Chapter Text
Houston, Texas.
October, 2014
The Syndicate
Raine Crowe would kill her way out of anything.
It was nothing too glorious or honourable (she wasn’t sure she was a very honourable person), but it was true. Reassuring. It kept her alive, and it kept her on her toes. She did not enjoy the blood or the screams, but what she liked, what she wanted didn’t matter.
Money mattered. Staying alive, too.
Raine did not lie about anything: she was paid to do a job, she did it, and she left. It was that simple. She was an honest person, who didn’t see the point in lying. She’d lay her life bare on the table if it gained her a few more pennies. Born in New Orleans, child prodigy and technology fanatic who ended up brilliant, but not the best, in Harvard. Everything to make her seem great, but not important.
One thing about Raine: she was good. She was damn good at her job. Almost like a whisper, the less honourable people knew her name, knew what she was doing, knew how to contact her if they needed a discreet and good hacker. They knew her; and at the same time they didn’t.
Another thing about Raine: she was a lie. A tightly-sewed mask to hide behind, a locked vault to bury a life inside. Nobody too important to be remembered—because she never set foot in Harvard or any school or job Raine Crowe supposedly attended, New Orleans was just another city she visited sometimes without particularly caring about it (not like you cared about a hometown, anyway).
Remington Faulkner was good at lying. Hell, she was so good she often forgot how Raine was a lie. She fell for it, too.
The dichotomy of her life allowed her to have bloody hands and a dirty reputation. And still, on the rare days where nothing happened, Remington would bring back money to her dear sister, kiss the children on their heads, share a meal with them and pretend she got the money in an honest way. Alexis Faulkner was no fool, she knew money didn’t fall in anyone’s hands innocently, but she didn’t question it. The kids could eat—that’s all that mattered.
Raine Crowe got used to the presence of guns and knives (though she personally preferred the latter). She had seen things, a lot of things, and her eyes barely registered anything happening, now. But, this time, something was off.
What didn’t matter: the man standing behind her with heavy armour and a rifle in his arms. Supposedly to protect her, in case something happened. Thankfully, he had no knowledge in hacking, and she’d be quick to put a bullet in his head to save her own. She didn't want to (she was a lot of things, a killer wasn't one of them).
What wouldn’t matter in normal circumstances: the screaming outside, following each gunshot. There was banging and shouting in the safehouse (maybe not so safe, and it was hardly a house, but the place she was in, anyway), indicating obvious traces of harsh fighting just outside of her door. A poor, feeble wooden door that was here barely to hide her, really.
What did matter: three little letters that she noticed when she entered the target system she was given. CIA. Fucking hell. And the other thing was that Raine was pretty sure she couldn’t be seen in their network, let alone traced back there so quickly.
She couldn’t tell if it was the CIA outside, but there was someone coming for the people who hired her, and it was absolutely not good. Especially if the CIA was involved. Despite rattling the depths of humanity for a while now, Raine never was this close to getting caught.
(Except once, in the first times when death still bothered her. She didn’t particularly like pulling a knife off her colleague’s neck, but the weapon was there and he was dead anyway, and the next on the army’s list was her. She didn't even know where the knife came from, but she kept it.)
Despite not knowing who contacted her precisely, she knew he was from the Syndicate. (Understand: go deeper than petroleum in the scale of humanity, dig a little deeper, and you should find people of the Syndicate down here.) The money offered for this job was unprecedented, and as long as he got the documents, he’d transfer the money to a secure account belonging to Alexis Faulkner. She got half before, half after the job.
“Hurry up!” the man behind her exclaimed, and she saw him shift on his feet in the reflection of a black corner of her screen.
“It’s CIA,” she retorted, as if it was supposed to explain everything. She was good, but so were they. Bloody Americans. After all, there was a reason for their life-long loans to study. “It’s goddam CIA.”
God, she’d get life for that. If she made it out alive.
Condition to her job: as long as she was paid, she had no business with why she was paid. She had the instruction to transfer files (apparently, classified files from the CIA) to someone else. She was just here for the transaction. After, she’d disappear.
If she was being honest, her work wasn’t pretty. But, again, CIA—that required a change of methods. Not her finest work and not the one she preferred, but it was a personal feat and that she could be proud of, with the sole condition of surviving through the night, of course.
Big if.
Her eyes scanned the screen quickly, flickering between the small windows popping up and disappearing rapidly. It looked good, it looked very good for her. Raine already faced several protections (she didn’t expect any less from them), but now, if she did just that…
A window popped up. A progression bar, slowly filling, with the explicative percentage at its end. Usually, she’d smile for this—that meant victory, or almost anyway. Not this time. “I’m in. Almost over,” she informed.
The man barely reacted. He simply walked to the door, cocking his gun and slightly raising the barrel with a steady movement. He was calm, like most experienced killers were.
Raine’s own heart was beating rapidly with adrenaline. A question had planted its seed in her mind: how would she get out here if the CIA was at her door? Again, she couldn’t be absolutely certain it was them. Either way, it didn’t sound good.
A squealing got her attention, on her left, towards the door. A brief push making the wood rotate very slightly. Just enough for a hand to slide in, lower the weapon with professional precision, slide the barrel in, and shoot. Blood stained the walls as the body of her colleague fell to the ground, a red hole in the head, and all she could think about is how the hell she’s getting out of here. So much for witness protection.
Raine still cared about her life, despite having the lifestyle of someone who really didn’t. Maybe she had a survival instinct. She didn’t know. Still, she raised her hands high. Even if she killed the guy, she didn’t have the experience to escape the building alive.
She had her hands clearly raised and visible by the time the door opened (which was merely a second after it first got her attention, but she still cared about her life). A rifle was directly turned at her, as a man shouted, “Get away from the keyboard!”
Raine slightly pushed herself away with her foot, the chair sliding away from the table. Her hands went a bit higher, just in case. She was armed, after all—better not make it suspicious.
“One man down,” the man informed over the communications linking him to his colleagues. “They have a hacker. Still alive.”
Raine was almost relieved at first. Because, despite what it looked like, the man had a mask covering his face, and that usually was the signs of someone belonging to some cartel or whatever was lurking below the surface. Nothing reassuring, it seemed, but she could bargain her life out of this with services—and chances were he could lack experience or technique.
But then, she picked up the two thick stripes and the little star besides, on a formal uniform. Lieutenant in the army. A lieutenant hiding his face like an amoral killer.
Fuck.
Now, that was even worse than the CIA. Good job, Rem. You really outdone yourself on this one.
The man briefly glanced at the screen. Even someone with no knowledge in hacking could understand what 100% — Done could possibly mean.
“Captain, we have a problem,” he added after. Vague, but that’d need investigation to clearly identify the problem. “The hacker finished her job.”
Then, only because his gaze flickered back to her, analysing any reaction or hint she could let on, or just an accusing glare (she wasn’t so sure, he didn’t seem very expressive), and also because there was no way out of this, Raine’s lips curled into a smile.
You’re fucking right.