Silent Reaper

Audits were my personal hell, a solitary descent into a fluorescent-lit nightmare where each buzzing light made me feel like a target. I glided through the silent offices like a phantom in a graveyard, the air thick with the unspoken dread and hushed whispers of terrified employees. Their fear was a chilling presence, but this job—despite the staff's loathing—was a step up from my dark past. Once known as the Silent Reaper, a special forces assassin who carried out targeted killings, I now found myself navigating a different kind of danger, where the stakes were just as high, but the enemies were hidden in plain sight.

Ethan slid into his car on the wet, slick asphalt of the parking lot, the engine growling to life beneath him. A familiar rhythm–rain drumming on the windshield–marked another ordinary night.

When he wasn’t dealing with vitriol from people trying to make excuses, the nightmares of his past crept into his idle thoughts, reminding him that this job was far better than executing people by the order of someone who sat behind a desk and had never seen, smelled or tasted blood.

Like a warped carnival, the neon lights distorted as they reflected in the puddles. The sound of laughter from the nearby comedy club only highlighted his loneliness. But Ethan had other plans than joining the festivities. He was headed for last night's leftover pizza and bourbon, a temporary escape.

His life comprised the clinking of ice, a stale pizza crust, and the glow of the TV. The fear he once expressed with bullets now spreads through the written word using pencils. Finding deliberate errors was the only satisfaction he derived from his life.

The ringing phone broke the monotony of the hemorrhoid cream ad. Ethan’s eyes flicked to the screen, where the overly cheerful spokesperson was extolling the virtues of relief, but the ringing pulled him back to reality like a jolt of electricity.

The sudden noise invaded his shadow-filled sanctuary, a reminder of the outside world. Curiosity trumped his hesitation, and he answered.

With a resigned sigh, he reached for the receiver, its weight heavy in his hand. Whatever awaited him on the other end, he knew it wouldn’t be about comfort or relief. This was a call that would lead him into the thick of it—no cream could soothe what was coming.

“Ethan, Rhonda. Do you remember me?” Her voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of urgency that prickled at the back of his mind. “I’m calling to let you know that they know what you’re doing.”

Intrigue and dread twisted in Ethan's gut as he held the phone. "This audit," she murmured secretly, "is the one you need to doctor the numbers."

“Hey, how do you know?”

“I can’t say they might be listening.”

Her words were weighty with experience. What trouble brought her here? Rhonda wasn’t just giving advice; she was warning him from the depths of a hard-earned lesson.

Rhonda and Ethan were once close friends. She left for The City, and Ethan, well, he left to become a government tool.

Ethan had only stumbled upon an irregularity during the audit, a flicker in the data that didn’t add up. It was the kind of thing that gnawed at him, a whisper in the back of his mind telling him something was off. But this call from Rhonda? It was over the top, almost theatrical in its urgency.

Why did Rhonda choose this moment to come back into his life?

“Can we meet?” The words slipped from his mouth before he could second-guess himself. He needed to see her to gauge the truth behind her frantic plea. He also wanted to see her again.

I braced for her response, ready to step into a world that could change everything. The shadows were closing in, and I had to decide whether to walk into them or turn back.

The silence was deafening, a chasm that swallowed the world between them. Ethan leaned back, straining to catch any hint of where she might be. In the distance, he could hear the mournful wail of a train, its echo slicing through the stillness like a warning siren. The occasional swish of a car passing by added to the symphony of isolation, each sound a reminder of the chaos lurking, much like the grim Reaper.

She must be at a pay phone, he thought, the image forming in his mind like a snapshot: the clatter of coins dropping, the buzz of static, the urgency of a voice that had nowhere else to turn. It painted a picture of desperation—someone unwilling to leave a trace, wanting to stay hidden while simultaneously reaching out. The extra coins alerted him that she was not local. Was she still the ravishing girl, her bright smile and the way her hair flew as she cheered, echoing in his memory from the basketball court? 

This was more than a call; it was a lifeline in a desperate situation. Was it for him or for her? That night, as the city lights blurred through his rain-streaked window, marked the end of Ethan's life as the stoic accountant. Long, distorted shadows danced in the dim light of his home, their movements creating an eerie atmosphere. The warmth of the fireplace and the flickering glow of the old TV were instantly forgotten in the face of the tense phone call. What made her decide to ask him to fabricate the audit?

“I will call you tomorrow night.”

The next day, he worked from his home office, sunlight streaming through the window as he tapped away at his keyboard. Additional irregularities warranted his attention. These discrepancies were not accidental; they were intentional.

A prickling sensation ran down Ethan's spine as he instinctively sensed danger. His sharp instincts, honed by years of working in faraway lands, were all that stood between him and danger. The metallic tang of blood and the burned, bitter smell of exploded ordnance clung to his memory, a gruesome perfume that threatened to overwhelm him once more.

With a practiced hand, he turned the combination, the tumblers clicking precisely, the final click sighing like a relieved machine. Inside, nestled amongst the dusty, forgotten spreadsheets, ledgers, and piles of cash, lay his cold, heavy 9mm, starkly contrasting to the mundane office environment where he spent most of his time. The icy steel felt familiar and comforting in his hand, yet a strange electrical charge pulsed through his fingers as he reached for it. This was no ordinary night; a disturbing wind whispered secrets through the trees and around the bars on his windows.

As he pulled the weapon from its resting place, adrenaline surged through him. The call was a turning point. Unknowingly, he had stumbled into a theft ring, cleverly hiding their deeds deep in the ledgers.

The phone buzzed, and I knew it was her.

"Rhonda,"

"Hey, Ethan. I heard you discovered the financial ratios were incorrect."

"Yeah, it was a bit of a surprise."

"You should quit while you're ahead."

"You sound like you're trying to protect me from something."

"Maybe I am," she said. "This isn't the first time I've seen someone dig too deep into things they shouldn't be digging into."

"And what would you know about that?"

"Just trust me, Ethan. There are things better left alone."

Rhonda avoided mentioning the purpose of our meeting; however, background sounds suggested her proximity. My professional endeavors brought me to her attention, thereby implicating her. Fictitious entities were fraudulently receiving financial resources. The complexity of the transactions was unwarranted, raising concerns. Discrepancies between recorded assets and physical inventory resulted in complications. The more I followed the breadcrumbs, the worse things appeared.

As the sun's descent painted the cityscape in somber hues, I returned to my residence. I had just completed a day of extensive work detailing financial fraud, which left me weary and disheartened. Upon reaching my front door, I noticed it was slightly ajar, which caused me considerable disquiet.

In the dimly lit room, a sense of anticipation held its breath, waiting for what I would do next. There, in my lonely chair, sat a vision of exquisite beauty. She wore a deep blue dress, her long, dark hair, and intense blue eyes hinting at hidden mysteries.

"Rhonda?"

She stretched a strange, slow, and knowing smile across her lips, the silence amplifying its unsettling effect. "It's me, and I've come bearing a choice."

The cold steel of the gun glinted in the dim light as a man emerged from behind my door, and the question of my next action echoed in my mind. I suspected my options were slim to none if I even had any. I recognized that the man with the gun was a prop. I allowed the scene to play out. Had Rhonda gone to the dark side?

Rhonda came close, and I smelled her perfume, a sharp floral scent that oddly mixed with the lingering smell of wood smoke. “The man with the gun to your back is Jake.”

Jake was her nerdy brother who made Barny Fife look like John Wayne. I grinned as she approached.

Her small hands found their way under my jacket, their touch surprisingly gentle. If she hadn't been with Jake, the chilling night air might have carried her screams of pleasure unheard into the darkness. An immediate bond formed between us.

Feeling the pockets of my pants, she smiled. It was the classic cliché: if that was a gun or something else. Her lingering touch made us both smile. Her wry smirk made me think my options might be a little broader than before.

Finding my 9mm, she pulled it out and tossed it on my couch.

“Are there other guns hidden elsewhere?”

“You should check. I could have a knife or a bazooka.”

She giggled like she did when we were kids. “Later, Cowboy, we have things to talk about.”

I turned to glance at Jake. Within two seconds, I had his gun and pressed him up against the wall. "Jake, you're outmatched," was the remark made to him. I tossed his weapon on the couch next to mine. He stood there expecting the worst.

“I’m hungry. Here is some money. There is a diner down the street. You, go bring back food, and I might allow you to live.”

He glanced at Rhonda, her smile a flash of white teeth against the backdrop of her tanned skin. With pointed instructions from her and me, he scurried off, a dutiful and compliant servant. I had to give him credit. I never saw him display such raw nerve back in Iowa as his sister coaxed from him; it was truly astonishing.

There was a mystery afoot, and it seemed that this simple little audit was about to turn into something much darker.

The night felt unreal, like a twisted movie.

Blake, my crooked boss, had been married to Rhonda. She left him, not wanting to be associated with a cold-blooded killer. He planned a massive, hurtful Ponzi scheme. I was hired to verify the company's legitimacy. I later learned that the last person who discovered the fraud was wearing cement shoes at the bottom of the Hudson River.

My thoughts swirled as I struggled to comprehend it all. Rhonda was a fugitive because Blake's ties to the mafia put her in danger.

"Let me make sure I understand this correctly," I said, trying to process the situation. If I find nothing that would allow Blake to cheat the shareholders, I'll be free to continue my life.

"You're right," Rhonda said in a resolute and fearful tone.

“Should you discover evidence of his Ponzi scheme, you will face the dilemma of exposing him or keeping quiet.”

“What will happen if I remain quiet?”

“If you discover it, the mafia will most likely kill you to secure your silence. Dead men tell no tales.”

I stared at her, my mind racing with a thousand different scenarios. The weight of the decision pressed down on me as I tried to figure out what to do. The situation was a lose-lose, and a knot of dread tightened in my stomach as I considered the terrible options.

Old habits came to the forefront of my thoughts. Living like a coward was never part of my plan. Evil people needed to be in Hell, period.

“Is the mafia after you?”

She glanced at her shoes. “Yes, I have changed my name, but if they find me, well, I will be fish food, too.”

“Jake is not adequate to protect you, you know that, right?”

She nodded while looking at her shoes and then glancing around my home.

“He’s going to get himself and possibly you killed. Send him home.”

“He’s all I have!” she protested.

“If he’s what protected you, the mafia is not after you. My guess is that was a threat from Blake.”

“You think?”

I nodded. “Send him home, and you can stay with me. You can have the bedroom.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Maybe I like the smell of Velvet Orchid. Maybe I want to see if what we had in school can be brought back to life.”

“You still want me after I left you for Blake?”

The memories flashed through his mind of all the deeds he had done at the government's behest. “We all make mistakes. Maybe we can leave them all in the past and start fresh.”

She grinned. “I would like that.”

“Where does Blake live?”

I gave Jake cash and told him to catch the midnight flight back to Iowa and say nothing to anyone. He went to grab his gun, and I stopped him. “No guns on airplanes; go back to your computer and leave the rest of this to me.”

I awoke to the aroma of coffee, eggs, and bacon. Rhonda had made breakfast. My housekeeper's groceries usually went to waste, and my stash of weapons shocked her. “Who are you?”

"I'll fill you in on the details at a later time. Do you have any feelings for Blake?" Her jaw clenched tight; eyes narrowed to slits, the silence heavy with the unspoken understanding of my question. With a frustrated shake of her head, strands of silky hair fell across her face, tickling her cheeks. “The missing persons cases are often linked to Blake, who is known to have a history of violence. I used to see blood spatter on his shirts. He is a bad man.”

I frowned as I retrieved a small package from the bottom of my weapons. “When I return, I want to seriously explore the idea of whether there can be an ‘us.’ Are you up for that?”

For the first time since we met, her smile was not one with a hidden motive. “I like that idea,” she said.

Blake came into the office, the quiet murmur of conversations filling the space. I brought a scent with me, purposefully ensuring that the velvet orchid aroma of her perfume was on my collar.

“How are things coming?” He asked. A wave of Rhonda's perfume, sweet and subtly floral, washed over him as he sniffed the air.

“I have a few questions. I made notes in the journals. When you have a moment, you might take a peek.”

“Don’t leave them out. Lock them up.”

“In my briefcase, combination 0123, secure, huh?”

Blake laughed. “Put your briefcase in the safe; I will have time later tonight; thanks, Ethan.”

The sweet, intoxicating scent of the orchid drifted through his mind, a phantom smell reminding him of other places, other times, where he'd encountered its fragrance. By the time he figures out that I was sending a message from his ex-wife through the delicate petals of the orchid and the fragility of life, it will be too late.

Blake met his illicit partners late at night. His meeting with the mafia would put a serious dent in the population of bad guys. Rhonda and I were enjoying a late dinner that she had prepared when the sound of an explosion echoed from downtown.

“What the devil?” She said.

A grin touched my face as I glanced at my food and Rhonda, ignoring her question. "What's this dish called again?" I asked playfully. I knew Rhonda wanted to explore a relationship with me, and I believed that cooking could be her way of getting there.

She was an Iowa farm girl before she married Blake.

"Ethan, that's just meatloaf, I'm afraid—a pretty ordinary dish. It's common fare around the farm, but do you like it?"

I thought about it for a minute, recalling the nights when I came home to find last night's pizza still in the fridge, in a box.

“Needs Catchup.”

She handed him the bottle while looking out the window.

“So, I wonder what that noise was?” She asked.

I glanced at her. “I heard on the radio that there was a gas leak downtown; I guess it didn’t get found in time.”

“Blake?”

“Blake, who? Oh, by the way, I was paid tonight after I finished my job. It's all in cash, so we need to find places to pay cash for things for a while.”

“Wonderful, you don’t think we need to worry…”

“Worry about what, dear? Let’s see what’s cooking on that farm.”

Her mouth was open, and her raised eyebrows made me smile.

“You want to meet my parents?”

“Why not?”

Rhonda had no idea she was bringing the Silent Reaper home to meet her folks. Ethan hoped the pseudonym, Silent Reaper, could go dark once again. Either way, he aspired to be far away from any investigation.