Samuel

Chapter 37

"In today's top story, over 600 missing people's reports were filed this morning. Officials are baffled about the quantity of accounts. What is further perplexing is that they are only in a single police station's jurisdiction. Janet Montoya has the story..."

The channel five news played in the background as a white floral teacup sat upon its saucer. Its contents filled with a murky brown fluid steaming slightly. An olive-colored hand with maroon fingernail polish encircled the handle while another firmly grasped the saucer.

Bringing it to her chest, she sipped on the bitter fluid. Cringing slightly, placing the cup back on the saucer thinking to herself with a scowl, "These Americans don't know anything about making a proper cup of tea."

Looking once more at the footage as the female reporter stood in Central Park stating wild theories to the disappearances such as mass abductions, extraterrestrial intervention, and secret government conspiracies.

"A growing number of dried corpses are being found throughout the country." Janet Montoya reported. They continued to discuss potential plans from the CDC.

Namirah smirked at these as the scene flashed to a tall building. Her smile faded abruptly as her eyes met his building, the one who stayed beyond her grasp. The newscaster stated that even some influential individuals were missing. A few of them worked in the building etched on the screen. The camera panned upwards to see the top of the skyscraper. Biting her lip, clenched her left hand, rage filled her; the fiery tempest grew as the thoughts of Jonathan's aftermath flowed through each scene.

"This is unacceptable." She said speaking aloud to herself.

Reaching down to the nearby white marble coffee table turning off the television with the remote, the leather couch squeaked softly from her movement. In her office, adorned with simulated window screens of rolling hills and trees with leaves rustling softly in the wind, this underground compound deep in the heart of the Southwest remained her home. Standing to move towards her door, walking barefoot on the Persian rug, ornamenting her floor, the sensational feeling invigorated her. At times, wiggling her toes burying them further into the rug, Namirah remained encaptivated by the touch.

No longer wearing her business suit when she recruited Janet, she now wore her normal attire, a red and black robe or kaftan. The black portion, not containing any patterns or design, obscured her left shoulder and the entirety of her left arm. The red, however, embroidered with golden floral patterns allowed for the eye to reflect on the singularity of beauty with the fabric. The attraction of how it hugged her body, drawing out her sensuality with each shift, each movement.

Bending down, lacing her leather sandals on with her free hand from the kaftan Namirah stepped into the hallway. The doors biometric sensors only opened to those with approved access. She alone, held the skeleton key to this bedroom as well as every room in the compound. The doors slid into the walls pushing cool air into her face.

The empty hallway held the distant sounds of heels landing on the floor flowing throughout the passageways. Making her way to the other side of the large complex, housing different personnel who performed a litany of tasks. Some individuals remained in the compound, not leaving for several years, while others refused to leave. Fortunately, the route, direct and nearby, Namirah walked for only five minutes before she reached her destination.

Passing many of her subordinates, some nodding in respect, others pausing while waited for her to pass bowed deeply. The Director of this complex, the power to do all rested in her hands. Although her position warranted respect, she never pursued it or mandated it. These individuals did this of their own will, of their own volition.