Silent Heroes: Wildcat

The Perfect Victim

2AM.

The city streets are quiet, still and virtually deserted. Hardly anything moves or makes a noise. No car lights penetrate the darkness. No streetlamps ignite the damp sidewalk. Only silver shards of moonlight reflect off black pools of water that have collected in cracks and potholes along the pavement.

A young woman walks alone through the night. She stands out like a beacon in the darkness. Her clothes are bold and bright and seem to fit her skin like a glove, riding the generous curves of her body. Her bright pink shirt appears fluorescent in the moonlight and her stark white pants almost seem to glow. Her skin is pale and smooth. Her hair long and luxurious and bleach blonde.

She walks with boldness and confidence. Without fear. Her chin up and her shoulders back. Her hips sway naturally to the rhythm of her movement. Her bright pink heels strike the wet pavement in a steady, confident rhythm. She holds her zebra print purse slung casually over her left shoulder, allowing it to hang from just her first two fingers.

Just off the main street, lurking in the shadows, several figures watch. And wait.

She's moving steadily in their direction, unaware of the danger up ahead. She breezes past them without a hitch, her head still up high. Her forward momentum creates a light wind that slices through her hair and leaves a whiff of perfume in her wake. One of the figures releases a predatory growl.

The woman continues on her way, still acting for all the world as if she is entirely alone. She's heading to the waterfront. Boats and yachts sit quiet and abandoned along the dock. Distant city lights create flashes of colour on the wavering surface of the ocean.

The dark figures now begin to move in, some from the left, others from the right. There are seven of them in all, each one dressed entirely in black. Everything but their faces seem to disappear against the darkness.

They tread carefully, their feet landing without a noise on the dampened street. They don't say a word but move as if they can read each other's thoughts. They spread out across the road, blocking any possibility for their target to retreat. Their pace quickens and they tighten formation as they move in, swiftly, silently, like predators closing in on their prey.

The woman stops. For a split second she holds perfectly still. Then, slowly, she turns around, her body suddenly tense.

The men have formed a half-circle around her. A few grin when she sees them. A few leer and the rest clench the muscles in their legs, ready for the fear, the fight and the chase.

But the woman's face does not register fear or even surprise. She gazes levelly at the hooded figures surrounding her, as if appraising a selection of shoes she has a vague interest in buying.

"Can I help you gentleman?" her voice is calm and laced with a faint southern drawl.

There's no answer but a few quiet laughs reverberate through the group. Her lack of fear is unusual but not unheard of. Some of their victims are much quicker to understand the situation than others.

The woman lifts her eyebrows and continues to stare, like she fully expects an answer to her question.

Without any further warning, the men attack. They come at her all at once, in a well-organized pack, whooping and shouting and shoving each other out of the way.

The woman doesn't scream. She doesn't run. She slides one leg back for balance, bends her knees and crouches her shoulders, meeting their charge head-on. If the men had been paying closer attention, maybe they would have noticed the smooth, cat-like grace to her movements or the inhuman strength rippling through her body.