Page 4 of Her Mercenary
I knew the most intimate details about Samantha Greene. I’d memorized every line of her face, every curve of her body. Her entire internet footprint. I’d interviewed her friends, family, coworkers.
She was my mission.
I knew that Samantha began her day with a cup of coffee. No creamer, no sugar—black and strong. Supercharged, according to the label on the boxes that arrived at her door monthly, ordered from a specialty shop online. Store-bought coffee isn’t good enough for this junior high teacher was my first note about the woman.
Every morning, with her dog at her feet, Miss Greene watches the local news while sipping the ridiculously overpriced coffee beans. I don’t know why this bothers me so much. Perhaps because her car is badly in need of new tires, or because her reading glasses are held together with Scotch tape.
Anyway. This morning ritual is spent wrapped in the same blanket every morning, on the same dated leather couch, in a nightshirt that reads I cannot teach anybody anything, I can only make them think – Socrates.
Sidenote: I’ve decided that Miss Greene must have a dozen replicas of this nightshirt as I refuse to believe that a woman would wear the same nightshirt multiple nights in a row.
Like clockwork, Samantha arrives at Fairhope Middle School at exactly 7:25 every morning. Here, she dedicates her life to preparing the youth of society to become mature, productive adults.
Ten hours later, Samantha gets into her banged-up Subaru (which is one pothole away from falling apart like a bad game of Jenga) and drives home—unless it’s Wednesday. On Wednesdays she goes to the grocery store, the liquor store, then home.
There, she spends the evening grading papers, developing lesson plans and instructional materials for the days and weeks to come. On the rare event that Miss Greene drinks three beers instead of her usual two, she browses a dating website while humming to her favorite 2000s dance-hits playlist on the radio. She prefers Bud Lite to Miller Lite, although I’ve decided not to hold this against her.
According to public record, Samantha has been divorced eight years, after a fleeting marriage to her high school boyfriend. It appears that she has no man—or woman, for that matter—in her life, despite the dating site she frequents where I discovered, somewhat unexpectedly, that her username is @Mrs_Frizzle_Dizzle.
After much research, I realized this username is a nod to the adventurous and fun-loving teacher from the old cartoon, The Magic School Bus. I also realized that Miss Greene has an odd sense of humor.
A few evenings a month, from six to seven, Miss Greene offers free tutoring at the local library to her students. (I think they call her “Dizzle” here. Weirder than that, I think she likes it.)
It’s obvious that these students are the number one priority in her life. Her dog, whose appearance could give Nick Nolte’s mug shot a run for its money, is a close second. And in a distant third place, the overpriced coffee beans ... and an unnatural aversion to laundry that makes me itch.
This is the extent of Samantha Greene’s life. It’s Groundhog Day, over and over again.
Otherwise known as my hell.
Of the five personality traits, Samantha Greene sits solidly in the Agreeableness (warm, cooperative, needs to be liked) and Conscientiousness (practical, organized, devoted) groupings.
According to this, I can conclude that Miss Greene is a cautious optimist who defines her life by dedication to a cause—in this case, teaching. In the event that this cause is ripped away from her, her identity will come into question. In other words, when I find her, I can expect an extremely emotional and mentally fragile train wreck, assuming she’s still alive.
In summary, this woman is my polar opposite. This is irrelevant, and I’m unsure why I’ve contemplated these differences so much.
Perhaps it’s the age difference. She’s just a kid, while I’m slowly being sucked into middle age. Two days after Samantha turned twenty-nine, I turned forty-two, though I feel much older. Most days, my brain is at war with my body. But because I consider fatigue a weakness, I push myself until I end up with a pulled muscle or face-first on the floor, whichever comes first. I’m not as fast as I once was. Some days I don’t feel as strong.
I can’t remember the last time I laughed.
While Samantha is the type of person who assumes that humans will always do the right thing when provided the opportunity, I believe that people will do only what suits them when given the opportunity. Trust is something I lost long ago, while Samantha has built a career around making others feel comfortable around her and trust her.
People don’t feel comfortable around me. It’s just as well, as I find being in public spaces as painful as listening to pop-hit radio—especially the 2000s.
Last night, I lay in bed wondering what Miss Greene would think of me. What she would think if she knew how many men I’ve killed. How many people I’ve deceived. How many identities I’ve had. How many secrets I have.
And why is this turning into an assessment about me?
You might be wondering if, at this point, I’m a stalker—or worse, for that matter.
I’m not. (Though “worse” is subjective.)
It’s my job to know every detail, every tic, every fear, every passion of my target. The moment I accept a mission, I begin compiling a detailed file on the target. I learned long ago that this information is vital for a smooth extraction. Knowing—and being ready to adapt to—how the target might react to any given situation can literally make or break a mission.
And there is no mission more important to me than the one I am about to embark on.
On August third, Samantha Greene traveled to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, for a bachelorette party with five of her childhood friends.
Only five of those six women returned.