Rennie- Prologue

The door swung open, allowing another group in from the night. The haze of smoke was broken over the tableau of writhing bodies and blaring music. The flow of liquor was only inhibited by the amount of money in the pockets of those asking. The red glare from stage lights and the blare of excessively loud music made idle chit chat impossible. Quite possibly the most perfect place to find trouble.

Two bartenders tended bar, five bouncers circled the floor, a deejay play music from a crow's nest off to the left of the stage, and three strippers stood in various stages of dress, or undress. Private shows took place in the rooms to the right, down the corridor. More bouncers were back there, just in case, but he was not interested in that kind of trouble. He pushed his way through the crowd, making towards the stage. He would get a rise out of somebody tonight if it killed him.
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She saw him walking toward her a moment before he helped the guy into the just empty barstool. She eyed him with an even, accessing look that could not be misconstrued. Dan, the beefy bouncer pulled a five from his pocket and pushed it towards her, indicating the man he had escorted with a nod and a quick shake of his head. He leaned towards her, and then she to him to hear his words. "Ren, I need you to look after him for awhile. He's set on making trouble and I'm short a man tonight." Dan's look beseeched some empathy she had long ago discarded, but at her hesitant nod, he left her with the troublemaker.

"What'll ya have?" She got out over the blare of Black Eyed Peas. She had to repeat herself twice before she caught his game. He was staring down her cleavage, trying for a better look each time she got closer. No patience left she merely gestured to the bar in a wide arc of her arms.

Amused by her annoyance, he shouted out his draft choice. She picked up the five dollar bill, and pulled a glass from the ice in front of her. Filling it quickly, she placed it in front of him, gave him the level look that meant he was to go nowhere, and then moved about the bar to contend with the other patrons.

He could not find someone here who would take the bait. The bouncers were too well trained, the deejay used the bird's eye view to keep everyone up on what was going on everywhere in the bar, and the dancers were too well versed in how to keep themselves safe. He was about at the end of his tether. He needed the money from picking this fight.

Salvation may have been granted however, when they dropped him at the bar. A woman bartender in a strip club, not the usual thing, and it may be their weak spot. He could not give up, but he may have found the perfect way to get the job done easy. She looked like nothing, tall maybe, and athletic; but what bartender is prepared for what he was planning? None and that was what he was counting on.

He summed her up while she worked. Six foot maybe, blond, tank top, suspenders, short shorts, garter belt and stockings, heeled shoes. She looked like a swimmer, all sleek muscles and no extra fat. She was not drop dead gorgeous, but she was extremely easy on the eyes. Her hands were quick, eyes even quicker, like she missed nothing that went on around her. She dodged and escaped the grasping hands of the men at the bar, moved with fluidity to make the drinks, and then was off to the next person in line or down the bar.

There was no hesitation in her movements, indicating that she was very much at home behind the bar. Her straight-forward demeanor and no nonsense attitude made it clear that she was doing the only job she intended to do. She ignored or dismissed the requests for her to go on the stage, making it very clear that she was revealing no more than was already on display. She did not smile or laugh, but she peered intently into each face at the bar, dissecting and discerning their true intentions even as she worked.

It would be a shame if things got messy and she got really hurt in this scuffle. She seemed such an easy target; he did not understand why the bouncer brought him to her instead of the male bartender. Maybe she had just been here longer and he was honoring the chain of command. Maybe he thought she could handle him, or at least put up with him better than anybody else. Nothing anybody said so far had put a dint in her façade, so perhaps they did not expect him to get a rise out of her either. He felt a small twinge of guilt for picking on her when there was a much closer match up to himself in the club. Noting the odds, he hoped she went down quick and kept her head down, instead of trying to be a hero. He would hate to have to kill her to get his job done.
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She looked through her lashes again at the man Dan had pulled over to sit in front of her. What did it take, a declaration that she did not double as a bouncer on nights when she was behind the bar, to keep from having to pull the double duty. It was hard enough to keep from being molested behind the bar without having to baby sit some moron with a trouble complex. Did they think she was two people?

He kept staring at her like he was assessing her movements. If the man thought he was finding his easy target, then he had another think coming. As busy as it was tonight, she could not imagine him having trouble finding someone else to start a fight with, but Dan probably had taken care of all that. Leave him at the bar, so he can start a fight there instead, brilliant. Aware of being observed, she made her movements even more precise, allowing for no sign of vulnerability or weakness to show in her performance. She did not waste time hoping that he would change his mind, because that would be like holding back the tides.

Making her way through the masses, she found herself in front of him again. She sized him up, tall, beefy build, comfortable in his antagonism. He probably had a record, the kind that made the average person run the other way. His hands were blunt, but like small hams placed at the end of hairy apelike arms. She knew that it was coming, thinking that it was not was only wishing, and she had given that up long ago. She would have to stay out of those arms, they would crush her easily. Staying back, staying out of the reach of the fists, and still keeping him under control should be a challenge.

She gestured to his now empty glass, asking silently if he wanted another. At his nod, she reached for the glass at his fingertips. That was when she made the mistake. It was silly really, something that she never would have done in the past. She was getting old and lazy, that was the only reasoning. She dropped her guard, lessening her attention on him when another man yelled at the top of his lungs a few feet to the left of the troublemaker. Like any good predator, he pounced on her weakness.

He grabbed her wrist, stood and reached his second hand across the bar as he pulled her towards him. In the blink of an eye he had his second hand secured around the waistband of her shorts and was using it and the leverage from her wrist to pull her over the bar. Rennie did not fight, nor try to stop him. If this was the kind of trouble he had come here to make, she might as well take care of it as the next person. His grip on her shorts stayed tight, but he twisted her into his arms as she came over the bar. Once her feet cleared the bar, she finally reacted to the assault being perpetrated.

She twisted her body, brought her elbow up and into his ribs, and landed a good stomp from the heel of her shoe onto his instep. He cried out, letting go of her in the surprise of the attack. She spun out of harms way, hitting another man as she backed away. Realizing what was going on, the men at the bar filtered back to form a circle, a circle that both kept her from running away and help from coming. Their beer-soaked minds not realizing the depths of what was about to happen before their eyes.

The music suddenly died, as Shawn, the deejay, noticed the ruckus. Over the earpiece in her ear she heard him giving a full commentary on what was happening to the bouncers. The girls were making their way off stage and barring the stage door behind them. Her help, the bouncers themselves were moving through the crowd like salmon swimming upstream, slow and inhibited by the crowd itself, because as soon as the music stopped, the crowd knew there was a greater source of entertainment to be had.

Rennie assessed her situation like she had a million times before, or so it seemed. This was what she had been trained for, not the slinging of bottles behind a bar, or for entertaining the gentleman at a club. She was a fighter, a mercenary and the man in front of her was going to learn a very hard lesson in underestimating his opponent because she was a woman. Rennie was used to that, it was what made her job easier and gave her faith that God really existed. He had a sense of humor to make her what she was and then let people think she was a good one to pick for a fight.

The troublemaker finally decided on his course of action. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. Flipping open the blade, he gave her a gruesome grin. He waved the blade in front of her as if she would be more afraid by the fact that it moved rather than just that fact that it was open before her eyes. The weapon actually allayed one of Rennie's fears. If he was attempting to kill her, he would not try to subdue her with a stranglehold. The knife she could handle, just like taking candy from a child, because lord only knew why you would give candy to a baby.

When the knife had opened the circle had taken two more steps back, Rennie took advantage to fall into fighting stance without fear of one of her limbs being entangled by another person. She weaved slightly, as if the act of standing still was too much for her, but in reality, she found the movement soothing and kept her on the balls of her feet so she had better reaction time. The movement kept her loose, controlled and she let a small, ironic smile touch her lips as the man before her waved that knife in front of her face.

He started reassessing her as soon as the blade opened. Her eyes did not show panic at the blade, her body did not tense at the assault and she was relaxed before him, as if she had fought like this before. It did not matter. He was the professional now, a man paid to do a job, and he was very good at what he did. Technically, she was now the customer, waiting on him for the show and dance before he took off into the night. Deciding she had waited long enough, he took a swing at her in a precise manner, hoping she would see he meant business and fall to the floor crying.

She pulled back from the waist, swinging into the fray as soon as the blade passed her with any ability to strike. Rocking back forward, she twisted on her left foot, presenting her back to him, and swung her arm. The blow almost made him lose consciousness as it hit the base of his scull. She completed the swing by twisting her body to be behind his. Quicker than he had ever seen anyone move, she was swinging at him again. Dodging the worst of the next coming blows, or warding them off with lesser sensitive spots to be hit, he did his best to regain control of the situation. Her fists and her feet came in a flurry of style he had never even dreamt of, and her exotic demonstration left no doubt she was a master of her craft.

Still holding his knife, though not having the capability to swing it but the one time to open her salvo of blows, he tried to move into position to better attack her when she did give him an opening. When he shifted the knife's position, her rain of attack paused. Her little smile had never left her face, and now he understood why she had been so amused. Hell, if he could move like that he would wear that little smile all the damned time. She nodded to the knife and in a voice that carried a great strength of meaning she spoke. "If you intend to leave here alive, I suggest you drop that cheap piece of steel. Otherwise, I'm going to use it to kill you." The matter of fact tone and way her words fell over the crowd sent a forbidding chill up his spine. She had never taken her eyes from his, never watched the knife, never flinched or been afraid of what he did or intended to do. He realized it was not a threat she had proposed, but a promise... a guarantee of what was to come if he did not put the knife down.

But he could not relinquish the weapon in his hand. He could not afford to screw this up, and he would rather die than go to prison. Decision made, he swung the knife in a backhanded motion at her again, catching her at her first disadvantage. The crowd had swelled behind her in the lull, so when she leaned back, she did not clear the arc of the knife entirely. Her suspender caught the motion of the knife directly below her breasts. The elastic stretched taught. He watched in abject horror as she used the return momentum of the blade to force it back towards him in an uncontrolled motion. Normally, he would have been able to stop the back swing, but she raised her leg to her chest and with the ball of her foot, forced his own knife into his chest, sealing her prophecy. He watched her face, hoping to see remorse for his death as the light slowly faded from his vision. All he beheld as his knees gave way and he slid to the floor was her face coming closer and the last words to touch his ears before death almost made him smile at the typical woman response to the situation.

"I told you so." Her whisper did not betray any feeling.
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Finally breaking through the crowd, Dan saw only the final moments of the fight. Her words made him give her an unreadable look before he started herding the crowd away from the body and the scene. He did not spare another look for her, but knew she climbed back over the bar and pulled out a cell phone. She pulled out her earpiece from the club and began to talk on the phone. She said little, but there was no evidence of shock on her face during or after her fatal blow.

The fact that she taunted him in death had almost been amusing. Almost, but Dan had been a cop, had been a Marine, he knew that there were people who could kill others, and those that were trained to do it. He had never dreamt that he worked with a woman that would not blink over snuffing the life from another human being. She had killed the man in an efficient and simple way. She had used his own weapon, had fooled him into thinking she was only a minor threat, and had not only warned him of her intentions to use his own weapon, she did so and fulfilled her threat.

While he had called 911 as soon as the scuffle started, he called again once they had the crowd under control. The police, he was assured, would send out a detective or two to assure that a full investigation would occur as to the motives of the man involved. He had little thoughts as to the man murdered on the floor of the club, but his eyes finally went to the woman who had handled the whole affair.

Rennie calmly sat on the edge of the bar. Her legs dangled over the edge, swinging slightly, her shoulders rounded a little as if she were totally relaxed, despite the circumstances in which she found herself embroiled. He caught the glimpse of something white in her hand before he turned toward the door to see the first of the police officers entering. He did not bother to approach Rennie, knowing she would have her arms full with questions from the men in blue. She would need that calm she seemed to be hoarding within her to deal with this problem.
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She did what she did every time something like this happened. She called Home. The office that assured her abilities, trained her to be the weapon she was, also dealt with the minor mishaps that come from having people like her in society. She held in her hand two business sized cards. One held the telephone number of her get out of jail free card; the other contained her unchanging information, which amounted to a telephone number. These things and a quick statement of what happened would be the only things the cops got from her.

It was funny that when you did for a living, what she had done for a living, you got jaded about certain aspects of society. She knew that if you murdered a man, you should pay in societies' eyes, either with prison or with your own death. But in most societies and cultures, if you killed a man while you held no weapon and he attacked you, it was considered self-defense and immediately forgiven in the eyes of the culture. In America, everyone was a victim, even the predators. Hell, people sued for being shot by a homeowner when they had broken into the other person's home.

So, cynical or no, her patience would be tested until the head of the investigation came to light. She noticed that the person in charge was often the last to the scene, for some odd reason she could never grasp the idea of letting someone else gather your evidence without supervising them. However, being the loner that she was, she only usually worked with one other person if any at all. So having someone else do your work for you did not occur. Because that was not true, to the extreme opposite in fact, with the police, she would have to maintain cool, calm and collected until their fearless leader arrived.

When the first round of questions started, she could easily tell they were all beat cops. She sat with no expression on her face and waited. The next round of questions had a wet behind the ears detective and more beat cops. She was in the middle of contemplating a harassment suit against the second detective to arrive, when he strolled in. She knew instinctively that he was in charge of the investigation. The way he sized up the place, the way the others deferred to him as he entered the scene, and the age behind his eyes as he took in the chaos before him, all of these things designated him as the only person with the honor of being in charge of this battle of hell.

He got a certain amount of information from the officer just inside the door before he turned to survey the scene. As he began his trek to her location at the bar, she was now being harassed by two other detectives and two uniformed officers, and he made a detour to head behind the bar to stand behind her and listen the questioning. A word still had not passed her lips, but her whole demeanor seemed to rub them the wrong way. The youngest of the detectives began threatening a trip to the station for her if she did not cooperate. She did not move or show any signs of agitation, but she felt the beginning tension curl in her abdomen. You do not walk behind the predator unless you are prepared for her to turn on you.

When the words came from her mouth all other conversation stopped. "I would appreciate it if you would not be behind me. Some habits die hard." She had not turned, had not blinked in any manner indicative of her change of mood. Thinking she was opening up to their questioning, the underlings before her pressed what they thought was their advantage. Almost pressing in on each other to fire questions off at her, they moved closer edging each other out to ask this question or that.

The majority of her attention, however, was focused on the man slowly moving from behind her. When he stood off to the side and slightly behind the others, she turned her eyes to make eye contact with him. She did not betray a thought or a single emotion as she asked, "Are you the detective in charge?" Again, as if the Red Sea parted, all conversation stopped and eyes went back and forth between the older detective and her unflinching countenance.

"Detective Harold Graber," he introduced himself and held out a hand for her to shake. She knew instantly that he knew she was more than just a bartender. The way he held his body, the tension in his frame, all indicated his acknowledgement of her status. He seemed to be attempting to size her up, but if anyone would know how difficult that seemed to be, it would be Rennie herself. She had been misjudged so many times, she now almost expected it.

"Detective, before we begin, I will need you to call this number. You see, I have rules..." Rennie started to explain, but the second detective jumped in.

"What like Monopoly?" He had been on the point of harassment since he arrived. He was a little older than she, and seemed to be just as cynical about the world, with only a drop in the bucket experience that she had to compare.

Turning she looked into his eyes that were like dark chocolate melting in a double boiler. She let a half-smile pull into place on her face and actual amusement showed in her eyes as she replied. "No, I would say more like Risk." The humor faded as quickly as it had come, and she turned from his astonished face to that of Det. Graber. She noticed the blood rushing to his face and the extreme irritation that lit his features. Apparently, no one ever spoke up to him like that.

"As I was saying, I have rules that I must follow. And if you do not allow those rules to be followed, bad things usually happen." She handed him the cards, her number on the bottom and let him take things from there. The look she gave him implied her silence until things went her way.

Harold Graber was not born a fool and nothing had ever happened to change that except for a two year stint when he got married, then divorced. When he walked in and heard about the witnesses statements, about how the bouncers had seen her kill him in the way she had, the fact that she was not even winded, in shock, or upset, he knew he had a problem. She looked like a girl he would have dated when he was ten years younger. However, he would not have dated her knowing that she could kill a man without even a blink of an eye.

When she talked back to Jim Carroway he almost let himself laugh. Jim had a reputation as a mean mother fucker at the office, and nobody wanted to deal directly with him when he got that way. Jim had a quick come back for just about anything and it worked great with distracting suspects, but she had shot back at him without a thought of his reaction. In fact, he would bet money she wanted him to swing at her to give her something better to do with her time than to sit here, obviously waiting for him.

He looked at the two cards she had handed to him, and almost groaned. The one on top had an insignia he did not recognize, but the three little letters were very scary things to behold at four am on a Saturday morning. CIA spelled out before him was not what he needed to see this early, or any other time. Great, some spook is causing trouble and every badass in the neighborhood is going to try to take her up on it. Just what Cook county needed, another trouble making idiot who would cost the taxpayers more money than she brought in during a year, and he would not be able to do anything but report her to her superiors for a slap on the back of the hand.

Graber reached for his phone and dialed the number on the front of the card. A tinny beep occurred then a woman's voice came over the line. "Identification number please." Harold quickly stated that he had no such number. "Take a damp cloth to the back of the card you are holding. There will be a fourteen digit number that I need to give you clearance to talk to anyone." She then waited patiently while he did as he had been instructed.

Reading off those fourteen numbers suddenly put him through to a man with as little patience as his witness before him seemed to have of tolerance. "Home operations," he introduced himself before continuing, "is the agent still in front of you?" The voice was slightly tinny, as if it came from a speaker phone.

Answering in the affirmative, Graber heard the man sigh. "She is not to be held under custody, arrested, or given too much of a hard time. The woman in front of you could probably escape anyway." His tone was slightly rueful at that comment, but was serious the next. "Have her give her statement, take her card, which you probably already have in your hand, and if you need her for anything, call her or myself. She can answer almost any question about the incident in question, but you cannot have any background on her. If you need anything, Detective, call her or myself. However, that offer only extends for the next 72 hours. After that, you may as well search for ghosts, because she and I will no longer exist, at least to you. Thank you and have a good evening."

Swearing under his breath, he looked at the woman before him. "I don't suppose I can get your name, can I?" His tone was disgusted, as if he didn't like not knowing what to do or being in unfamiliar territory. Her semi-amusement seemed to rattle them all, and the smirk she wore was beginning to wear on his nerves. Her body seemed as relaxed as if she were out for a day at the beach instead of sitting on the bar during an investigation into a bar brawl.

She emitted a short bark of laughter and her eyes crinkled at the corners in true amusement. She held out her hand to let him shake it, "Rennie." She shook his hand and smiled at him with her crooked grin that had made her attacker so angry and the detectives so frustrated. She did not, however, offer anymore than that by way of a name.

Not taking the hint, or just not used to this sort of an investigation, he asked, "Just Rennie?" At the question her grin actually spread to both sides of her face and she almost giggled with her amusement.

"Unless you'd like me to lie to you, yeah, just Rennie." She paused and the grin dropped off her face, "Look, I need to be somewhere in about 2 hours, so can I just type up a report for you on the computer in the back and we can be done with this?" She paused, looking him up and down in an unfriendly manner, "Or are you going to be a prick about this and make me miss my flight?"

"Look lady, you can't go anywhere until we get this all under control, so you might as well sit back and relax, 'cause this could take all night and until tomorrow." Carroway put in his two cents. Graber grabbed his arm before he jumped her right there. The man wasn't angry, Graber was astonished to find, Jim Carroway was aroused. Apparently he wanted a woman who would tell him where to go, because this one surely would, graphically.

Her smirk reappeared as if drawn by the unseen hand of God. Graber almost groaned at her triumphant look. She knew he wouldn't hold her for any longer than absolutely necessary. She also knew that he knew that she was aware of this knowledge. Any hold on her he could have had was gone. He knew she could walk out that door and never return and he would be the only person who would be in trouble, because she would vanish. She turned her look on him, "I think you'd better rein him in, because we both know he's lost all objectivity. He's too busy trying to picture me naked to try to picture the supposed murder."

Graber's jaw dropped at the same time his hand did the same from Carroway's arm. Carroway, no longer restrained, lunged at her, gritting out the words, "You bitch." He never made contact, never even got close. Sitting on the end of the bar as she was she curled into a ball and backwards somersaulted further onto the wood, standing at the end. Without pause she also did a backwards flip-flop, furthering herself out of range, and stopping herself in fighting stance. As lightning quick as her movements had been, they were also precise, well thought out, and easily executed. The detectives had backed up, one drawing his pistol, but Carroway stood at the end of the bar, astounded by the sheer stupidity of what he had begun to do.

Dropping down to her haunches, she looked at Carroway, waiting until he finally met her eyes. When his gaze finally met hers, she wore what appeared to be a genuine smile. "As much as I'd like to dally, it will have to be some other time." Her left eyelid closed in a wink that made Graber's jaw drop even further. "But, just so you know, I am entirely too much for you to handle, and I don't usually respond so well to violence. So, with that in mind, her gaze moved to the detective with his gun still pulled and aimed at her, "If you want to live through to tomorrow, you'll put that gun away before I use it on you." Her smile had melted from her face and her words dripped ice.

Carroway turned and pulled the gun from the man's hands, still in disbelief at his own stupidity. Graber, finally in full account of his faculties, cleared his throat. Her attention did not waver from the gun until the detective had grabbed the gun back and reholstered the weapon. "Rennie, why don't we get that report from you on the computer in the back. Then I will have your card if anything else is needed." All four of the detectives followed her into the back office, as if afraid to let her out of their site. She hopped down from the bar, grabbed the keys from the ring by the mirror and made her way through the crowd of people.

She moved like a dancer, swaying and graceful, but with every movement she seemed to place herself exactly where she wanted to be. There was no unconscious movements, no nervous twitch, no stumbling from being watched so intensely. She looked over when one of the other employees called out, but waved at him and gestured in the direction she was going, never raising her voice in response. She was so in control it was almost like she had no feelings.

Reaching the door on the far side of the bar, she used the keys and flung the door open, walking right in and not worrying about whom followed. The door, upon reaching its limit to be open, started to close itself, readying to resume its locked position. Each of the detectives pushed it open until all four were in, letting it swing silently closed. She turned, having only turned on the computer while they had entered the room. "Just so you know, I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. And, if I wanted, I could walk out of here right now, and you wouldn't be able to stop me. So when I give this to you, I want you to realize that you must've done something right." She turned back to the computer for a moment, then back to them. "And I don't hold anything against your detective here, I think he's pretty amusing with that Monopoly remark."

Her fingers flew over the keys as the word processing program came on the screen. Amazed at the way she filled out the page over an incident that may have taken five minutes to have occurred, all the detectives knew she was used to the details that every report was supposed to be embellished with despite the gaping holes in knowledge. At three pages she stopped, ran spell check, which came back instantly with nothing, and pressed the button to print the report. In the minutes it had taken to type and print she had not spoken a single word, nor had she done anything other than shut down the computer now that she was done.

Again turning to face Calloway and Gruber, she picked up the three sheets of paper off the printer without looking at them. Standing, she walked over to Calloway, took his pen from his hand and pressed the papers to his chest. She signed a single word to the top of the front page and leaned back to original position again. Calloway never moved, merely watched her like a predator does his food, but Gruber was again taken aback by the display. She handed back the pen, and the sheets of paper went into Gruber's waiting hands as he stood almost dumbstruck. He had the small presence of mind, however, to look at what she had signed to the top page.

"What does 'G-Angel' mean?" Gruber looked back up into the eyes of the woman who had truly astounded them all. She showed no hint of emotion or humor when she replied.

Her voice dropped to just above a whisper when she enlightened him, making him think it was not something she was supposed to do, but it was her way of apologizing for his miserable situation. "It's your way to verify that I was here. Without that, that could have been fiction for all anyone cared. Now they have to take you seriously, because it's not everyday I'm spotted." With that, she turned to a cubbyhole in the wall which held a black calf-length, tie close sweater. Donning the sweater, she opened the door leading the opposite way that they had come into the room, and the detectives felt the heat of the night pour in from outside. The door swung closed behind her as they all stared in shock at her exit without so much as a by your leave.

Curious, Gruber opened the door again almost instantly and the night was untouched by a single moving thing from this direction. Only a small employee's parking lot and a stand of trees stood, but nothing moved. He smiled a rueful smile and let the door swing closed. "Damn, it's true what they say about the CIA. They are all ghosts." Hearing his comment by means of a tap inside the office where they stood, Rennie smiled a rueful smile of her own. He will never know how close to the truth he really is.