Bite the Bullet

Chapter 2

The Meet

Dr. Dinah-Jane Hansen was under the watchful eye of California's FBI agents the night I arrived in town so I stayed in a hotel for the night. This morning, after my usual four mile run at the crack of dawn, I take a long hot shower and center myself for yet another assignment. On the plane ride down here I was able to read up on the background to this case.

Apparently Dwayne Douglas Hansen has been the figure head of an international shipping company. It's on the up and up, well, it was until about 5 years ago. He does do international shipping, but now a lot of it is drugs. It didn't start out that way. No, Mr. Hansen was a hard working business man. He and his father started with very little when they immigrated to the states when Dwayne was in his teens. Bu as his company started getting bigger and bigger, he had to outsource more and more help. During the recent recession, he had to cut some of his employees, and doing so found out about a little under the table business one of this employees was running. When he tried to back out of the arrangement, one of California's many drug lords said no-no.

Mr. Hansen had been cooperating with the gangs for years, but little did they know, he was also a mole for the FBI. Now, the FBI has moved in and arrested the lords after a highly sophisticated operation. The trial is due to begin in only a couple weeks time and the major concern now is keeping Dwayne and his family safe.

The steam of the scalding shower opens my pores, setting each and every nerve fiber on end. Then, I quickly switch the water temperature to ice cold. My body tenses at the shock but I breathe through it. The pores in my skin clamp closed, locking the energy of the steam within my body. The cold makes me focus. The cold allows me to see clearly. It's the cold that has gotten me through so many things. It's the cold that has kept me alive. I shut the water off when my body starts to shake. Standing in front of the mirror, I look over my thick figure. I'm naked except for the dog tags hanging from my neck. To most women, their body is sacred...it's a piece of work. Their body is their temple. Mines not, it's my workshop. My body is a tool. My body has been tested and pushed to its limit. My body is my own, personal map. Every scar, every crease, every line tells a story. My fingers ghost over a wound that healed long ago. Its large and ragged. Turning, the matching wound on my back is just as ugly. I earned this scar.

Getting ready quickly, being pretty and all glammed up is not really a must have for this job, I look over Dr. Hansen's file again. Top of her class in high school, undergrad AND med school. Leader in her field of Orthopedic Surgery. Was married but divorced 67 days later. Trust fund in her name with enough money to buy the hospital she works at. Singer. Likes to cook. Drinks a lot of tequila. And lives by herself in a little house bought for her by her parents when she landed an intern position in Chicago.

Tough life doc and to think, I got a watch when I graduated, though it wasn't from college.

Packing up my small bag, I look around the room and check to make sure I grabbed everything. My hands do a physical check as my mind does a mental. Hands moving to the inside jacket pocket where I slip my credentials and badge.

Badge and Creds...check.

Moving to my right side, squeezing the holster clipped to my pants.

Gun...check.

Left hand pushing the cool steel around my neck into the bare skin below.

Tags...check.

Squeezing the brick in my suit jacket pocket.

Phone...check.

I close the door behind me and drop the keys off at the front desk. Walking out into the bright sunrise of California, I slip my shades from my black tresses and over my brown eyes.