Time: Undetermined. Location: Undetermined.

There are moments when death becomes a sound. The whistle of a poisoned dart. The whir of an electric saw. The ticking of a pump on a timer. Or like now: In the purr of a car engine... Closer and closer, quickening Carlie Fisher's pulse.

It's nighttime. The girl runs and crosses a dark and lonely road. The instinct for self-preservation leads her to squeeze through a pair of thorny bushes. The brushing branches tear the fabric of her school uniform and scratch her skin. She stifles any sound that threatens to burst from her lips and turns off the flashlight in her shirt pocket. To calm her nerves she uses a breathing technique taught to her by her instructors, because the mistake was not to feel the fear, but to let herself be dominated by panic. 

Her pursuer shows such mastery at the wheel that he slides like a cougar in the gloom. The lights come on and catch Carlie just as she turns her face, hitting her in the eyes. She covers her face with both hands, and before she can react to pull away, hears the tires burning asphalt and the engine roaring.

The Roll Royce shoots off the road, kicks up dust, pushes the bushes aside, and rams Carlie head-on. The girl hits the windshield, which is left with a star-shaped mark. Carlie rolls off the roof, and lands on her side on the rustic, thirsty ground. 

She's dealt with drivers before. She knows how to get run over and the right way to fall. Outside of scrapes and bruises, she's still up to the job. But she wasn't about to jump out and put her attacker on notice either.

Carlie stands on her back looking up at the moonless black sky. The car's headlights cast light on her body, and she sighs, psyching herself up for what's to come. The driver opens the car door, Glock in hand he plants heself between the student and the light. From that perspective the attacker's face is shrouded in shadows, but Carlie doesn't need to see his face. She has all the information in her head. 

Craig Humbert. Alias: Crazy Crack. Ex-race car driver who has come to grief after running over a competitor "by accident". Background in armed robbery, kidnapping, and reckless homicide. Undercover racing participant, transporter, and hired thug accustomed to creating wheelchair debtors with the front end of his Roll Royce. A beast with a remarkable number of unproven murders, capable of putting his own mother in the hospital if paid enough.

But every man has weaknesses, and in Crazy Crack's case they are Caucasian, studious, virginal teenage girls. That was the facade called Carlie. Manufactured bait to lure the predator. She achieved that goal, and now it remains to discover who will be the real prey of the hunt.

For her, going over the details of the file is a mantra that gives her strength. They help her understand that if she doesn't beat Crazy Crack, other girls will disappear forever... And besides, the agency won't pay her. The in-depth analysis is also a way for her to rethink her options. Lacking rifles or pistols, for an hitwoman, does not mean 100% defenselessness. A wink, a casual gesture, an occasional brush are often more efficient than pointing a revolver at someone and screaming for them to tell all their secrets.

"Please don't hurt me!" She begs with a broken voice and teary gray eyes. Her blouse is half open, and the ripped skirt reveals her white thighs.

Crazy Crack senses every vulnerability like a lion hungry for fresh meat. He tilts his head to the side and gives a half-smile that contains terrible desires. Carlie picks up on the intentions, and slowly pats the nearby earth until her fingers wrap around a good-sized rock.

"I just want to go home! I swear! I won't tell anyone about this!"

The helplessness, the docility, fuels Crazy Crack's desire to dominate. It would have been wiser to shoot Carlie and leave her where the coyotes take care of the rest, or knock out and take her to a private place. But with the thrill of the chase, and after seeing her lying there all unprotected, the thug is tempted to forever sully what is surely someone else's adored daughter.

Crazy Crack plants the cold barrel of the Glock to Carlie's temple, and orders in a hoarse voice to hold still or he will kill her. Carlie nods. He hunches over her, and the girl soon feels a rough, sweaty hand run up her belly, under the cloth, and touch her breast. She squeezes the rock between her fingers, and as soon as the driver wraps a hand around her neck and moves in for a kiss, the young girl whips he skull around.

The driver falls to his side. The girl's hand moves once more, striking the man's wrist, causing him to drop the gun. Carlie picks up the gun with her free hand, spins in the dirt to get out of the way and stands up. She points it in Crazy Crack's face.

"Freeze"

Crazy Crack, stunned, touches with his fingertips the trickle of blood running down his ear. He shakes his head as if to clear his head. Tightening the stern features of his face, he fixes his animal eyes on Carlie.

"You won't kill me. Girls like you don't have guts. They're easy prey, weak, made to be used and thrown away"

"Says the guy who forces himself on young girls to feel like a man. What's the matter? An older girl too much of a challenge? You know what they say, big car..."

Crazy Crack feels alluded to and becomes enraged. He plants a hand in the dirt to get up. The rock hisses and bounces against his forehead. The guy collapses. Carlie approaches and kicks him hard in the face, knocking him unconscious.

The girl runs to the vehicle and reaches into the glove compartment for the driver's cell phone. She dials a secret number. An operator answers and asks what kind of mattress she wants to buy.

"Almost new. No bedbugs and mustard"

It took about 20 seconds to confirm that the communication is secure. If it takes longer than that, Carlie was to hang up and get rid of the cell phone and then run away. As usual, the confirmation arrives

"Situation report?" A deep, masculine, commanding voice, as impersonal as a greeting card given to a stranger, questions.

"Target is inoperative. Blunt force trauma with a rock and my foot.... Still alive" Looks sideways at the man on the ground and fills with disgust. Carlie doesn't allow the revulsion to seep through, she keeps her tone sober and professional. "He dragged me to his house and I escaped at the first opportunity. I detected signs of a girl's presence, but because of the urgency I couldn't locate her"

"Understood. Take the target to the agreed point to pick him up, we'll take it from there"

The client wishes to be entertained by the person who attempted against his motor skills, or so she deduces, otherwise they would not have demanded that she keep Crazy Crack alive, although that always multiplies the risk of the job and consequently her fee.

"I think if I put him in the trunk, it will give me a chance to drive back and take a second tour of his house, and-"

"Negative," Chief White interrupts. "Your job was to stop the target, and you've done it. This is not a rescue operation. The support team will take care of the rest. Do you reject his identity?"

Carlie Fisher is silent for a few seconds. She looks up in the rearview mirror and finds an angelic face framed by black hair, covered in dust, the lenses of her glasses broken. A perfect facade of handcrafted purity, designed to the millimeter by the agency, the ghost company that contacted and hired her.

"Affirmative"

"In that case... Carlie Fisher is terminated immediately. Welcome back, Agent V" With that said, White hangs up.

Over the hood, the girl disassembles the cell phone and pulverizes the various parts with a rock, tossing the remains into the bushes. She lumbers over to the downed criminal, and uses her hair ribbon to tie the driver's hands behind his back. Grabbing the man by the feet, V drags him and, with a grunt of effort, manages to get him into the trunk.

V drives the car back to the highway, and from there to the dusty motel where she is staying. The sign on the entrance post jingles NO VACANCIES. The Roll Royce is left in the motel parking lot for the agency to take care of, while V heads to her room, showers, and when she comes out, towel wrapped around her slender, wet torso, she sits on the bed and pulls out the telephone receiver to make two calls.

The first is to Debora, her stepmother. She delays answering, and V has to exist until Debora answers in a voice timbre softened by liquor.

"Hello?"

"Debora? It's me, Veronica"

"Of course" Debora pauses. Veronica hears her take another long swallow. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to know if Dad called you"

"He did, a couple of times in fact" Debora doesn't add more, again, pausing to crook her elbow. 

Veronica slouches forward and looks up, getting impatient. 

"What did you tell him?" She asks dryly.

"The usual. The stupid man doesn't suspect a thing and thinks you're with me"

"He's not stupid" Veronica struggles to control her voice. "And I hope you're not either. If Dad finds out or decides you're not good company, there won't be any more money for you"

She sharpens her words and waits a moment for them to sink into her stepmother's clouded head.

"You will receive your deposit on the usual day"

Veronica hangs up without bothering to say goodbye. When she dials the next number, she presses the buttons a little too hard, but as soon as she hears her father's warm voice, the fury that invades her diminishes.

"Veronica, is that you?"

"Yes, Dad" The hitwoman smiles with a tenderness that had been absent until this moment. "How have you been?"

James sighs.

"Regular. Jason got into a fight again. Seriously, I don't know what's going on with that kid. Whenever you travel he gets like a little demon"

"Oh, wow... And he won?"

"Veronica, that attitude is inappropriate... But yes, he won"

Both laugh at the same time.

"What about you? How was the racing?" James asks.

"Boring... Seriously, just cars spinning, I don't know why people get so excited. But Mom got those tickets in that Internet contest, and I didn't know how to refuse"

"Too bad... But I'm happy for both of them. They used to get along so badly and now..."

James, like Deborah, often takes pauses during calls, but instead of drinking, it's to reflect.

"You can tell Deb has changed for the better... Maybe I should give her a chance, too-"

"No" Veronica interrupts him. Before she knew it, she was already on her feet. "No, Dad, she... She has a guy... A boyfriend"

The silence that settles on the line gives hints of pain and disappointment. 

"Oh, well. I'm glad to hear she's moving on with her life..."

Veronica resumes the breath she inadvertently held. They move on to more casual topics, and finally to goodbyes.

"See you tomorrow, Dad"

"Sleep tight, sweetheart"

Veronica hangs up and sits back down. She puts both hands to her head, though it's her heart that bothers. It hurts her to have to hurt him... But it is also clear to her that the truth would hurt more. The truth would be a shock that no one in her family would survive, starting with her.

The assassin walks to the window and cautiously spies the parking lot. The Roll Royce is gone. Either the agency took it, or it was stolen. Not her problem. The mission was accomplished, and she earned $50,000 for her secret account, double her standard rate.