Samantha Rayne: The Black Hood

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By JLNagel
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You know how they say crime doesn't pay? Yeah, turns out that's bullshit. I've come to learn over the last few years that a drive to get ahead at any cost and a ruthless willingness to break the rules can actually be very profitable.

For example, the safe in front of me held about a hundred grand. It was drug money, mostly meth with a side sampling of cocaine and heroin. It was dirty money, but that's okay, I wasn't the one that dirtied it. I shoveled the bills into a black backpack, and zipped it shut.

I gazed around the room. There were three bodies on the ground, not moving. Only one of them was dead, the only one fast and stupid enough to pull a gun on me. I only kill people I have to kill, but I don't have much remorse for killing someone who wanted to kill me.

Well, okay, sometimes there are people who just really need a good killing. Like the guy I'd tracked down who was kidnapping children and selling them into slavery. Some people only deserve one thing, and I'm happy to deliver it.

The other two guys were tied up with plastic zip ties. They were out cold right now, and ideally still would be by the time I was long gone, but restraining them was good common sense. Judging by the way they'd acted when I busted in here, one of the guys that was still breathing was the man in charge around here. That would make Greg happy.

These guys were relatively small fish. Taking them out of the game was a good thing, and the streets would clean up for awhile, but they were replaceable and the drugs would be back. Still, Greg would want to talk to them and see if he could get them to tell him anything. Sometimes they talk, an encounter with me tends to make people question everything they used to believe.

My scan of the room yielded fruit as my eyes landed on a small camera. Security systems are bad news. When I was new at this, a video of me stopping a theft at a convenience store hit the web. The impossible things I'd done on camera were promptly debunked and the video labelled a fraud, but it went viral long enough for people to christen me with a super hero name, "The Black Hood." I was wearing a black hoodie at the time.

I had to admit, a part of me gets a kick out of the idea. I always loved super heroes. Spider-Man was one of the first things I remember reading. It was flattering to think of myself as a real life Spider-Girl. I looked over at the dead body, and reassessed. Maybe I was closer to The Punisher or Wolverine. I decided I was okay with that.

Still, after over a million people watched the video, it came to my attention I wasn't the only one like me. It seems those other special types like their privacy, have for millennia, and won't hesitate to kill me if I jeopardize it again.

So, no more security footage. I winked at the camera, put my finger to my lips, and breathed a "Shhhhh." The camera sparked and smoked, and a computer on the other wall nearly exploded with smoke that stank of burnt electronics. No one would be recovering it's recordings.

A grin crossed my face. I love magic. Every time I use it, I just can't help but feel a chill of excitement. It's addictive, that power. It's why I shut down the bad guys and steal their money rather than settling down and getting a respectable job. I'm an adrenaline junkie, and nothing gives me a rush like using my magic.

I hunted through the dead guy's pockets and found his cell phone. It was locked, but typical of an ignorant grunt, his passcode was 0000. I punched in Greg's number and waited for him to pick up.

"Detective Gregory Larson," came his smooth, business like voice.

"Hey Greg, It's me," I told him.

"Ah Hell, Sam, what are you into now?" His voice betrayed a little bit of worry and more than his fair share of exasperation. Greg is a childhood friend, a fellow orphan who made good. While I was sneaking out of foster home after foster home getting into trouble, he was always a good student. After school, he went right into the police force and made detective young.
Greg doesn't approve of what I do, but he's a friend. He was a little bit older than me, and I was like his little sister. He won't turn me in, and he even gives me what assistance he can. "To keep you out of trouble," he says.

It's a symbiotic relationship. He keeps the focus on the criminals rather than the assaults that always seem to lead to their capture, and in return he gets to take criminals of the street and maybe even turn them for information.

"Drug dealer," I told him, keeping it short. "Two cuffed, one dead." I gave him the address and hung up. I dialed 911 and tried to put a little panic into my voice as I reported a robbery at the address. Greg would respond to the 911 call, and happen upon a pair of drug dealers sitting on a pile of evidence. The robbery case would remain open and uninvestigated while the dealers got charged with a list of felonies.

The corner of my mouth quirked up again as I hexed the cell phone to slag. I pulled on the backpack as I crossed the yard to the little yellow crotch rocket parked in the street. I don't know a whole lot about my Suzuki Hayabusa, I just know the salesman assured me it was faster than sin and hadn't been lying. As I mounted up and pulled on my helmet, my grin blossomed into a smile.

Life is good.
Another batch of discovery writing.
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