The Way to Hell

Chapter Three: She's a Maneater

Some would say that murder is the best part of the job, the grand catharsis, the euphoric climax of the chase. She'd like to argue that notion.

Tracking is without a doubt her favourite part of any assassination.

The way Ingvild sees it, it's fairly similar to the shy moments of elation before having sex with someone for the first time. First, she picks up their scent, tracing the person's steps one by one like a small predator - a fox, cunning and wise. She'd learn a target's behaviour, sometimes for days, observing them from a distance to learn their manoeuvres, vices, and even their darkest secrets.

People let on so much when they think no one is watching.

When the time is right, when her little prey gets comfortable in their little cove, she plunges in, all piercing teeth and sharp talons, penetrating the feeble flesh and tearing them apart. Sometimes a gun is handy, sometimes a knife specifically when her target is a man. There's an intimacy to it, vile erotism one cannot argue.

Before each kill she imagines herself inside the target's skin, dancing within like a dormant possession that awaits the right time to manifest itself.

This is why she is good - why they will never let her go.

Slipping into August's body is a treat; the man ensnared her curiosity beyond any other job she had in the past. On the plain surface, Walker had it all; high ranked, superiorly handsome, and she imagined he had the brains too if he managed to fool the CIA for so many years.

In a world filled of mindless sheep, August Walker was the wolf who fucked them all and then ate them alive.

But he gave it all up, why?

'Words may hinder,' Ingvild muses, thinking about the manifesto which was conveniently missing from August's file.

Whatever is the reason why the CIA covers this up, still hunkers on her mind. 'Unruly curious mutt,' Liam would always call her. But the Manifesto will have to wait - first, she needs to find her motorcycle. In his perpetual arrogance, August had stolen the only thing this she ever loved; her precious Kawasaki Ninja 400.

But unfortunately for him, this only makes it easier for her to track him.

Ingvild begins her morning dressed for a run. Scanning the hotel areas in the city, she treads toward the harbour. Another day of calm weather graces the city, the sunshine bright yet frigid on her pale skin as she makes her run across the red and yellow houses and watches the little fisherman boats sailing across the Northern Sea.

Her first attempt is to see whether the good people of Bergen spotted a light Kawasaki bike or perhaps if anyone offered to sell one. If August murdered and robbed a random tourist back then, it was safe to presume he was in a dire need of resources. But her investigation deems fruitless; none heard or seen a bewhiskered man wearing an inappropriate T-shirt.

Looking at the harbour, it befalls her that a man on the run like Mr. Walker would probably choose a place where he can easily disappear and so she changes her course to the northern side of the city, venturing forth to Bergen's Fjellstrekninger - the great forest.

The woodland will always be an ally to a man who wants to vanish amidst the great magical green. Standing at the outskirts of the thicket, she inhales the piney air and licks her lips, almost able to taste August's desire to become one with the trees as well.

"If I were you, August, I'd build me a tent in the clearing..."

But from her short introduction to August, she senses that man of his previous status would, for now, settle for a warm bed. He is no Ted Kaczynski after all. Her eyes travel to the other side of the road, peering at the hotels and bed & breakfast properties that stand segregated from the face of nature