C.A.R.M.A

1

The hotel bar at the Sheraton in New Hampshire was the perfect spot to appear innocent and position myself to attack. With my back to the door, I didn't see my prey when he entered, but I could hear him.
"Here we go", a voice through my earpiece confirms.
"Let me guess; he's the ass yelling at his assistant through the latest iPhone and not the other man sitting placidly in the lobby reading the paper?" I say back with mock surprise. "Figures."
Beth, the voice in my ear, chuckles softly. She's currently across the street in a picturesque New England cafe, hacking into the hotel security system and disapplying the panic buttons.
"Almost ready", Beth says. "And, good to go! I'm a genius."
At her mark, I let the martini glass slip through my fingers and shatter on the floor.
"Oh no", I moan loudly and run my fingers through my blonde hair. "I'm sorry!"
SPringly wildly out of the bar stool, I start to clean up the martini glass with my high-heels and bend over. Then, the planned loose stitch on my dress snapped, creating a rip up my thigh to my hip.
"Well, that's just great!", I pouted loudly to the alarmed looking bartender.
"Need a hand here, young lady?", a voice behind me says.
I turn to lock eyes ith Jeff Goldman. A truly ironic name since he's sexually assaulted around 25 maids in this hotel alone. But being the New England Chief Operations Officer of Sheraton has certain perks. Like being able to give 24 maids hush money and have the last one fired for mental health issues because she didn't take the money. But all that's just fine. That's how we came into the picture.
I smile up at this absolutely disgusting human, "Yes, please."
Goldman smiles back and drops some money on the bar before leading me away to a private elevator. He proceeds to drown on and on about his important job and what an important person he is, while he leads me into what I assume is the best room.
"Let's have a drink", he proclaims once we're inside the room. I noticed that he locked the door behind us.
That was easy I think to myself as he pours us two whiskeys and drinks his in one giant gulp.
"Go on, now. Drink up", Goldman commands, taking threatening steps towards me with a smile on his face.
"No, thank you", I say, holding up my hand.
"What, not a drinker? Loosen up, sweetheart."
"Not a poison drinker, no."
Goldman freezes in a comical mid-step. "What did you just say?"
"Let me clarify", I smile at the tangible power shift in the room. "I spiked every one of your bottles while you were out doing whatever it is the COO does."
This is my favorite moment. Watching the color drain out of his miserable face. Watching the moment the predator becomes the prey. Watching this fucker die.
I glance down at my watch while Jeff Goldman starts foaming at the mouth, falling to his knees.
"Not a drinker", I scoff. "You literally watched me drop a martini glass, you stupid bafoon."
His bulging eyes watch me as I pull a backpack out of the closet and begin swapping my dress for jeans and a t-shirt stashed inside. I complete the new look with a black wig and turn back around just as Goldman stops choking. Dead.
I let out a content sigh, placing our business card on the wet bar next to my untouched drink. Written across it in red cursive is C.A.R.M.A: Cruelty Always Rallies My Aid.

"Clock is starting", Beth says as I slip into the booth where she hacked Sheraton's security.
"Good", I smile while sipping the coffee. "I love looking concerned when the cops find our card."
Beth lifts her mug in a salute just as the sounds of the sirens hits our ears.
It might be time to explain a bit more about why I just murdered a man.
Beth and I are part of an organization of special agents who track down people that get away with sexual assault. Let's get statistical for a moment. One in every six women will experience a sex assault in her lifetime. One in every ten men will experience it.
One in every 33 men will try an attempt or succeed in hurting another person this way. People who have committed this crime in the past are three times as likely to do it again. 
CARMA is a group called in to right the balance. When the promises of money, power and more victims get people out of facing judgment, we ensure the assaulters get what's coming. We date as far back as the 1800s, at least the earliest file I can find is from 1802. We do our research on people before our boss sends us in to execute. All files of every kill are in a special roped off section of the library.
And before you ask, no we are not an all women force. Evil happens to everyone and the best of the damned are selected to play with us.
"Time to go", I say while Goldman is rolled out in a body bag.
While we climb into our getaway car, I see a police officer slide our card into her jacket. That's the thing; most people know these monsters walk among us and there's nothing they can do. Things usually end poorly for the small town cop that goes against the NFL player.
"Ladies", Tim, our driver and in about 60 minutes the pilot, greets us. "Were you successful tonight?"
I grin wickedly, "You saw the body bag."
Tim flashes a smile back as he maneuvers through the town toward a private air strip on the outskirts.
Tim came to us just three years ago. Right after he was fired from a small town Long Island Police force for trying to expose a sex traffic ring run by their Chief of Police. Mysteriously, the chief died about two years ago. Weird.
"We're here already?"Beth says, perking her head up from the laptop perched on her knees.
Tim rolls his eyes, "it's a quick drive."
"Still, you did it expertly", Beth leans over from the passenger seat and kisses his cheek. Tim is one of Beth's favorite drivers, but that's due to the fact they're married.
I stare up at the New England style mansion, with its large sweeping lawn and a hanger in the distance.
Another thing about CARMA, we have safe houses all around the world. The houses are run and kept by, what we call, Vixen. Graduating to a Vixen is our form of retirement. They're still called in for special missions and considered deadly, extremely badass mentors.
The front door of the mansion opened as we approached. Tiffany stood in the door, puffing a cigar, looking regal in a red dress and black stilettos. Despite looking like she owned the place, which she did, she also looked like an expectant mother.
"Well?", she demanded without preamble.
"Thea killed the fucker in under 10 minutes", Beth reports.
"Why waste time with pleasantries?", I push into the house to refill my supply bag.
"Because it's fun to play with your food before you eat it?", Tim suggests.
"I thought I taught you better table manners than that!", Tiffany chastises before rounding on me. "You're wheels up in 10 minutes, hurry up you two".
I poke my head out of the pantry with a cliff bar in my mouth. Yes, getting snacks was exactly what I meant by supply bag.
Tiffany scoffs at me before smiling warmly. I admire this woman, she's one of the greats. She spent five years pretending to be a Senator's trophy wife in the 90s before she exposed him to the public. Once it became clear he couldn't recover from the news that he paid girls at his daughter's high school for sex, the Senator put a bullet in his mouth. Some people deserve the slow burn.
In fact, Tiffany teachers a course in our training sessions about how to completely destroy a person, right here in this mansion. It was a favorite of mine.
Tim checked his watch. "I have to be back to teach forensics at 7, we should get going."
Beth and I turn to go with arms full of gummy bears and pretzels. Tiffany exhales, feigning annoyance. "I just went to the store."
We stare expectantly up at her before she gives us an if-you-must elegant shrug of her shoulder. Beth and I take off running to the airstrip before she can change her mind.
Tiffany hates going to the store. Another reason you become a Vixen is when you have a mission so public you're forced into the light. Generally, speaking widows of sex offenders don't enjoy running errands.
Not only was Tim a former small town cop, he was also prior Air Force. Like any agency, different people have different jobs. Technical support, logistics, Vixen, hackers, drivers, trainers, pilots,or like me, field murderer.
There are three distinguishes for our strike forces: Revealer, Questioner and Murderer. All children that were recruited, like me, go through a general screening at age twelve that will determine their fate.
Revealers are the closest we have to real spies. They pose as ordinary people, working in ordinary spaces that may have rumors of dark things happening. They gather information and pass it to the Questioners.
Questioners don't get as much action as the rest of us, but they have the most important role. The information provided to the Murderer comes from the Questioner assigned to their case, as well as the judgement call of what punishment the person deserves. For that reason, Questioners have a four year course versus the standard three years.
Being selected for murderer after the general screening was the proudest moment of my life. I was 15 when I finished the course, ready to be unleashed to the world.
Look, you may think I'm being harsh with calling myself a murderer, but that's what I do. I kill people that have done vile things to people and the law turned a blind eye. Yes, I consider myself above the law. No, I don't think what I do is wrong. Yes, I love it.
"How long till we hit Rhode Island?"Beth asks, strapping herself into the co-pilot chair. Tim and Beth met during Air Force basic training.
Tim rolls his eyes at her, "You know that just as well as I do."
I eased into my plane seat and shut my eyes. Soon we'd touch down just outside our home base of Westerly. Back to the waterfront mansion that housed the Northeastern section of CARMA that's been my home since I graduated four years ago.
I could taste the salty sea breeze on the tip of my tongue, along with the celebratory wine bottle I planned to open on the balcony.
Let me backup. I'm not from Rhode Island originally. Actually, I'm from the same small town on Long Island that Tim was a cop in, but I actively pretend I'm not. I spent years in training, once everyone was asleep, coaching myself out of the horrible accent. I'm proud to say it only slightly comes out when I'm drunk.
I'm happy to have a root on Long Island because that's how we got Tim and Beth. I met them at my mother's funeral. Of course, no one knew who I was at the funeral. Not even my brother who looked straight into my eyes.
I was a ghost. A ghost who had an unsettling resemblance to the woman in the coffin.
It's not my brother's fault he didn't recognize me. I was selected before he was born. I strongly suspect my parents had him to replace me. Poor guy.
My childhood before CARMA was unique. The woman I saw three years ago in the coffin was bipolar and had an intense amount of anxiety. My father had incredible anger management issues. It never occurred to them to right their mental health before having a baby. So, my father reasoned that he couldn't take out his anger on his mentally unstable wife. She was fragile, she was delicate, she was a songbird that shrilly chirped in the forest. She was the mother that watched a man hit her child and scream at her child so the anger wouldn't fall on her.
Yes, she was broken and mentally ill but she will always be the monster controlling the demons in my nightmares. I went to the funeral and cried tears of relief to see the source of my evil lowered into the ground.
The background story unfurled behind my closed eyes as Tim launched the plane skyward.
I can remember the morning my life changed clearly. I can smell the scent of bubble gum toothpaste only seven year olds enjoy. I can remember tasting the residue from it on my tiny gums as I stood with my backpack asking my father to drive me to school.
Big mistake. I interrupted him, comforting her. But even at seven, I loved school. It was more important to me than whatever was making mommy cry now.
My father stood up so fast his chair fell backwards. He advanced on me with his fist held high.
"You can be incredibly selfish. Just walk. Jesus, we're busy", on the emphasized busy he turned and brought his arm down in an exasperated gesture.
SMACK. My fathers elbow caught me in the eye as he turned toward my mother. It hit me with such force that the skin on my cheek bone split open just underneath my left eye. Neither of my parents noticed me as I gathered myself and my backpack, scrambling to get out of the house.
Twelve years later, I still have a tiny scar where his elbow connected to my face, but it's not my father's fault the cut was so bad.
Walking into the classroom, I made a beeline for the cubbies, a plan fully formed in my mind. I was sure this hit would leave a bruise, and people tended to ask questions about bruises on children's faces. The last thing I wanted was an interview with a social worker.
I kept my head down and my hair falling in my face, when I spotted it. An untied shoelace. I reached the kid just as I lifted my arms to store my backpack in a cubby.
I stepped on the shoelace as the kid turned. Which sent me off balance and I knocked myself, injured eye first, into the cubby.
There was a great deal of confusion after this including a trip to the nurse's office to make sure I wasn't concussed. I got to pick out the bandaid for my face and didn't need any stitches.
Overall, I was so proud of myself for avoiding the social workers that I couldn't keep the grin off my little face.
That's what gave me away.
Around lunch, I got called back into my classroom while the rest of the class was at recess. Confused and annoyed, I opened the door to find a woman with dark red hair in an elegant pencil skirt and a man in a well put together suit. I remember thinking these must be the fancy social workers because the man had a suit vest underneath his jacket.
"Sweetheat", the woman began. "What happened to your eye?"
I looked down at her shoes before looking into her bright green eyes. "I slipped on Cassandra's shoe lace this morning and banged it into those cubbies." I looked into her eyes the entire time I lied to this stranger. I didn't flinch, I didn't even blush.
"Oh, she's good", the man said to the woman.
"Sweetheart, what can you tell me about karma?", the woman said.
I thought for a moment, trying to place the word. "I think it means you get what you get, right?"
The man smiled warmly at me, "that's right honey, you get what you deserve."
There was more confusion and blurry details after this exchange. The woman and the man came to my house. They sat and talked with both of my parents, explaining that I was selected for a special boarding school in Maine. Here was the brochure, I would be home for holidays, they could visit whenever they wished, it was paid for. It was because I was gifted.
They gave me a small black duffel bag and told me to pack what I needed. They'd be waiting to leave in 10 minutes.
I packed as quickly as I could and gave my parents quick stiff hugs before flying out the door. At the time, I didn't fully trust these strangers, but it had to be better than Long Island.
The next day, my parents watched the news and learned there was a train crash in Vermont. The train's final destination was Maine. Nobody on board the train survived. Sometimes, I wonder how hard my mother fake cried.
What actually happened when I left was a long drive to JFK Airport. Two other sets of adults met us with two other children.
"Why are we taking a plane to Maine?", I asked the red-headed woman.
"Because we lied to your parents. We're going to Seattle", the woman answered calmly.
I stopped in my tracks and started up at her with the most incredulous look a seven year old can muster.
The woman smiled at me, "But we aren't lying to you now. You are gifted. And you're going to do great things for CARMA. We've been watching you for a long time." She led me onto an unmarked plane.
And so my new life began.
The other two children were both boys and cried when they burned our fingerprints off. Instead, I bit my cheek until the taste of blood mixed in with the bubble gum.
One of the boys, who looked a little older than I was, wasn't named Elliot anymore. He was now Max.
The other's new name became Brain.
My name wasn't Kelsey anymore, it was Thea.
And, you guessed it, we were going to a special school for special children that would grow to learn how to destroy people.