great, in principle, although I'm not a fan of men who beg really," she mused, brushing the extended barrel against her cheek. "However, I don't want to upset Manny either – I'm not that stupid." She aimed the pistol at him again. "Still, at least you had a good game tonight, that's something to consider in the afterlife."

Rod looked up into her blue eyes as she raised the pistol. It seemed like an eternity to him, although he definitely felt something in his bladder give as he stared at her. Another twisted smile crossed Meredith's face as she saw the effect she was having on Rod. She watched as he closed his eyes.

"Aw," she muttered. "Poor baby." Rod opened his eyes and looked at Meredith. He locked his eyes with hers, intending to be defiant to the very end. Then he saw her icy blue eyes roll into the back of her head and her body slump to the floor like a puppet that had had it's strings cut. Rod gulped – and saw the diminutive figure of Wes Wierzbowski standing there with a shocked expression on his face.

"I...I forgot my helmet." Wes said as Rod saw the blood on the silver football helmet in Wes' hand.

****

The Police took Meredith away as Rod sat on the gurney with the EMTs tending to his wound. He looked around as he waited for his lawyer to turn up – the events of tonight had convinced him to come clean about his gambling habit. As they began to wheel him into the ambulance, he saw a skinny kid walk past.

"Hey, cornbread!" Rod called out. Wes looked up and saw him beckoning him towards the emergency vehicle. As he reached it, Rod handed him the keys.

"When I get out of hospital you're coming with me to Disneyworld." Rod said as the rookie took a second to take in what it meant. The doors to the ambulance closed and the vehicle drove off with its lights flashing.

"Wow," Wes said. "I'm going to Disneyworld."

Who's that Girl?

Morning

Detective Dawn Hawthorne sat across from Mike Williams in the diner. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes as he struggled to take in the words he had just heard from her.

"So, you're telling me that my employer is some sort of crime boss?" Mike said. Dawn nodded. "And that's why he'd sent that...hitwoman to kill me?"

"We believe that you might have found something in his accounts during your yearly reconciliation that could have exposed him." Dawn replied. "Was there anything that you had seen in his expenditure records that could be seen as incriminating in the last year?"

"Not that I'd noticed to begin with," Mike answered. "But there were a couple of irregular payments to individuals I didn't recognise from the construction company payroll." He stirred the coffee that was in front of him as he seemed to reflect on his situation. "I'd heard the rumours, but I didn't really believe them, until..."

"Until Manny DeLuca had an assassin turn up on your doorstep on the day of your son's birthday party, right?" Dawn said. Mike nodded.

****

She watched them from behind the counter. Her instructions were simple – remove the cop and the bean counter. She picked up their order and walked around the till, the heels of her shoes clicking against the linoleum. She placed the plate on the table.

"One plate of Pierogi." She said.

"Thanks," Mike said as she walked away, moving back behind the counter.

"So, the important thing..." Dawn said as something inside her mind suddenly set off alarm bells.

"Hey, this isn't Pierogi," Mike said. "This is Kluski..." Everything went into slow motion at that point. The first round tore into the faux leather seat cushion just behind Mike Williams; the second clipped his shoulder, knocking him down and flat against the bench. As the waitress levelled her pistol for a third and possibly fatal shot, Dawn had managed to pull her snub-nosed revolver free of its holster.

The pistol kicked back in Dawn's hands as she squeezed off the first and only round she needed. It struck the waitress in the throat, more by luck than design, knocking her to the floor. Her third shot tore into the ceiling, scattering the floor with pieces of ceiling tile as arterial spray covered the counter as she slumped down.

The diner was filled with people screaming. Dawn reached over and checked on Mike, before pulled her radio out of her jacket.

"Are you okay?" she asked. He was clutching his arm.

"I've just been shot – does that answer your question?" Mike screamed. Dawn nodded, satisfied that he was in no immediate danger.

"Great," she said. "Let's get you to a hospital and get this mess cleaned up."

Lunchtime

"How long have we been looking into this now?" Dawn Hawthorne asked Jerry Michaels as she followed her supervisor along a damp corridor in the cramped basement of the headquarters of the Los Angeles Police Department.

"Six years," Michaels replied. "And we're still no closer to pinning anything on DeLuca than we were when we started." They stopped outside an unmarked door about two thirds of the way along. "I heard about the incident at the diner today. Is he okay?"

"He'll be fine," Dawn replied. "But there were only six people who knew I was meeting him there today." She looked at Michaels. "And the other four of them are sitting inside this room." She let the words sink in. "I think we have a mole."

"I share your concerns," Michaels said. "But we'll discuss them privately after this meeting." He opened the door and showed her in. Several flickering overhead lights that had definitely seen better days illuminated the room. They gave the room a sickly, washed out feel to it as Dawn joined the other four individuals sitting at a table. Michaels stood at the head of the edifice and picked up a metal pointer. He addressed those present.

"I'm glad we could all meet at such short notice," he said. "But we have a problem." He directed everyone's attention to the board behind him as he pulled the cover away from it. There were a selection of photographs pinned to it – all of them detailed very dead men. "It appears that someone is going after DeLuca's lieutenants. In the last week three of them have been killed," He pointed to the top three of the quintet. "Roscruitio, Edwards and Toschetti were all found dead in their apartments from gunshot wounds to the head – no witnesses or forensics that we could use. Myers and Cosgnolio were shot by a sniper the previous week as they left the Mirage by it's back door at three in the morning," he paused to take a quick drink of water.

"Any idea's whose doing this?" Franklin – a burly detective from the Metro division – asked. "I mean, has DeLuca made any more enemies in the last week than normal?"

"I doubt it," Michaels replied. "Our Manny has been keeping a relatively low profile after the failed attempt on the accountant's life," he took another sip from the plastic cup. "But after we caught the shooter at the Stadium back in January I can imagine that he's been feeling abit jittery."

"I take that she hasn't talked?" Watson – a thin, sickly looking man from Narcotics – asked. Michaels shook his head.

"Meredith Carson hasn't said a word," he said.

"Same as the UPS hitter," Dawn added. "But that's because she's catatonic."

"So, where's the problem?" Watson asked. "I mean, whoever it is has been doing us a favour, right?" Michaels shook his head.

"Maybe, from one perspective, but Myers had been our informant on the inside – his loss is going to hurt our intelligence gathering." There was a beeping sound in the room – everyone looked at their pagers. "Aw shit, it's the DA. Listen, keep your eyes and ears open – for all we know this could be the Russians trying to muscle in on DeLuca's patch again, and we all remember how bloody that turf war was."

Evening

By the time Lorne Michaels crashed into bed that night it was nearly one in the morning. His sleep was fitful at best – disturbed by the usual nightmares that haunted a man constantly finding him being presented by images of the depths humanity could sink to on a daily basis.

The sensation of the gloved hand covering his mouth and the cold steel of a barrel being pressed against his head woke him up instantly. His eyes could just make out a figure standing over him – a second pair of eyes were staring back at him from within a ski mask. There was a faint smell of lilies in the room that hadn't been there when he'd gone to bed.

"Don't make a sound otherwise you'll be dead before you know it," the feminine voice was quiet, yet carried an air of authority about it. "I won't hesitate to kill you – you know that, you've seen my work over the last week." The hand pulled away from his mouth. "Get up and move slowly into your living room – you make a move I don't like and I'll drop you where you stand."

Michaels moved as she suggested – he was trying to place her accent as he found the floor of his bedroom cold to his bare feet – it was definitely English rather than Australian. She directed him to a chair in the darkness and then handcuffed his hands behind him before she switched the light on. There was another chair opposite his – the figure was covered by a piece of tarpaulin and appeared to be shaking.

"Your operation against Manny DeLuca has been compromised." She spoke softly,she must know I have thin walls,Michaels thought to himself. The Woman drew his attention to a file that was sitting on his table. "That's the financial transactions of the payments made by DeLuca to his source."

She tugged at the sheet of plastic. It slid off the shaking figure of Harry Watson. Michaels could see that his face was bruised and there was a cut above his left eye. He mumbled as best as he could with his mouth covered by a strip of gaffer tape.

"This little toad has been giving away the details of your investigation to that piece of crap," The Woman said. "However, that ends tonight." She moved the barrel of the pistol across Watson's face. His mumbled screams mirrored the terror in his eyes.

"Don't." Michaels took the risk. "Don't do it." The Woman seemed surprised by his move.

"I didn't say you could speak," she said. "He's a dirty cop."

"He's also got a wife and three kids," Michaels said, before deciding to play his ace. "And up until now, you've only been removing pond scum. You kill him and no matter how dirty he is, you're a cop-killer." He paused for a second. "I can't protect you from the whole LAPD."

"Who said I need protecting?" She replied – her accent was definitely English. The Woman looked at Michaels and in turn, he held her gaze. The stormy grey eyes looked at him from underneath that mask seemed to convey something to him. "DeLuca is just part of a much bigger problem," she said, continuing to trace the pistol around Watson's face. "But you may have a point."

She moved the gun away from the manacled man and moved behind Michaels. He feared the worst for a second, and then heard the sound of the handcuffs being released. By the time he had turned around she had made her escape from the apartment. Michaels moved over to Watson and tore the tape from his mouth.