June 19th, 1995. 11:47, ON the coast of Texas
In a dimly lit corner of the street, the men stood in the shadow of an ancient, moss-covered building, their eyes trained intently on the entrance of Hotel D’Arquinne. Amidst the throng of the city’s regulars – the overworked commoners and the women seeking fleeting connections – Lisa Menirinia stood out like a beacon. Her striking Asian features, combined with her opulent attire, rendered her unforgettable. Often draped in outfits befitting Hollywood royalty, today she wore the invisible shroud of someone who had crossed the wrong person.
Mr. Manes, the formidable figure pulling their strings, had sounded the alarm at dawn. His voice, coarse with rage and suspicion, had echoed through the mansion, questioning her loyalty and demanding answers. The cold lifeless body of Dean Misson, discovered in the mansion’s west wing, was the fuse. The once lively accountant lay there motionless, his last memory being Lisa’s company. She had been seen accompanying him to his chambers the previous evening, and now the hunt was on. With the weight of that knowledge pressing down on them, the men waited, knowing that the unfolding events would alter many a fate.
The street around Hotel D’Arquinne was an orchestrated symphony of tension. Vehicles, dark and sleek, held strategic positions, blocking every conceivable escape. Within each, men sat, their postures rigid, hands resting close to concealed firearms. The weight of the situation was not lost on any of them. Their very futures hinged on the apprehension of Lisa Menirinia.
With the sun climbing higher, the strain of the waiting game started to show. Restlessness surged through some, while others simply brooded in their corners, the passage of hours reflected in their furrowing brows.
In the midst of this pressure-cooker environment, two figures, dispatched from the lead car, stepped confidently into the hotel’s lavish lobby. A whispered conversation with the concierge yielded the information they sought. Lisa was, indeed, still ensconced within the hotel’s confines, ensnared in the grasp of slumber on the sixty-eighth floor.
The concierge’s revelation about Lisa’s daily ritual of ordering fresh fruit at noon added another layer of complexity. It provided relief, confirming they hadn’t missed their quarry, yet simultaneously evoked frustration. Many among the waiting cadre realized that, had they been privy to this piece of information earlier, their morning might have begun with a more leisurely and nourishing start. The tedium of the stakeout, exacerbated by hunger, now mixed with a simmering resentment. The mood was palpable, and every man felt it.
The tension on the sixty-eighth floor was taut as a wire, the suffocating silence interrupted only by the distant hum of the hotel’s air conditioning. The five enforcers, armed and prepped, communicated with grim glances and the subtlest of nods. With the elevators effectively immobilized, there would be no unexpected guests joining their number.
The first forceful kick at the door elicited only a muted thud and a slight give. But the second sent it crashing inward, splintering the frame. Adrenaline surging, the first two men lunged into the room, guns at the ready. The others followed in a methodical procession, each scanning their designated section of the expansive suite.
The man assigned to the bathroom was the first to meet his unforeseen fate.
Below, the hotel’s sprawling lobby was a hive of opulence and morning activity. Lisa, ever the chameleon, blended seamlessly into her surroundings. The sound of the explosion above, muffled by layers of concrete and luxury decor, barely reached her ears. Yet the subsequent clamor of the fire alarm and the ensuing chaos it wrought was impossible to ignore.
As guests and staff scrambled in panic, fearing the worst, Lisa utilized the pandemonium to her advantage. Slipping deftly through the kitchen, the bustling loading dock welcomed her, its cacophony of industrial activity providing the perfect cover for her escape.
Clutching her bags, Lisa assessed her surroundings with the sharp focus of a predator. Her earlier surveillance had given her a solid lay of the land, and of her pursuers. But now, with the stakes elevated and the net possibly closing in, every shadow seemed a potential threat, every distant face a potential pursuer. Time was of the essence. She had to move, and she had to move fast.
Amid the disarray of the loading dock, with workers navigating a maze of pallets and crates, Lisa’s movements were a calculated dance. Her eyes, sharp and focused, caught the reflection of the sedan in the van’s windows, its presence an undeniable threat. With swift precision, she hurled her duffels into the cab, the weighty thud barely registering as she followed suit.
The conspicuous absence of keys would have been a hurdle for many, but not for Lisa. With her omnikey, a relic from an age where technology and subterfuge converged, she brought the van roaring to life. As the vehicle lurched forward, the unexpected momentum knocked over loaders and sent a forklift careening off the dock. The resulting chaos formed a temporary blockade, an obstacle for the menacing sedan lurking in the shadows of the alleyway. With the growl of the engine as her accompaniment, Lisa made her bid for freedom, navigating the van towards the street, away from the imminent danger that the sedan represented.
The moment Lisa took command of the van, prying eyes registered her every move. The urgency of her escape ignited an immediate reaction from her pursuers, and the chase was on. Emerging from the alleyway, the expanse of the street stretched before her, presenting both an opportunity and a challenge.
In a brazen maneuver, Lisa turned the lumbering van against the tide of traffic. The one-way street, with its defined flow, suddenly became a battlefield. The two stationary sedans loomed ahead, their occupants momentarily caught off guard by the audacious approach.
Steering with her knee, a delicate balance of control and risk, she drew her twin Glocks. Their muted reports, courtesy of the silencers, spat out rounds with deadly precision. Four shots, four tires rendered useless. The sedans, once menacing threats, were now reduced to lame ducks. As the van sped past, bullets grazed a couple of the thugs, who recoiled in surprise and pain. The street echoed with the chaos of screeching tires and shouting, but Lisa, with her blend of skill and audacity, had once again reshaped the chessboard to her advantage.
The city’s labyrinthine streets presented a challenge, as Lisa deftly navigated the van between lanes, avoiding close calls with honking vehicles and startled pedestrians. Each turn, each decision was the result of rapid calculations, part of her intricate mental choreography of escape.
The switch to a street aligned with traffic provided a momentary respite, but danger remained ever-present. Adjusting the rearview mirror, the fiery inferno from the 68th floor of Hotel D’Arquinne painted the skyline, a visual testament to the scale of the confrontation. The destructive aftermath might have exceeded her initial projections, but for Lisa, it was a necessary diversion. She was well aware that The Company’s tolerance for fallout was directly proportional to her value, and capture was not an option.
Guided by instinct and strategy, Lisa steered toward the docks and the expansive industrial district beyond. The vast open spaces and maze-like warehouses would provide her both cover and an advantage over her pursuers. More importantly, it would serve as the backdrop for her next message to Mr. Manes, reminding him that she was no ordinary adversary.
The Company, operating in the gray margins of legality and morality, held a clear mandate for Lisa: reclaim the ill-gotten wealth that Mr. Manes had syphoned from society. It wasn’t about justice in the traditional sense; it was about redressing a balance, redistributing the power, and reclaiming what was taken. For Lisa, this mission wasn’t just another assignment; it was a tactical challenge, demanding both her skills in subterfuge and her capacity to manipulate.
Navigating the treacherous waters of Manes’ inner circle had required a strategic dance of charm, allure, and intelligence. Dean Misson, the gatekeeper to Manes’ vast financial vaults, was her primary mark. Lisa, the consummate professional, had willingly sacrificed personal boundaries to draw Misson into her web, ensuring that he would become a willing accomplice, albeit unknowingly.
Yet, in this unforgiving world of espionage and high stakes, sentimentality was a luxury. Once an asset had served its purpose, it was swiftly and decisively discarded. Misson, for all his utility, had become a liability. The cold calculus of the trade mandated that loose ends be tied up, and he had inevitably met that fate. Lisa’s commitment to the mission, her ability to detach emotionally, underscored her status as one of The Company’s most formidable operatives.
The relentless pursuit in her rearview mirror became a metaphor for the transient nature of the identities she assumed. These men, once deemed essential in the intricate game she played, were fast becoming expendable. Just another set of dominoes waiting to fall in her meticulously orchestrated plan.
Lana Tsuru, or Lisa as she was known in this guise, craved the anonymity and comfort of her real life. A life where the simple pleasure of a prolonged bath in her upscale Manhattan abode would serve as a symbolic cleansing of the myriad identities she had donned. It was a ritual, a return to self, after immersing herself in the murky depths of undercover operations.
The rhythmic hum of the van’s engine and the blur of the passing industrial landscape kept her grounded in the present. The docks loomed ahead, a sprawling network of piers, warehouses, and shadowy corners. It was the perfect environment for a Sec Op like Lana. Ambiguity and concealment were her allies, and the docks provided ample opportunities for both.
Every operation had a defined endgame. And for Lana, that moment was now. The upcoming minutes would be a symphony of precision and elimination, ensuring that her trail would vanish into the ether, leaving no trace, no memory. Only whispered legends of a phantom operative who came and went like smoke. Preparations for the final act were in motion. The curtain was about to fall.
The vast expanse of the warehouse loomed before Lana, its dormant façade belying the imminent collision. The roar of the accelerating van became a frenzied crescendo as it tore across the last stretch of dockland. Lana’s meticulous planning was evident in every movement – from wedging her shoe against the pedal to securing her bags. Her entire escape was timed to split-second precision.
The van’s trajectory and her own leap were coordinated to exploit the fleeting gap that revealed the ocean’s embrace. With the rush of wind and the perilous proximity to the dock’s solid structures, Lana’s leap was a ballet of danger and determination.
The icy embrace of the high tide swallowed her, but even in its depths, Lana’s strategic mind prevailed. The restrictive nature of her attire in the water made her ditch the pleather pants, streamlining her form for optimal swimming. The distant boat launch beckoned as her destination, and with powerful strokes, she sliced through the water, leaving the chaos of the docks behind. Every move was deliberate, every choice a testament to her unwavering focus on the mission’s end.
The adrenaline coursing through Lana’s veins had heightened her senses, sharpening her awareness of every detail around her. The scent of salt from the sea mingled with the metallic tang of impending violence. As her pursuers scrambled at the crash site, trying to piece together her next move, she was already several steps ahead.
The silhouette of Lana, emerging from the shadows, was almost spectral – a fusion of raw determination and lethal intent. The SuperGlock assault pistols she wielded were modified masterpieces of deadly efficiency, and with her punch daggers at the ready, she was a force to be reckoned with.
She executed her moves with practiced ease. The Gasvent setting on her Glocks made her shots ghostly whispers, their silence contrasting the grim finality they dealt. This suppressed the fire to be nearly silent with a small loss of knockdown power. Then she dropped four men, two with each hand, who had their brains evacuated or necks blown out, and took cover.
Seeking cover, she swiftly moved behind the trash receptacle, its cold, concrete form providing a momentary shield. Her mind raced, planning her next sequence of moves, anticipating the reactions of the remaining men. The docks had become her battlefield, and she was both the hunter and the hunted.
Confusion and chaos reigned among the remaining men. The sudden, inexplicable loss of their comrades and the sight of a dismembered hand left them grappling with a mix of horror and panic. Their leader, a burly man with a shaved head, barked orders, trying in vain to rein in the bedlam.
The muted shot that had taken out a man’s hand further heightened the tension, causing a frantic spray of bullets toward Lana’s last known position. Amid the noise and tumult, the man’s agonized screams became a piercing counterpoint to the staccato rhythm of gunfire.
With the concrete barrier absorbing the brunt of the onslaught, Lana took a deep breath. Weighing her options, she decided on a tactic of misdirection. Feigning surrender, her voice, laced with feigned fatigue and resignation, cut through the din. “Ok, ok, you got me. Stop shooting.”
The volley of gunfire slowly petered out, replaced by a palpable tension as the men awaited her next move, unaware of the trap they were about to step into.
“Throw out your weapons and step into the open,” returned another. “We won’t shoot. Boss wants to talk at ya.”
The atmosphere on the dock was thick with suspense, each moment stretching into an eternity as Lana complied with the order. The cacophony of moments before had settled into an eerie silence, punctuated only by the distant lap of water against the dock’s pilings and the occasional murmur among the men.
As she rose, the dim light revealed her seemingly defenseless form, a stark contrast to the tenacity with which she had evaded capture thus far. Her arms raised in a gesture of surrender, Lana approached her captors with deliberate, measured steps. But appearances could be deceiving. Hidden from their view, the punch daggers and demo-disks she clutched promised a rapid reversal of fortunes.
“Ok now walk over here you bitch, and no sudden moves or us men will shoot off your knee caps and have some fun with you.” The crude taunt from one of the men elicited a few chuckles from his comrades, their spirits buoyed by the apparent turn of events. With the upper hand, they felt secure, letting down their guard as they relished the thought of delivering Lana to their boss.
But Lana’s mind raced, analyzing and recalculating. This misplaced confidence of her adversaries was precisely the opening she needed, a crack in their armor, ready to be exploited.
The quiet tension hanging in the air was disrupted by Lana’s sudden move towards the side of the car. The men, caught in a mix of surprise and false security, barely had time to react. In the dim light, the glint of the demo-disks barely registered before they connected with their target. The subsequent explosion was a cacophony of shattering metal, roaring flames, and pained screams.
The blast’s force propelled the car skyward in a fiery arc, showering sparks and debris. Three of the men, caught in the explosion’s radius, became human torches, their agonized cries echoing in the night. The vehicle, now a smoldering wreck, crashed down onto its neighboring car, instantly crushing the unsuspecting rifleman beneath its weight.
With the chaos providing the perfect cover, Lana’s training and instincts took over. The first of her adversaries met a swift, brutal end, his jugular torn open by her punch dagger. Even as his lifeblood poured out, she skillfully used his body as a makeshift shield, deflecting the desperate gunfire from the remaining thug. Her second punch dagger, released with unerring accuracy, found its mark, embedding itself deep into the last man’s throat. The abrupt finality of his fall contrasted with the lingering echoes of the explosion.
Calmly, as though stepping out of an everyday occurrence, Lana tossed her bags in the back seat and slid into the driver’s seat of the untouched vehicle. The engine roared to life, and she drove off into the night, leaving behind a scene of devastation and a clear message to any who might dare cross her path in the future.
The urban landscape, painted with the aftermath of Lana’s escape, concealed the presence of another player in this intricate game. While the world believed in its perception of reality, there were layers beyond human comprehension, woven together by technology and motives unknown.
Perched atop the imposing structure, this solitary figure had silently observed Lana’s maneuvers for weeks. Every decision she made, every interaction she had, and even the marathon love making sessions she and Dean engaged in, were all cataloged by this phantom observer. His objective was beyond the petty skirmishes of drug lords and espionage; he sought insights into The Company, an organization that was an enigma, even among the elite shadows of global power.
As the dust settled on the docks below, the figure’s decision to emerge from his observation post was marked by an almost supernatural grace. Instead of the expected fall that should have accompanied such a descent, he seemed to glide, an ethereal presence drawn to the solitary vehicle waiting in the alley.
To the untrained eye, the vehicle might have appeared as just another expensive sports car, but its true nature was far more formidable. The cloaking technology it employed rendered both it and its occupant invisible, their every move shielded from the world by a barrier that absorbed sound, light, and even the minutest vibrations.
Whispered commands, recognized only by the car’s advanced AI, initiated a pursuit. Silently, stealthily, the chase began. Lana, for all her skills, remained oblivious to this new shadow, a ghost from a realm beyond her current understanding, now tailing her through the city’s labyrinthine streets.
After a brief chase, the pilot always favored the dramatic, they arrived at a private airport and he watched her stow her bags and move into a private Lear jet. Apparently she was the only passenger. This made it all the easier for him to grab one of the other 17 vacant seats. He chose one in the rear corner of the plane, out of the way of getting bumped by any crewman or Lana herself. It seemed odd for her to run a biodetector device through one of The Company’s planes, but she was always careful, even for a Sec Op.
The analyzers detected nothing out of the norm and she sat confidently down near the middle of the plane where a few tables were located. Lana pulled her laptop out of her satchel bag and after plugging it into a data jack on the plane wall, began tapping furiously on the keypad. She was done with her report about 20 minutes later and she decided it was time to change into some more presentable clothes. After her dive into the sea back at the docks she hadn’t bothered to put anything else on her exposed bottom until she pulled up to the airport. She then grabbed a swimsuit bottom; it was the first thing out of her bag, and put it on. She would hate to give the Grunts a reason to heckle her when she arrived in San Diego in 4 hours; she already had a bad reputation to live down.
Lana walked to the rear of the plane where the suite was located and entered into the small closet and began to sort through the clothes she had arranged to be here. She threw a black vest suit onto the bed and began undressing. As she was about to remove her swimsuit bottom, she noticed the suite’s door shut and lock. Lana was immediately into a defensive position with her back to the wall, as defensive as she could be except for being topless. She could see no one and the biodetector was still running and detected nothing. Cautiously, she began toward the door.
A voice cut through the stillness of the suite. “Perhaps you should complete your attire.” It had an edge, cold and precise.
Lana’s reflexes kicked in. Swirling around, she was met with the sight of a tall man, suit in hand, suggesting with a mere tilt of his head that she should take it. She sized him up quickly – a form-fitting jumpsuit traced the lines of his imposing physique, reminiscent of deep-sea diver’s gear. His hair, a shade of rich brown, was cropped slightly longer than the military cuts she had seen at Coronado. But it was those intense, stormy gray eyes that truly arrested her.
“Who are you? And how did you get in here?” she shot back, her voice a mix of curiosity and challenge.
Despite the tightness of his outfit, which left little room to conceal any weapons, Lana’s instincts screamed caution. She pushed past her initial shock, steeling herself for the confrontation that might ensue.
Asche’s voice was steady, carrying with it an aura of self-assurance. “My name’s Asche. I have something you might find interesting,” he stated. The ambiguity of his statement hung in the air, charging the atmosphere with tension.
Lana, assessing the man before her, noted his straightforward demeanor. There was an unexpected trustworthiness about him, an air that suggested he wasn’t there to harm. Deciding to play along, she responded nonchalantly, “I was just about to freshen up.” Without hesitation, she moved towards the shower, untying and casting aside the rest of her attire, her actions defiant and unapologetic.
In a teasing, almost audacious tone, she called out, “You’re welcome to join. Might make our conversation more… interesting.”
Asche, taken aback by the boldness of the invitation, weighed his response carefully. His mission required detachment, a certain distance. “I appreciate the offer,” he replied, the edges of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. “But I’ll wait here.” The room seemed to pulse with unsaid words, setting the tone for the negotiation that was about to unfold.
The pilot was a Company man as well and no stranger to conflict. He had been a member of Intelligence for 8 years when a wound to the chest damaged his heart and made him of no use to high-tension activity in the field. He ‘retired’ to become a Chauffeur to low profile agents and pilot the Company’s private fleet. When he received the wide broadcast on his implant com, he immediately assumed it was Lana. He was four miles up and out of range of most implants. He immediately drew his advanced light taser. It could knock an elephant down from 20 yards. Besides, using a projectile would damage the plane. Marson noticed no signs of conflict in the passenger area and began to wonder if this was not Lana’s way to get him into bed.
He had heard she was a sex addict but never believed it; she was always so professional about everything. He wasn’t about to become a member of the club that claimed to have been with her either; she was practically a sister. She was very open about her self to all the agents and made everyone feel like family. That’s what made her the most efficient and productive Sec Op the Company had ever had. Now she was in trouble and Marson was the only one available help her.
Being sure of the planes arrival, autopilot was engaged; Marson rested a little more easily and was able to focus on the task at hand. Even if he and Lana jumped out of the jet, it would land safely at the Company’s airfield in northern San Diego County. O’ the miracle of Company tech.
He approached the door to the suite and cautiously opened it, listening for any disturbance. He heard the shower running and then his suspicions were confirmed. She was trying to seduce him. He put his taser away and stepped into the room. Then, faster than he could comprehend, a man he had never seen before stepped out of nowhere and twisted Marsons arm up behind his back and pinned him to the closet door.
Lana was never in the shower and was waiting for something like this to act. She stepped out of the bathroom, still naked, and lunged the nearly 10 feet between the bathroom doors and where Marson was pinned. He was holding his arm up behind him in an awkward angle as if someone had been twisting it for him. The Stranger was nowhere to be seen.
“What are you doing?” Lana asked as she grabbed and wrapped the bedspread around her. “Where is the man that was in here?”
She pushed Marsons arm back down to normal position and he was immediately freed from his invisible bond.
“What? He was holding me when you stepped out here. He just vanished when you came out.”
From somewhere up in the passenger cabin came a voice; “I never really even touched you. Do you think anyone could have moved that fast?”
Both Lana and Marson were amused to see that the man, who called himself Asche, was now sitting at the table admiring the contents of Lana’s laptop. Now they both knew they would have to kill this person to maintain the Conspiracy. They confirmed it subvocally through their implant communicators.
“OK. Asche you said your name was?”
Lana was speaking as she snagged her SuperGlock from her bag and loaded a clip, “Now you will play on our terms. How did you get in this plane? Who set this up?”
Asche finished looking over a file the next few seconds as Lana closed to within 10 feet. ”I just walked onto your fabulous plane and I was sent of my own accord. No one, me included, is in any form of danger here.”
As he spoke this, Lana found herself and Marson both sitting down at the table facing one another and she calmly handed Asche the Glock at the same time Marson gave him his taser. The whole event was as if she was a passenger in her own body; she had no way of resisting whatever force was puppeting her body. It was painless but humiliating.
“There. Now we can talk like civilized persons.”
Emerging from his concealed state, Asche moved with an almost unsettling fluidity. His actions – draping a blanket over Lana and presenting the device – seemed considerate, but there was a calculated coldness to him. The in-flight blanket, while a gesture of modesty, also served as a subtle reminder of his control over the situation.
The device, sleek and unfamiliar, projected a cascade of images, charts, and data streams. The information flowed too quickly for human comprehension, but it was only a smokescreen, a diversion. As Lana and Marson were transfixed by the display, Asche’s true intentions unfurled.
Unbeknownst to them, their minds became receptive to Asche’s intrusion. Delicate tendrils of thought, insidious in their subtlety, wormed their way into the duo’s memory centers. The information wasn’t merely shown; it was implanted, rewritten into the fabric of their consciousness.
A sensation of dizziness momentarily overcame Lana and Marson as the weight of the data pressed upon them. Asche watched intently, gauging their reactions. It was a delicate balance – ensuring the assimilation of vast knowledge without overwhelming their minds.
The projection ceased, and a momentary silence enveloped the cabin. The next moments were critical. Would they accept this newly imparted knowledge, or would their minds reject the intrusion? Asche waited, gauging their reactions, prepared for any outcome.