01-08-2021, 05:14 PM
She sits, staring up at the man, unfazed. The black eye, bloody nose and busted lip a testament
to her resolve. Charla Mendoza was one tough cookie.
“Does your dick grow an inch every time you hit me?” she taunted.
He puts another one across her face; all knuckles.
“This ain’t about my dick, it’s about you giving me what I need.”
She spits a wad of blood onto the floor. “I ain’t your fucking mole.”
Not being convinced, he raised his weapon. That gun pressed against her forehead meant nothing.
She’d been here before.
The door opens and another man enters the cheap, dingy motel room.
“The fuck are you doin’?” he asked.
“Getting the truth.” replied the interrogator.
The second man moves briskly towards them, pushing his cohort away from the woman tied to the
wooden chair.
“Take off, I got this.” he said.
The first man glaring angrily, looks down at the lady then up to the second man.
“Fix it!” he demanded. He left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Her new friend frees her from the chair. She goes to the bathroom to wash her face and rinse the blood
from her mouth. Looking over into the bathtub she sees a large towel folded and sitting atop several gallon
jugs of water. Plan B. She dries her face and grabs her gun off the back of the toilet.
“You OK?” he asked as she re-entered the room. She nods.
“He would’ve killed you, ya know.” he said sitting on the edge of the bed.
Charla returns to the chair, this time under slightly better circumstances.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
He looks her in the eye. Years of bad road telling its story.
“To ask you that same question.”
She sighs and leans back, putting her right arm on the small table.
He breaks their stare, stands from the bed and walks to the door; securing all the locks.
“Don’t forget I’m armed.” she said.
He turns and walks back to the bed.
“Sorry honey, date rape’s a little below me.” he said, sitting down.
“Look, I don’t know what you - “ she starts.
“I know your name’s not Mendoza.” he interrupts.
She crosses her arms, still staring at the man.
He reaches into his back pocket bringing out his wallet, flipping it open to show his CIA credentials.
“Yeah, and?” she asked.
He smiles, puts it away, then stands and walks across the room.
“Come on Delicato, we’re on the same team here.”
He turns to see her; statuesque, giving nothing away.
“I was friends with Charlie in college. More like acquaintances. I came to the funeral but I didn’t
speak; you were beside yourself.” he said, trailing off sheepishly.
Delia shoots up from her seat and has her gun pointed right at the man across the room.
“Don’t you ever speak his name again!” she seethed.
“There she is! Pride of the agency.” he said beaming a huge smile.
Delicato, hands steady, stands ready for anything. Him or her; it was gonna be him.
“Your spook handler probably already burned you.” he said walking back over to the bed.
Holding his hands up, he asks “May I?”
Delia backs up and allows him to sit, keeping her gun on him.
“Martin. That the last contact you spoke to?” he queries.
She sits back down, gun still raised. Her eyes relent, only observable by someone with the same wear of
mileage. It came with the job.
“He cut me loose six months ago. Been the wild west ever since.” he offers.
She lowers her gun as that sinking feeling hits her stomach.
“Nine months in and here we are. I answer to no one.” he continues.
Delia places her gun on the table and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees.
“What’s it been for you, three months?” he asked.
“Four.” she says quietly, looking up to see his now very serious demeanor.
“It’s sink or swim out here in the deep water.”
Delia knows this has gone too far but there was no turning back.
The man stands and walks towards the door, stopping to inform on the latest.
“Stay away from downtown. St. Matthew’s is gone. It’s mayhem.”
She looked up at him in utter disbelief.
“The children’s hospital?”
He stood there silent, glancing at the floor then back to her.
“Was that us?” she asked.
His grim expression told her everything.
“Welcome to the new war on terror.” he said, walking through the door.
Delicato fell into her chair. The nightmare had begun…
to her resolve. Charla Mendoza was one tough cookie.
“Does your dick grow an inch every time you hit me?” she taunted.
He puts another one across her face; all knuckles.
“This ain’t about my dick, it’s about you giving me what I need.”
She spits a wad of blood onto the floor. “I ain’t your fucking mole.”
Not being convinced, he raised his weapon. That gun pressed against her forehead meant nothing.
She’d been here before.
The door opens and another man enters the cheap, dingy motel room.
“The fuck are you doin’?” he asked.
“Getting the truth.” replied the interrogator.
The second man moves briskly towards them, pushing his cohort away from the woman tied to the
wooden chair.
“Take off, I got this.” he said.
The first man glaring angrily, looks down at the lady then up to the second man.
“Fix it!” he demanded. He left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Her new friend frees her from the chair. She goes to the bathroom to wash her face and rinse the blood
from her mouth. Looking over into the bathtub she sees a large towel folded and sitting atop several gallon
jugs of water. Plan B. She dries her face and grabs her gun off the back of the toilet.
“You OK?” he asked as she re-entered the room. She nods.
“He would’ve killed you, ya know.” he said sitting on the edge of the bed.
Charla returns to the chair, this time under slightly better circumstances.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
He looks her in the eye. Years of bad road telling its story.
“To ask you that same question.”
She sighs and leans back, putting her right arm on the small table.
He breaks their stare, stands from the bed and walks to the door; securing all the locks.
“Don’t forget I’m armed.” she said.
He turns and walks back to the bed.
“Sorry honey, date rape’s a little below me.” he said, sitting down.
“Look, I don’t know what you - “ she starts.
“I know your name’s not Mendoza.” he interrupts.
She crosses her arms, still staring at the man.
He reaches into his back pocket bringing out his wallet, flipping it open to show his CIA credentials.
“Yeah, and?” she asked.
He smiles, puts it away, then stands and walks across the room.
“Come on Delicato, we’re on the same team here.”
He turns to see her; statuesque, giving nothing away.
“I was friends with Charlie in college. More like acquaintances. I came to the funeral but I didn’t
speak; you were beside yourself.” he said, trailing off sheepishly.
Delia shoots up from her seat and has her gun pointed right at the man across the room.
“Don’t you ever speak his name again!” she seethed.
“There she is! Pride of the agency.” he said beaming a huge smile.
Delicato, hands steady, stands ready for anything. Him or her; it was gonna be him.
“Your spook handler probably already burned you.” he said walking back over to the bed.
Holding his hands up, he asks “May I?”
Delia backs up and allows him to sit, keeping her gun on him.
“Martin. That the last contact you spoke to?” he queries.
She sits back down, gun still raised. Her eyes relent, only observable by someone with the same wear of
mileage. It came with the job.
“He cut me loose six months ago. Been the wild west ever since.” he offers.
She lowers her gun as that sinking feeling hits her stomach.
“Nine months in and here we are. I answer to no one.” he continues.
Delia places her gun on the table and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees.
“What’s it been for you, three months?” he asked.
“Four.” she says quietly, looking up to see his now very serious demeanor.
“It’s sink or swim out here in the deep water.”
Delia knows this has gone too far but there was no turning back.
The man stands and walks towards the door, stopping to inform on the latest.
“Stay away from downtown. St. Matthew’s is gone. It’s mayhem.”
She looked up at him in utter disbelief.
“The children’s hospital?”
He stood there silent, glancing at the floor then back to her.
“Was that us?” she asked.
His grim expression told her everything.
“Welcome to the new war on terror.” he said, walking through the door.
Delicato fell into her chair. The nightmare had begun…
