Phoenix 47
Cadet
Disclaimer: The characters Sydney Bristow and Sark, the organizations Credit Dauphine and SD-7, and the idea of the story are the creations of JJ Abrams and the other producers/writers of Alias.
Summary: Pretty much the same Alias story as Alias S1 Pilot, but with different characters, etc. Aka, my lousy attempt at a fanfic. Or anykind of fic, for that matter. So read, and please give me feedback.
Espionage at Tiffany’s
3 months earlier
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, as Aaron led me to the gigantic building that housed Tiffany & Co. Then he pulled out of a bag two cups of coffee and two muffins. He handed one of each to me.
“This is so cheesy,” I said, laughing weakly, taking the muffin and coffee.
“No,” he said, with a proud smile, “It’s classic.”
Then he knelt down on the ground. I looked away, embarrassed, but in a good way, towards the horizon, where the sun was rising. The light orange sky was beautiful, despite the smoggy New York air.
“What are you doing?” I asked, looking back at him.
“Guinevere Alexis Hartman,” he said, “Even though you hate that name, I have to use it, for this to sound right. Guin, will you marry me?”
And then he pulled out a box, from Tiffany’s with a silver Tiffany diamond ring. I was speechless.
“Yes,” I said, kneeling down with him, as he slipped the ring on my finger, “Yes, I will marry you.”
Then we kissed, right outside of Tiffany’s.
************
The phone rang at 3 a.m. The high pitched tone was like a spear through my aching head, instantly awaking me from my deep sleep. I sat up groggily, and reached for the phone, my eyes still closed. My hands closed on air, and the ringer kept ringing, and my head kept pounding. I finally closed my hand around the rectangular plastic, and I hit the Talk button. I flopped back into the position I had been sleeping in.
“Hello?” I said hoarsely to the other person, placing my free hand on my head.
“Is this Guinevere Hartman?” the other person, a man with an official voice asked. I winced at the use of my full name.
“Yes…you can just call me Guin, or Ms. Hartman, whichever.”
“this is Michael Lindsay, from Credit Dauphine, New York branch. I am your fiancé’s boss.”
“Hi,” I said, wondering why this guy was calling at 3 am. I did have class that day, and I would like to get some sleep. And of course I knew who this was. I’d only been to his house for dinner a million times and heard about him every single day, until the last three months when my fiancé suddenly stopped bragging about him.
“I’m calling on behalf of the bank with some very bad news,” he said, gravely.
Ok, so, even an idiot would know that if your fiancé’s boss called at 3 am with very bad news, it must be extremely devastating news.
But I was still half asleep, so I’m not saying I’m the village idiot.
My fiancé was Aaron Scott. He was a liaison for the New York branch of Credit Dauphine, which was a worldwide bank, some other branches of Credit Dauphine located in London, Chicago, and Los Angeles. Aaron had brown wavy hair, and was very, very buff, let me tell you. He also had this long white scar down his right cheek, running from the corner of his eye to his mouth. Every time I asked about it, like how he got it, he would change the subject. Aaron was always, ALWAYS, on bank trips, going to Chicago, LA, San Francisco, Boston, and many other places all over the country. He had proposed to me the morning after my performance as Arabian in the New York City Ballet’s Nutcracker. He had taken me to a bakery, bought us muffins and coffee, and then surprised me by taking me to eat breakfast outside of Tiffany’s. And then he proposed.
And now I am preparing to get married.
“Aaron,” Lindsay continued, “Was in London, taking some computer codes to our office there. When he stepped out of his car, though, two men in ski masks got out of a car from across the street and shot him, stealing the codes.”
Whoa. Not a great way to wake up.
“Is he okay?” I asked, desperate.
“The codes were retrieved by the police, who have apprehended the culprits.”
“Is Aaron alright?” I hissed into the phone, about to yell, but my head was hurting way too bad to yell.
“They shot him right in the head…he died instantaneously,” Lindsay said, dryly.
How could this guy make something so serious sound so…trivial?
“What?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.
“Aaron is dead…his body will be brought back to the States tomorrow.”
Seriously, I wasn’t expecting an answer. And yet, he gave me one.
I sat up, speechless. Well, what was I supposed to say to the boss of my now dead fiancé?
“If you come by Credit Dauphine today, we have some things of his from his desk. I’m sorry to call so late, and I’m sorry for your loss,” Lindsay said, and then hung up.
I immediately jumped up and grabbed my long black coat and slipped on some shoes. Then I walked down the stairs of my apartment and out into the cold night air, which hit me like a bullet, making me wish I’d brought Aaron’s black ski hat, which had been sitting on my dresser since last winter.
“I wish you’d take your hat home,” I would say, almost everyday, like clockwork, when he would leave for work.
“I’ll get it later,” he would say, smiling, “plus, I think it looks nice on your dresser.”
And then he would kiss me good-bye, and I wouldn’t see him until he’d come home from work or whatever trip he was on.
And now I would never see him coming through my door again.
I ran back inside and grabbed the hat, shoving it on my head and over my ears. Then I left again. And I walked very quickly, almost running, to his apartment. The entire street was empty, maybe because it was 3 am on a Sunday night. It was two blocks away, and never had those two blocks seemed to go by so slowly. I ran into his building, and then up the stairs. I pulled out the set of keys that would let me into his apartment, and opened the door, desperate to get in and see if this was all a dream, and if not, to be with his stuff, at least, if I couldn‘t be with him anymore.
His apartment was torn completely apart. Books, papers, and furniture were strewn all over the den, turned over, broken, and ripped. I moved through the apartment quickly, wondering why it had been ransacked when he had been killed in London. I looked in his bedroom, which was in similar shape to the den, with objects thrown carelessly everywhere. My foot crunched on top of something. It was a picture frame. I picked it up, and saw a picture of myself, after the performance of Swan Lake with Pittsburgh Ballet Theater. I was still in my white tutu and feathered headpiece. Aaron was right beside me, grinning. The glass of the frame was cracked, and the picture bent. I set it back down. I saw a shadow in the door to the bathroom.
The intruders were still here.
I went back into the living room and grabbed the fireplace poker. I wielded it like a baseball bat, and moved back into his bedroom. Swallowing my fear, I went to the bathroom. The shadow moved back. I was about a foot away from the door. I stopped, and then I kicked it open, swinging the poker as I went. I hit the shower door, which was closed, shattering the glass.
There was no one in the room.
I stopped, dropping the poker. There had definitely been someone in here. I had seen the shadow, and I know I wasn’t going crazy.
Was I?
Suddenly, pain shot from my throat to my head. My vision blurred, and I gasped for air as something thin and sharp, a wire I guessed, wrapped around my throat, cutting into my skin. I reached for my throat. Purple dots danced over my eyes.
I felt the hot breath of my attacker down my neck, causing goosebumps to arise on my skin. I had to do something, and now, before I passed out and died. I swung my leg around behind me, knocking my attacker down. The wire’s grip around my neck slackened, and I yanked it away. My attacker was on the ground, but was getting up. I jumped over him, but he grabbed my leg in midair, pulling me to the ground. My jaw hit the tiled bathroom floor with a surprising force, and my teeth clamped down on my tongue, drawing blood. I pushed up with my arms, shoving my foot backwards, connecting with some part of his body, probably his face. He cried out in pain. I scrambled to my feet and ran out of the bathroom. I made it back into the living room, but slipped on some of the books and papers. I heard the heavy footsteps of my attacker running after me. I got back up, but slid again on more papers, falling into the kitchen. I began to get back up, but was suddenly stopped by my attacker, who had jumped on top of me. He grabbed my hair, yanking my head back with it. In his hand was a kitchen knife. He placed the kitchen knife at my throat, and then nuzzled his head into my hair, right next to my neck.
“You are a pretty one,” he whispered into my ear, “too bad I’m ordered to kill you…”
I whipped around, throwing him back, surprising myself with my sudden strength. I kicked him in the face again. He grabbed my arm, but I wrested it away from him. He jumped on me again, driving the knife through my shoulder. The pain blinded me, and I screamed, but I had to keep fighting. The attacker suddenly jumped up, and ran out of the apartment. I stood up, holding my arm and moving back into the bathroom, to try and find some bandages. It wasn’t until I saw a vague shape through the rest of the frosted shower glass that I realized the attacker hadn’t just been hiding in the bathroom. He had been doing something in the bathroom.
I pulled back the shower door, blood still dripping down my entire arm, because I hadn’t discovered any bandages, and when I saw the shape, I screamed.
It was Aaron, a bullet square through his head.
I screamed. Then I bent down, and touched his head. I held my hand there for a minute, looking into his staring, dead, deep blue eyes. They had a look of horror in them. I pulled my hand away, and it was covered in blood, my blood mingling with his. I tried to scream again, but it was muted by a sob. I swallowed my sob.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” I screamed, louder, and clearer.
My headache suddenly came back with surprising force. Tears streaming down my face, my mascara making two long streaks, I opened the medicine cabinet, trying to keep from looking in the mirror. No Advil?
I closed the mirror gently. The moment I looked at the reflection, I saw a man in a suit behind me. He instantly grabbed me around my middle, clamping my arms to my side. He lifted me and dragged me out of the bathroom, with me kicking and yelling all the way. When he got me into the bedroom, he slammed me facedown on the floor.
Something sharp jammed square into my back. I reached back, and felt something hard and long sticking out of my back. Then I turned around on my back. My vision blurred, and I could barely see. The last thing I saw before I passed out was three men dressed in suits, coming towards me.
My head was pounding again, only more painfully. My eyes felt stuck together, and my back ached, kind of like your arm when you get a flu shot, only ten times worse. I tried to reach back to massage it, but I couldn’t move my hands very much. I opened my eyes, wondering why I couldn’t move my hands. It was because they were cuffed in front of me. I sat up, awaking all the way. I was laying on a cot in a semi-dark room. In front of me was a door with a small window in it. I got up, and walked towards it. I immediately tripped and fell onto my stomach, knocking the wind from me. Looking back, I saw my foot was cuffed to the bed.
Well, this was just peachy.
I got up, pushing up on my cuffed arms. Not a great idea, considering the nasty little incident I’d had the night before with the knife in my shoulder.
I’d completely forgotten about last night.
I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten about it. I sat up.
Aaron was dead. I was being held captive, by somebody.
And Aaron was dead.
He had a bullet in his head.
I looked down at my hands. His blood was still staining my right hand and the cuff of my shirt from where I’d touched his head, mingling with my own from my arm.
He was dead. And I had found him.
I couldn’t shake from my mind how I’d found him.
The image of his eyes, his eyes with that look of terror still in them, was ingrained in my mind.
Aaron’s ski hat had disappeared, and so had my coat. My gray shirt was still on me, thankfully, but it was uncomfortable due to the dried blood that was gluing the remaining part of the shoulder area of the shirt to the nasty gash in my shoulder. I winced in pain because of the sharp soreness in my back and the throbbing pain in my shoulder.
And suddenly, I felt wetness on my cheeks.
I was crying. Again.
Well, it’s understandable. If you’d just gotten a call from your fiancé’s boss saying that he had been killed in London, and then gone to his apartment and got a knife run through your shoulder and found said fiancé with a bullet in his head in his shower, and then was knocked out with a tranquilizer by unknown people, who might just well kill you, then you’d be crying too.
After about an hour of just sitting there, in incredible pain because there was nothing else to think about but the pain in my shoulder, the door opened. Two men in suits entered, one aiming a gun at me, casually. The other came over and bent down beside me, unchaining my foot from the bed.
Then they both grabbed my under the arms and forced me out the door and along a dimly lit hallway.
Guess they didn’t notice the large amount of blood and the hole in my shoulder.
They led me into a very high tech looking room, with black walls that had little strips of light in them. They sat me down in a chair and cuffed my hands to each arm of the chair. Then they left.
I stared down at the Tiffany engagement ring on my hand.
It was only about a minute before another very creepy man in a suit came in. I remembered seeing him at Lindsay’s dinner party. He had a small beard and scary bright blue eyes. His face was wrinkled and sun damaged.
He picked up four electrodes, and pressed them at different spots on my forehead. Then he went behind a table and turned on some machines.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” he said, in a scratchy voice, “Please answer them as truthfully as you can.”
“Alright,” I said, my voice cracking from my dry throat.
“Is your name Guinevere Alexis Hartman?” He asked.
“Yes,” I answered, trying to be strong, but failing, and ended up sounding exhausted.
“Is the state we’re in right now New York?”
“Yes.”
“Are you originally from South Carolina?”
“Yes.”
“are you a dancer for New York City Ballet?”
“yes.”
“Is your fiancé Aaron Scott?”
“No.”
He smiled, seeing that I hadn’t fallen for his tricky wording.
“Was your fiancé Aaron Scott?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing at the time of his death?”
“Sleeping.”
“Did you get a call from Michael Lindsay, the head of this office, saying he was killed in London?”
“Yes.”
“Did you believe Michael Lindsay?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you go to Aaron Scott’s apartment?”
“I don’t know. I wanted something to hold onto him with.”
“Did Aaron Scott tell you anything about Credit Dauphine?”
“Yes.”
“What did he tell you?”
“he told me that it was a bank, and he was a liaison for the bank. He also told me about a week ago that he was going to quit his job at the bank and become a museum curator.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever read this piece of paper?” the interrogator asked, sliding a folder across to me. It read:
My dearest Guin-
What I’m about to tell you will sound crazy, but I trust that you will believe me, because you are the only person in this world that I can trust. I’ve lied to you since the day I met you, and I can’t take back any of what I said to make up for it. What I can do is tell you the truth. I don’t work for a bank. Credit Dauphine is actually a black-ops division of the CIA, called SD-7. All Credit Dauphine banks are covers for the SD cells. The branch in Los Angeles is SD-6, for example. I was sworn to secrecy, Guin. We all are. I can’t keep it from you any longer. And when you come across this paper, I know that I will have done my final act for you, and that I will have done the right thing. I love you.
-Aaron
My eyes filled with tears. I vaguely remembered this guy asking me a question.
“No,” I sobbed, my answer sounding very squeaky.
“Are you positive?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever tell you about any of the contents on this paper?”
“No.”
My interrogator left, uncuffing me as he went. He closed the door, and locked it back. I looked out the small window in the door, and saw him talking to Lindsay. Lindsay nodded. Lindsay walked in.
“How’s your arm?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s just peachy,” I spat.
“At least we gave you pain killer and medicine to reduce fever, or you’d be delirious by now.”
“Well, thanks for caring.”
“I cannot stress enough the fact that you cannot tell anyone about what has happened. It will not turn out well for you. We want you to work for us. We need an answer soon.”
Then they let me go.
I returned to my apartment. I looked at my clock. It was 6 am. I knew that there was no way I was going to class today, for obvious reasons. I walked over and set Aaron’s ski hat beside a picture of me and him. It was of the two of us standing outside of the theater in Pittsburgh where I had performed that night. Two days after we met.
The day we met. Two years ago. I was grabbing a quick bite to eat at a sandwich shop. I grabbed my sandwich, chips, and Diet Sprite and sat down at a table. The restaurant was very busy. I pretty much had the last table with a seat free. A man with tousled brown hair and green eyes and a scar running from his eye to his mouth came over, holding a bag and a soda can. He was wearing a suit and tie. He was cute.
“Hi,” he said, “Would you mind if I sat here?”
“Not at all,” I said, and he pulled out the chair and pulled out his sandwich from the bag.
We sat in silence for a moment, eating. Then he sat his sandwich down and drank some of his Coke. Then he extended his hand across the table.
“My name is Aaron Scott,” he said, with a smile. I took his hand.
“Guin Hartman,” I replied, his smile making me smile.
Then, we started talking. I found out he was on business in Pittsburgh and that he worked for a branch of a bank, Credit Dauphine, in New York City. He found out that I danced with the Pittsburgh Ballet Theater but New York City Ballet asked me to come dance with them so I was moving to New York in a few months. He told me about his cat named Socks, I told him about my big half wolf dog named Adolf. Then the name Adolf got us started on history, and pretty much our conversation progressed from there. He met me again for dinner that night, and then he came back to my apartment…
And I think you can figure out the rest from there.
I opened my eyes, tearing myself from that happy memory. I felt dizzy. I looked down, trying to regain my balance. And my sanity, for that matter.
Then I saw the paper on the floor. To: Guin From: Aaron, it read. I picked it up, and unfolded it.
And what I saw, changed my life forever.
Dear Guin,
I know that by now, you’ve received my other letter that Credit Dauphine has. They were meant to give that to you. This one, though, cannot under any circumstances fall in their hands. Because, once again, for the last time, I have had to lie to you. Yes, Credit Dauphine is a front for SD-7. But SD-7 is not part of the CIA. It’s actually part of an umbrella organization called the Alliance, who is a terrorist organization. Guin, SD-7 lied to me. They lied to everyone, telling us that they were black-ops CIA. They led me on for 6 years. Guin, I love you, and I’m sorry I had to get you involved. But I felt you had a right to know why I was killed and why you won’t be getting married. I’m sorry. Please destroy this message. Please. I love you.
-Aaron
I ran down the street, a lone girl, racing down the busy Washington D.C. street, people turning a staring for a second, and then forgetting all about that running girl who, unknown to them, was full of desperation and misery and heartbreak and fear and grief and hopelessness. My mid-back length long brown hair flew out behind me. I ran to the building, bursting in through the doors, trying to keep my tears from overflowing my eyes. I raced over the emblem of the American eagle, labeled Central Intelligence Agency. I stopped, out of breath, at the shocked receptionists desk.
“May I help you?” she asked, carefully.
“I need to speak with someone…now,” I gasped, praying they wouldn’t kick me out.
She kept staring at me.
“I’m a walk in,” I finally said, feeling as though I really, really needed to sit down.
“Yes, we have a walk-in,” she said, into her headpiece.
“Come with me,” she said, motioning me. I followed, my legs aching and my arm, still injured and uncared for since the attack, throbbing painfully.
She led me back into a room with a conference table, empty.
“Sit here please,” she said, pulling out a chair. I sat down.
“Someone will be here in a few minutes,” she said, and then left me.
After the door had closed, I put my head down, trying to shut out the horrid reality. I had taken the first flight I could get to Washington, DC after reading that letter and tearing it up and flushing it down the toilet. Then I came here, praying that Credit Dauphine, or SD-7, or whoever they were, wouldn’t find out, and also that the CIA would help me, or at least explain everything to me.
I’d brought nothing with me. I hadn’t had time. I was afraid to stay too long in my apartment, afraid that someone would be waiting for me to do the same thing to me that they did to Aaron since I had learned the truth like he had. Then two young men walked in.
“Hello,” the first one said, a young, thin but muscular man, with brown hair and brown eyes said to me, holding a cup of coffee, “My name is Agent Anderson and this is my partner, Agent Williams.”
Agent Anderson walked to me and set the cup of coffee down in front of me. I breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of the coffee. It awoke me, bringing around my senses. I took a sip, enjoying the warm beverage.
“Thank you,” I said, setting it back down on the table. Agent Anderson sat down in one of the chairs beside me.
“What’s your name?” he asked, sincerely.
“My full name is Guinevere Alexis Hartman,” I answered, “But please, call me Guin.”
“Can you tell us what happened to make you walk in here?”
“From the beginning?” I asked, hoping not.
“Wherever you feel would be most beneficial,” he said.
“I am…was…a dancer for the New York City Ballet. I moved to Pittsburgh when I was 19 to dance for Pittsburgh Ballet Theater. That was 8 years ago. After two years of living there, I met Aaron Scott at a sandwich shop. Aaron was a liaison for an international bank, Credit Dauphine. I met him a couple of times, for dinner, coffee, whatever. Then I moved to New York City to dance with NYCB. I got to see him more, and more. We went out on regular dates. About two months ago he proposed, and we were engaged. Last night, I received a call, around 3 am. It was Aaron’s boss at Credit Dauphine, Michael Lindsey. He told me Aaron had been shot while on a trip in London by people wanting computer codes that he had. I went to Aaron’s apartment immediately. When I opened the door, the entire apartment was torn apart. I walked into the bathroom and was almost killed by the intruder, but I managed to hold him off. The intruder ran away. I went back into the bathroom…and found Aaron. With a bullet in his head. After that, I was apprehended by Credit Dauphine officials. They asked me questions, with a lie detector. They gave me a piece of paper, on which Aaron had written me a letter. It said that he didn’t work for a bank, he actually worked for SD-7, which was a covert branch of the CIA. When I got home, he had written me another note that he must have hidden somewhere. He said that he had found out that it wasn’t CIA, that it was a terrorist organization called the Alliance.”
“Wow,” Anderson said, “and this all happened last night.”
“No,” I said, exhausted, “this morning.”
“Close enough. So why did you come here?”
“Because,” I said, feeling exasperated, “I wanted to know if it was real. If there really was an SD-7. And if it is real, I want to bring them down and destroy them. And I figured that if I came here, you guys would have a plan for that.”
“How do you know that they’d let you in as an agent?” Anderson asked, dubiously.
“Because they already want me to work for them. They asked me. They’re giving me three days.”
“You’ve never been trained, have you?” Williams sneered.
“Jack…” Anderson began, but Williams came and sat beside me. I turned to look at him, and he looked back. He had a sneering expression.
“Have you?” he hissed, clearly doubtful of me.
“No,” I said, suddenly ashamed of myself.
“And how are we supposed to know that you aren’t going to turn into a triple agent?” Williams said, louder, standing up and turning.
“You’d just have to trust me,” I retorted, growing angry at this man, and suddenly, I realized, my anger was turning to the CIA also.
“I mean, come on,” Williams said, “This random girl just shows up, with this story about how SD-7 killed her fiancee, who worked for them. Listen, girl. We’ve gotten this story twice before. Both of those people we sent in as double agents, and they ended up becoming triple agents, compromising three missions, and killing around twenty agents in all. So, in other words, the CIA isn’t interested, so go home, and tell your employers that you failed.”
I looked at Anderson, hoping that he might provide some sort of help. He looked away from me.
“Well, there is Sydney Bristow in Los Angeles,” Anderson started, but Williams cut him off.
“No,” Williams said, “Classified information.”
“Fine,” I said, standing up, ignoring the pain from my shoulder, because I was not going to let these two guys see me in any sort of pain, “I’m not going to let a refusal from the CIA stop me from gaining the vengeance for my fiancee. I thought the CIA would be open, would help me, if not for me, then for their own sake. But I guess I was wrong. I will avenge the death of my fiancee…and I will bring down SD-7. With or without you. I’m a dancer…I’m not trained to give up. And I won’t now.”
“Can we get you doctor for that shoulder?” Anderson began, but I stopped him.
“No,” I said, “If you’re not going to help me with SD-7, I’m not going to let you help me in any other way.”
And then I stormed past the both of them, and left.
I ended up running to a payphone. I decided to call some of Aaron’s friends who had been fired from SD-7, hoping that maybe they could help me. Good thing that Aaron was so unorganized that I’d had his work address book for about three months now. Aaron always forgot something at my apartment. I picked up the receiver, wincing because of the pain in my arm, and dialed the first number. His name was Richard Faulkner.
“This phone has been disconnected,” was the mechanic reply. I hung up and moved on to John Orias. This time a woman picked up. My disappointment from the last call subsided.
“Hello?” she asked.
“Hi,” I said, “Is John Orias there?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “But that was the old resident. We moved in about a year ago. I’m not sure where you can reach him now. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” I said, trying to hide the disappointment.
I hung up, and moved down to Martin Navarro. His phone had been disconnected. Same went for Jake Benham, Harry Oakley, and Rob West. About a dozen more had moved. Bill Guy had died two years ago. After I hung that call up, I was in tears. It seemed there was no one in the world could help me. Not one person.
There was one more name. Brad Murray.
Please. Please let Brad Murray still have his phone connected, please let him be alive, and please let him be at this address, which was, coincidentally, in Washington DC.
I dialed. I prayed. Each tone given off by the phone instilled more fear in me. And then it picked up.
“hello?” a deep voice man asked.
“Hi,” I said, trying to hide my tears, “Is this Brad Murray?”
“Yes,” he said, cautiously.
“Hi, my name is Guin Hartman,” I said, thankful, “You knew Aaron Scott, my fiance. I was wondering if we could meet somewhere.”
“Sure,” he said, “How about the Starbucks near Pennsylvania Ave. in about thirty minutes? Order a Java Chip Frappucino and a brownie.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
And then he hung up. I immediately hailed a cab, and I went to Starbucks. I walked to the woman at the counter and ordered the food. Then I went to a small table for two and sat down. I waited for about twenty minutes, not worried, since I was early. I watched the door. A tall, muscular man with blonde hair walked in. He saw me, and walked to me.
“Guin Hartman?” he asked, cautiously.
“yes,” I answered, “Brad Murray?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you so much for coming.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer me truthfully. And I need the truth. The real truth.”
“Alright,” he said, hesitantly.
“How did you know my fiancee?”
“We worked at Credit Dauphine together. I left a few months ago due to injury,” he said, showing me a brace around his ankle.
“Aaron’s dead. He was killed last night. I need you to tell me the truth.”
“Alright. We worked together at Credit Dauphine. I left a few months ago because I couldn’t take the stress of lying and screwing up everybody’s life for just one organizations purpose. So, one night, I went home, took a pain killer, and cut through my Achilles tendon in my left foot, snapping it. I came here for surgery, and Credit Dauphine let me go. Happier with a screwed up tendon and being free, rather than having my tendon and being bound to about two dozen non-disclosure agreements. And that’s how I knew Aaron. So, what are you doing down here in DC, if you live in New York?”
“I want to bring the people who killed Aaron to justice. I know who Credit Dauphine really is. I went to the CIA first. They turned me down. So I called about a dozen people who were in Aaron’s address book. You were the only one who I could get. I need your help. I need someone to help me bring down Aaron’s killer. Please.”
“I’m not sure of any off the top of my head. But if you give me your number, I’ll see what I can do, and I’ll let you know.”
I hurriedly wrote my cell phone number on a napkin and gave it to him.
“Thanks,” he said, “Now, all I can tell you to do is to go back to New York and bury your fiancee. That’s about all you can do.”
“Thank you so much,” I said, and then I left.
That night, I boarded the first plane to New York and returned home.
When I arrived in my apartment, I made sure to look around. No one was there. I went to my bathroom and washed my face, then I inspected my shoulder. I carefully peeled off my gray shirt, and tossed it in the trash can. No point in keeping it. Then I carefully washed around my wound with soap and water. It stung, but the dried blood all washed away, revealing a deep cut. I grabbed some gauze and some medical tape and wrapped it up. Then I pulled on a shirt and flopped into my bed. I fell asleep immediately.
I was walking down a white hallway. The whole hallway was white except for the black carpet. I arrived at a door at the end. I opened it, and saw Aaron. He came towards me, without a word, and led me to another door, which he opened and motioned me through. After I had passed through the door, it closed behind me, gently. This hallway was pitch black, with a light at the end. I walked carefully, trying not to trip. I passed by Agents Anderson and Williams, who ignored me. Then I passed by Brad. Next, further down the hallway, was a man in a mask, so that you couldn’t see the face. I kept walking, and snow fell down around me. I walked all the way to the end of the hallway, and found a door. I opened it. And I was in an office, with Michael Lindsey turned around with his back to me. He turned and faced me, an evil grin on his face. I looked down, and saw I was wearing all black, skin tight leather. I was holding two short swords with figures inscribed on the blades, one in each hand. He walked to me. I flipped the swords in my hands, and then ran at him. I attacked him, slicing his arm. He punched me in the side of the face. I retaliated with a kick to his abdomen. He staggered, but moved back toward me, punched my again in the face, and then scissor kicking me in the face also. I fell to the ground. I tried to get up, but he shoved me back down, holding one of my swords to my throat. He nicked it, and I felt a tiny trickle of blood. He grabbed me by my throat and pulled me up.
“You will not destroy us,” he said, echoing off the walls.
And then he ran the sword through my stomach.
I woke up with a scream. I was sweating, and scared. I laid back down, too scared to move. I couldn’t call anyone. There was no one to call. I looked at the clock. It was six am. My phone rang, causing me to jump. I walked cautiously to it, and picked up.
“Hello?” I said, hiding my fear.
“Guin,” a woman said, “this is Mary Scott. Aaron’s sister.”
“Oh, Mary,” I said, sadly. I could hear the pain in her voice.
“Aaron’s funeral is tomorrow. I tried to reach you yesterday. I’m sure you know what happened.”
Aaron, lying in the shower, flashed through my mind. I shook it out, keeping some form of composure.
“Yes,” I said, “I do.”
“Will you be there?”
“yes. Of course.”
I stared straight in front of me. The preacher was saying something, but I didn’t register it at all. All I could think of was how I’d found Aaron, and what had happened as a result of it. I held the white lily in my hand, loosely, resting it’s bloom on my lap. Mary was next to me. She squeezed my hand as she stood up, but I pulled away, not wanting the love. I didn’t know how I would ever love again.
I wouldn’t. it was that simple. I’d live alone, I’d die alone. I’d be an introvert. It’s what I was used to anyway, before I met Aaron.
“We all remember Aaron,” Mary said, giving her eulogy, “He was a good brother, and a kind and loving friend.”
Mary went on to tell some happy story about her and Aaron when they were five. How could she be so happy and full of energy? How could she even think of the good times she’d had with Aaron? I tried my best, but it always made the pain worse. Then again, she hadn’t found him like I had. She still thought he had been killed in London because of codes. She didn’t know he’d been murdered because he knew the truth about who he worked for. Every time I thought of Aaron, I only thought of how I found him, and how much I wanted to kill everyone who had caused it to happen. Thunder rumbled in the gray and cloudy sky. I closed my eyes, and remembered the day Aaron and I had gone on our worst date.
The rain poured in buckets. We’d been stranded out in the rain in Central Park. We finally reached my apartment, after an hour of walking and laughing. We walked up the steps and onto my stoop. We were both dripping wet.
“come in,” I’d said, grabbing his hand.
“No,” he said, smiling, “I have to go on a trip.”
“Come on, you’re soaked.”
“No,” he said, holding his hand up, “I have to go to work in an hour.”
“You always go to work,” I said, angry with him, “Does a bank really have that many trips?”
He looked away, wanting to tell me something but not able to.
“I’m sorry, Guin,” he said, “But it’s just for a few days. And I’ll be back first thing Sunday morning, here at your house.”
Then he gave me a quick kiss and ran out into the rain, hopping into a taxi.
After that, I had become accustomed to not seeing him for days. And I would be angry with him all the time.
And now I knew what he had been really doing. But it was too late to understand for him.
A drop of water on my nose brought me back to reality. The rain began pouring. People picked up umbrellas, and used them for shelter as they got up. The funeral was over. Mary had already left. I walked over to Aaron’s grave and dropped my lily on it. Then I headed for my car, knowing I couldn’t stay any longer. I turned my head, and I saw Michael Lindsey, under an umbrella and heading for a black limo. I glared at him, hatred seething through me. He walked to me.
“Guinevere,” he said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“No,” I said, angry that he had come to talk to me, angry he‘d used my full name, “No you’re not.”
“Have you considered our offer at all?” he asked, amused.
“Yes,” I said, “But I need more time. May I have another week?”
“Of course. Stay strong.”
He gripped my hand. I yanked it away, angrily. He smiled at me.
“Don’t…you…dare…touch me…again,” I said, seething.
And then he climbed into his limo and drove off. I stood alone in the cemetery, everyone else having left and gone home or to the reception. I walked back to Aaron’s grave. I put my hand on the cold, hard, gray stone that Aaron was now going to be known as. The gravestone was so unlike happy, teasing warm, colorful Aaron. I could no longer hold my composure. I fell to my knees on the muddy, fresh dirt, soiling my black suit. My body wracked with sobs, and tears soon mingled with the rain on my cheeks. I bent my head down and rested it on the dirt.
I will make them pay for this Aaron…no matter what it takes, I promise.
I arrived back at my apartment and changed into some jeans and a black knit top. I checked my pile of mail, and I tossed it aside. It just didn’t seem important at the moment. I turned on my cell phone, and immediately, it rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize. I answered.
“Hello?” I said.
“Guin,” a male voice said, “It’s Brad. This is a secure line. I’m so glad I finally got you. I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour. I thought maybe…they’d gotten you.”
“no,” I said, “just a funeral.”
“Anyway, I have some information for you. If you can meet me in D.C., then we’ll be a whole lot safer than if we met in New York.”
“Alright.”
“But I need to ask you something. And I need you to be honest.”
“Alright.”
“Do you really want to do this? Do you want to risk your life?”
“Yes.”
“Alright.”
Brad wrapped my hands with the heavy tape, and then put the boxing gloves on them. Then he got behind the bag. I walked to it, and punched it, lightly.
“Come on,” he goaded, “Hit it like you mean it. Imagine it’s Michael Lindsey.”
All the moves I’d learned over the past two weeks came out, and I ended up kicking and punching the bag with all I had, with all my heart, until I accidentally hit Brad in the face and gave him a black eye.
“Alright, stop,” he said, and moved away, but I didn’t stop hitting it. All I could see was Michael Lindsey, the man who’d killed Aaron, the man who was now blackmailing me, the man who was now my reason for living, standing in front of me.
He grabbed me, pulling me away.
“Stop,” he said, “If you’re going to do this, you have to take care of yourself at the same time. You can’t let yourself be ruined by this thirst for revenge.”
He unwrapped my hands, and blood was trickling from my hands. I hadn’t even realized I’d injured my hands. He grabbed some gauze and wrapped them back up again.
“Take care of yourself,” he said, patting my hand.
Then we moved to the shooting range.
BANG BANG BANG!!!!!!!!!! I didn’t flinch a bit when I shot the gun now. I’d learned how to use pistols, rifles, shotguns, knives, even these really cool weapons called sais, which were like three pronged knives, with the middle blade being the sharpest and longest. I was especially good with these.
“If only Aaron could see you now,” Brad said approvingly one day after I had just finished a round with the sais and some sandbags, and now the floor was covered in sand, “I know he’d be proud, but I think he’d be worried.”
“Worried?” I asked, out of breath, “Why is that?”
“Because you’d be giving him a run for his money.”
I woke up the next day in the hotel. It was the first morning I wasn’t sore from head to toe. I looked at the mirror, and saw the gradual building of more muscles than I already had from dance. I brushed my teeth and got dressed. I was meeting Brad at the Lincoln Memorial. He was going to give me the information that he’d called about. I’d hoped to get the information before I started training, but whatever. It had been three weeks since I’d come to DC, but it only seemed like one week. I grabbed my purse, in which I had my cell phone and some money, and I walked outside into the bright sun. I breathed in the fresh air, and instead of calling a taxi, I decided to walk to the Lincoln Memorial. I walked down the street, passing people who I assumed were senators, congressmen, and representatives, and other business people. Some were just high school students, either going to class or skipping class. I was voting for skipping class. As I walked, I passed by someone familiar looking. It was Agent Anderson from the CIA. We made eye contact, and we kept it until we had passed each other. He looked shocked. I completely ignored him.
But why was my heart beating like crazy all of a sudden?
Anyway, so I finally made it to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Brad was already sitting there, and a bunch of tourists were already flocked around the huge statue of Lincoln. I sat down beside Brad.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hello,” he said, “I have some good news for you.”
“Yeah?”
“One of my old contacts is in Russia. He said that he had an opportunity for you to gain SD-7’s trust and become an agent. This is all that he told me, but I figured you’d want to go.”
“When do I leave?”
“In about two hours,” he said, handing me my plane tickets.
“Thanks,” I said, pocketing them and about to leave. He held my arm.
“Guin,” he said, “I’m proud of you, and I’m glad to know that you’re the one who will be bringing down SD-7. I hope to hear from you again, but if you can’t get in touch with me again, then I wanted to tell you that you are my favorite student.”
He held out a small box. I opened it, and inside was a long rectangular silver pendant, with inscriptions written between it, Celtic inscriptions, on a long silver chain.
“For good luck,” he said, smiling.
“Thank you so much,” I said, and then hugged him.
I walked into the dim bar. The tables had an old look to them, and the whole place looked dusty. Oddly, it was very cozy and warm. I walked to a small table for two in the corner of the bar. A woman was crooning sultry Russian songs into the microphone up on the stage. A waiter came up to me.
“What can I get for you?” he asked, in Russian.
“Vodka,” I said, with a Russian accent, “On the rocks.”
“Very well,” he said, in a Russian accented English, “I’ll be right back.”
He returned with a glass of vodka and set it down in front of me. Then he walked away.
Then another man walked up to me. He was dressed in all black, a black blazer with black top under it, with a black leather glove on his left hand. His hair was short and dark brown, slightly curly.
Did I mention he was hot?
“Vodka?” he said, teasingly, in a perfect American voice, “you seem more like a fine red wine kind of girl…or a cosmopolitan.”
“You’re right,” I said in my sultriest Russian accent, “I am. But I like my vodka too.”
He smiled, not showing his teeth, as though he had a secret he wouldn’t let out.
That smile was familiar. And the rest of his face. His cheekbones, eyebrows, and…
And the eyes.
The colored part of his eyes were dark blue green, like the sea.
I’d seen him before, somewhere. You can’t forget eyes like that.
“Come with me,” he said, motioning me.
I stood up, leaving my vodka, but bringing my purse. I reached in my purse, nonchalantly, and loaded my gun, thumbing back the hammer.
I was ready for anything this guy would try.
We walked into a private room, with nice furnishings and a table. On the table was a laptop, open and glaring, adding an odd bluish glow to the dim lighting of the room. He led me to the couch that was in front of the table. We sat.
The screen of the laptop was blank.
“My name is Raven,” he said, all business now, “You’ve met me before, Guin.”
And now I remembered. It was at a dinner party at Lindsay’s house, the first one that Aaron had taken me to. Raven had been there as a guest, claiming to be in town for the week. Aaron was friends with him.
“Honey, I’d like to meet a very good friend,” he said, leading me by the arm to Raven, “I think you two will have many things in common with each other.”
“Hi,” I said, “My name is Guin.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Raven said, “My name is Raven.”
We shook hands, exchanged pleasantries. Then we sat down as Aaron mingled with the crowd of business people.
“So,” he said, “Let me guess. Your name is short for Gwyneth? Or Gwyndolen?”
“Actually, it‘s short for Guinevere,” I said, wincing, “My parents were obsessed with Arthurian legend.”
“I know the feeling,” he said, empathetically, “my parents were ornithologists.”
“You work with Credit Dauphine, don’t you?” I asked looking at all the employees talking to each other.
“I like to think of myself as a maverick,” he said, smiling, “I don’t like to get involved with all the people. I like to do my own thing. I come in to work when they need me. What about you? I notice you’re not following Aaron around.”
“I don’t know anyone here,” I said, sheepishly, “This is my first Credit Dauphine dinner party.”
“Ahh, I see.”
I looked at him, a little closer. He had a scar, like Aaron’s, running from his right eye down to his mouth. I wondered if it was just coincidence they both had the same scar, or if there was a background story.
I was voting for background story.
Raven’s eyes were, for lack of a more poetic word, gorgeous. They were like looking into two pools of the ocean. That’s how blue-green they were. He was very muscular, and very tan.
And that was how I met Raven. We had ended up spending the whole entire evening together, until it was about one a.m. and Aaron had finished talking to all the Credit Dauphine employees. We had talked about everything, from our favorite foods to our least favorite movies and our favorite philosophy. He’d immediately drilled me with questions once he’d found out I was dancer.
But I had to remember I was indeed with Aaron, but when I left Raven, I felt empty hearted and saddened.
“I remember,” I said, tears almost coming to my eyes again, as I stared straight ahead at the screen in front of me. It had flashed up to reveal a map of Russia.
“I know that you need help,” he said, “You want to become an agent in SD-7 so you can bring them down by being a double agent for the CIA.”
I nodded.
“See this map? That point? That’s a bunker in Severnaya. SD-7 is looking for some sort of map there, something that a prophet from hundreds of years ago hid. KGB found it, and they hid it in this bunker, along with weapons. K-Directorate owns it now. We’re going to go in, steal the map, and destroy the weapons. You take the map back, and you’ll gain SD-7’s trust, and they’ll hire you. Then you can be a double agent and bring them down.”
“Okay,” I said. He took my hand.
“Look at me,” he said, “You can do this. I promise you. I wouldn’t be taking you if I didn’t know you could do this.”
“Raven,” I said, “I haven’t had much training. I learned how to be stealthy. That’s all.”
“You know how to shoot a gun,” he said, matter of factly, pointing at my purse.
“Alright, that too, but that’s it.”
“And you definitely know how to fight, considering you were able to get away from one of the top assassins in the world with only a couple of bruises and a gash in your shoulder.”
“Okay, so that too.”
I looked away, knowing there was no way I would be able to do this.
“Listen,” he said, “If you want to avenge Aaron’s death, then you’re going to have to do this.”
“How did you know Aaron?” I asked. I’d been dying to know ever since I’d found out the truth.
“I was a freelance. Every now and then, I’d come to the SD-7 office, do some work. We met on a mission that we were on together. We just became best friends. On that mission, everyone but the two of us were killed. We were captured. I know you noticed that we both have identical scars. While we were being held, we were tortured. They cut our faces, at the exact same spot, saying that we would always be marked by them. Escape seemed hopeless for us, but then a team of CIA agents, sent for the same mission, rescued us. That was when we both found out the truth…that SD-7 was not part of the CIA. CIA sent some of their people over, and we filled out statements. They accepted us as double agents, but I had to explain that I was a freelancer. They told me that it was alright, as long as anything to do with any of the SD cells was brought back to them. And that was how Aaron learned the truth. So for the past year or so, we‘ve been undercover in SD-7, working as double agents for the CIA.”
“How could Aaron have been able to keep all this from me?” I said, amazed and saddened at the same time.
“Because he loved you,” Raven said, “The one rule you don’t break at any of the SD cells is telling your friends and family, or anyone for that matter, that you work for the CIA, and not really a bank. When he became a double agent, he definitely couldn’t tell you, because then both of your lives would be in danger.”
“Why did SD-7 murder him?” I asked, not really wanting to hear the words, but wanting to know how.
“They found out he was a double agent. So they killed him,” he said.
“Why did they let me go?”
“Because you knew nothing. There was no point in holding you, but there was a point in getting you to work for them. They want you to work for them so they won’t have to worry about you telling everyone the truth, or getting the name of the SD cells out into the public.”
“So, how do you expect me to go on a mission with you if I have no idea what I’m doing?”
Raven got up and opened a door. Inside was a room that was full of weapons, guns, knives, etc. There was equipment, like lock picks, and clothes, like the standard black stealth suits.
“that is how I expect you to go on a mission with me,” he said.
Snow was falling pretty heavy, not quite a blizzard, but getting close. Raven and I had donned black stealth suits and I had even added a furry black Russian hat. We climbed on a ridge overlooking the bunker, the snow gently falling. At least for a snow in Severnaya.
“What’s that?” I asked Raven, pointing to a black lump on the ground not too far away, where there was a break in the thick trees, so you could see down below the ridge.
We crept towards the object. It was a guard, lying unconscious.
“Perfect,” Raven said, “Someone else is here.”
“Not necessarily,” I began, but he looked at me like I was crazy, so I shut up.
“At least there’s a good lookout,” he said, looking below the ridge.
“Look at all those guards,” I breathed, seeing about thirteen guards all toting large guns.
“We’ll be fine,” Raven said, “You want to join SD-7, don’t you?”
“yeah,” I said.
“Then you’ll be alright,” he said, staring at the guards, “Just keep your eyes on the prize.”
He pulled out a sniper rifle. Laying on the ledge, and motioning me down with him, we both gazed out over the ridge. He looked through the view, and shot, hitting a guard. He did this twelve more times, knocking out all the guards, and then he knocked out the cameras also. Then he tossed the sniper rifle under a tree.
“We might need that,” I said, reaching for it, but he grabbed my arm.
“No,” he said, “It’s too big, and I know for a fact we won’t need it.”
I checked all my gear, while Raven set up the grappling equipment. I had a dagger in my boot, and I had two pistols, in my belt. I also had an Uzi, and now an AK-47, which I took from the guard that was already lying unconscious. I made sure everything was there and secure. Then I went over to the ledge where Raven was. We attached to the cords, and propelled ourselves down the cliff. We landed softly in the powdered snow, and hid in the trees as a truck passed by. Raven jumped out from behind the bushes and knocked the driver out. Raven grabbed the drivers hat and put it on. There were no passengers. We climbed in, and drove forward to the huge bunker doors. They opened. We drove in.
Drove into a room full of guards carrying AK-47s.
“Uh, Raven,” I whispered, “We have a problem.”
“We’ll be fine,” he said back, suddenly extremely focused, “Just duck down.”
Raven picked up a cigarette that was lying on the dashboard, and puffed out as much smoke as possible. I ducked down into the floorboard, the smoke from the cigarette tickling my nose.
“” Raven said, in perfect Russian.
“Spaseeba,” another voice said, and then I felt the truck lurch forward. After a few more minutes, it lurched again and stopped.
“Alright,” Raven said, touching my shoulder, “You can come up now.”
“Oh my…” I breathed.
“Yeah,” Raven interrupted, “This is going to be a little harder than I thought.”
The room was full with crates. Racks of guns, every single one different from the rest. I guess you could say the racks of guns were like a box of chocolates…you never know which one you’d get.
“Raven,” I said, but he held up a hand.
“Look,” he said, with a sigh, “I thought it was going to be easier than this. You know, like we’d just walk in, shoot a few guards, get the map, and destroy the few weapons that KGB hid. Looks like K-Directorate has made quite a few additions since I was last here. Listen, if you want out now, I can drive us back out, or we can sneak back out someway. I understand completely.”
“no way,” I said, “I’m here. I’ve trained. I vowed to Aaron that I would bring the people who killed him to justice, and that’s what I plan on doing. I’m doing this. Whether you come or not, I’m getting that map.”
Alright, which was a completely different attitude about this mission than I had when I started.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Alright. Let’s do it.”
We opened the doors and climbed out. I armed myself with my AK-47. Raven went and looked at the different weapons, pulled out a camera, and took pictures. I looked for the map. No sign of anything remotely close to an map.
“Raven?” I asked from across the room.
“Yeah,” he answered back.
“what’s this thing look like?”
“It’s like a big leather case, and inside there’s a map.”
“I’m going to check out one of these doors, see if it’s behind one of them.”
“Alright. Be careful.”
I opened the large metal door. Then I went inside. The room was large, and about 8 feet above me, was a room with a glass window. Inside the room were controls and computers.
If I could get up there, I might be able to find the map. I ran through the room to the door on the other side. To my left was a staircase leading to the control room. I went up the stairs. The door was open. These people weren’t very apt with security. In front of me was a large safe. Perfect.
I grabbed a telephone and took off the part a person speaks into. I pressed the top part that you listen to into my ear. The bottom part, I placed on the safe. Then I turned the dial. Finally, I had the safe opened. Inside was a leather case. I opened it, and a very old map was nestled inside.
“Got it,” I said to myself, and tucked it under my arm. Then I closed the safe back. I went out the door. And I saw a sight that made me sick.
About ten guards were coming through the door on the other side of the large warehouse sized room, all surrounding a young man with blonde hair, talking with a guy in a lab coat.
I dashed down the stairs and hid under them behind some boxes. There was no way I could make it back through the door without them seeing me. So I waited.
All 12 men went upstairs. No guards waited downstairs. I waited until the door had closed upstairs. Then I came out.
I ran through the first door. It slammed shut behind me. I grabbed the handle and yanked. It was locked. I looked to the other door on the other side. It was starting to close. Raven was running to it to try and get through. I ran as fast as I could, and threw the map through the door to Raven. Then the door slammed shut, and I ran into it. I yanked as hard as I could for about a minute.
It wouldn’t budge. I was trapped. I looked up to the glass control room. The blonde guy and the scientist were looking at me through it.
“You will be pleased to know that the map was just returned to us, while you were trying to escape,” the blonde guy said with a British accent, “So your attempt at stealing the map from us was quite futile.”
That could only mean one thing.
They had killed Raven; they had murdered him.
And now they were going to murder me.
Just like Aaron; just like Raven.
That’s when I felt my feet getting cold and wet. I looked down. Water was starting to rise above my ankles. The blonde British guy pressed a button. Metal grates that had been situated up above my head on the wall suddenly hinged down and locked. I pushed up, trying to move them. They wouldn’t budge.
“My name is Sark,” the blonde British guy said smiling, “just for your information.”
Raven looked through the glass.
“You betrayed me!” I yelled angrily. Raven grinned.
“Wouldn’t have,” he said happily, “But Sark paid me more money to return the map.”
The water was up to my waist now. I was beginning to get freaked out. I never cared much for water after almost drowning when I was ten. I had stayed as far away from water as possible since, and had become quite hydrophobic.
And now I was going to die from drowning.
Life is cruel.
The water, rushing in faster by each minute, was now up to my neck. At least I was going to be with Aaron now. But I would never get my revenge on Lindsey. I would never get to bring down SD-7.
I craned my neck back as far as I could to keep breathing as long as I could. But the water got too high. My fingers clutched the metal grate until the knuckles were white.
I was drowning.
As I was losing consciousness, I looked up at the control room one last time. Sark and Raven and the rest of them were panicking. Gunshots raged throughout the room, and the guards went down. Sark escaped through a back door. Raven fell to the ground. Then a face I was amazed to see looked down at me and began yelling at the other team members who had entered the room. They began pressing buttons.
Everything was growing blurry and black. I had to hang on. For just another minute. The need to inhale became too much.
I succumbed to it.
Water filled my throat and lungs. I needed to cough, but that caused more water to enter my mouth.
My fingers slipped from the grate as I lost consciousness. With the loss of consciousness, I knew would come the loss of my life.
Suddenly the water level began to decrease. The doors on either side of the room slid open. Water rushed out. I fell to the ground in a coughing heap. I coughed up water. The blackness didn’t subside after I could breathe air. I saw Agent Anderson run into the room.
“Get a medic now!” he yelled at his other teammates.
Right before I lost consciousness, he gently opened my mouth, and I felt his lips softly touch mine.
When my eyes opened, I knew that I had survived. I was laying on a long plane seat, wrapped up in blankets that were keeping me warm. I took a deep breath. Breathing felt so good now. I knew that Agent Anderson had saved my life by giving me CPR. I took another deep breath.
“Everyone put in antes?” I heard a voice that I recognized as Agent Williams say.
“yeah,” another voice said, “Anyone raising?”
Poker chips clicked against one another as people raised.
I rolled over to my left side, closing my eyes. Then I opened them again.
Agent Anderson was sitting right in front of me, watching over me.
“Hey you,” I said, smiling.
“How you feeling?” he asked, setting down his mug of what smelled like coffee.
“Great,” I said. I tried to sit up. He put his hand under my back and helped me raise up. Then he handed me a mug of warm liquid.
“It’s tea,” he said, “Drink, it’ll make you feel better.”
I sipped slowly. He shifted nervously in his seat.
“We’re heading back to DC,” he said. I nodded.
“We have the map,” he continued, “We made a copy for the CIA. We’re giving you the real one to take to SD-7 and gain their trust so you can join them.”
I looked up surprised. What was he talking about?
“But only if you become a double agent first,” he finished with a deep breath.
“So,” I said, “For you guys to ask me to be a double agent, all I had to do was almost die first while trying to do it on my own? Now you’re taking me as a double agent?”
“Well,” Williams said, coming up behind me, “Yeah.”
I stared at him, remembering how he had treated me that day.
“Hey, I’m sorry about last time,” he said, a lot nicer than he had been before, “It’s just we get a lot of crazy people walking in like that.”
I looked at him, and then at Agent Anderson. Anderson was shaking his head at Williams.
“But now I see you’re for real,” Williams said, “so, welcome to the CIA.”
“Hey, Jack,” Anderson said, annoyed, “You want to get back to your poker game?”
“Fine,” Jack said, walking away, “But don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
“Well, there goes getting a kiss from you,” Anderson said, grinning. I laughed, and then I sipped my tea. My heart was going crazy. I hadn’t felt like this since…since I had fallen for Aaron.
I was falling for Agent Anderson, and I didn’t even know his first name.
“So are you in?” he asked me. I set down my mug.
“yeah,” I said, “I’m in. I have one question though. What’s your first name?”
“Before I answer, I have a question for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Where did you get that ring?”
“Tiffany’s.”
“Your fiance could afford Tiffany’s???”
“Yes, now, for my question?”
“Right. My name is Aidan. Aidan Anderson. My parents were English teachers, so they made my name have alliteration or something like that.”
“I know the feeling,” I said, having déjà vu, “my parents were obsessed with Arthurian legend, hence the name Guinevere, so I promptly nicknamed myself Guin. Good thing they didn’t have a son, or I’m sure they’d name him Lancelot or Galahad or another unfortunate Round Table name.”
“Aidan,” I said, savoring the name on my tongue, “am I going to have to go back and forth from NYC to DC?”
“No,” he said, “The CIA is actually making me your handler, which means I come up with your counter missions and things like that. So, I get to move to New York.”
Things were beginning to look up.
The next day, I walked into Credit Dauphine by my own free will for the first time. The map was tucked into my bag. A guard with a sidearm stopped me at the elevator.
“I’m here to see Lindsey,” I said, making complete eye contact with the guard, “I’m taking up an offer.
Summary: Pretty much the same Alias story as Alias S1 Pilot, but with different characters, etc. Aka, my lousy attempt at a fanfic. Or anykind of fic, for that matter. So read, and please give me feedback.
Espionage at Tiffany’s
3 months earlier
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, as Aaron led me to the gigantic building that housed Tiffany & Co. Then he pulled out of a bag two cups of coffee and two muffins. He handed one of each to me.
“This is so cheesy,” I said, laughing weakly, taking the muffin and coffee.
“No,” he said, with a proud smile, “It’s classic.”
Then he knelt down on the ground. I looked away, embarrassed, but in a good way, towards the horizon, where the sun was rising. The light orange sky was beautiful, despite the smoggy New York air.
“What are you doing?” I asked, looking back at him.
“Guinevere Alexis Hartman,” he said, “Even though you hate that name, I have to use it, for this to sound right. Guin, will you marry me?”
And then he pulled out a box, from Tiffany’s with a silver Tiffany diamond ring. I was speechless.
“Yes,” I said, kneeling down with him, as he slipped the ring on my finger, “Yes, I will marry you.”
Then we kissed, right outside of Tiffany’s.
************
The phone rang at 3 a.m. The high pitched tone was like a spear through my aching head, instantly awaking me from my deep sleep. I sat up groggily, and reached for the phone, my eyes still closed. My hands closed on air, and the ringer kept ringing, and my head kept pounding. I finally closed my hand around the rectangular plastic, and I hit the Talk button. I flopped back into the position I had been sleeping in.
“Hello?” I said hoarsely to the other person, placing my free hand on my head.
“Is this Guinevere Hartman?” the other person, a man with an official voice asked. I winced at the use of my full name.
“Yes…you can just call me Guin, or Ms. Hartman, whichever.”
“this is Michael Lindsay, from Credit Dauphine, New York branch. I am your fiancé’s boss.”
“Hi,” I said, wondering why this guy was calling at 3 am. I did have class that day, and I would like to get some sleep. And of course I knew who this was. I’d only been to his house for dinner a million times and heard about him every single day, until the last three months when my fiancé suddenly stopped bragging about him.
“I’m calling on behalf of the bank with some very bad news,” he said, gravely.
Ok, so, even an idiot would know that if your fiancé’s boss called at 3 am with very bad news, it must be extremely devastating news.
But I was still half asleep, so I’m not saying I’m the village idiot.
My fiancé was Aaron Scott. He was a liaison for the New York branch of Credit Dauphine, which was a worldwide bank, some other branches of Credit Dauphine located in London, Chicago, and Los Angeles. Aaron had brown wavy hair, and was very, very buff, let me tell you. He also had this long white scar down his right cheek, running from the corner of his eye to his mouth. Every time I asked about it, like how he got it, he would change the subject. Aaron was always, ALWAYS, on bank trips, going to Chicago, LA, San Francisco, Boston, and many other places all over the country. He had proposed to me the morning after my performance as Arabian in the New York City Ballet’s Nutcracker. He had taken me to a bakery, bought us muffins and coffee, and then surprised me by taking me to eat breakfast outside of Tiffany’s. And then he proposed.
And now I am preparing to get married.
“Aaron,” Lindsay continued, “Was in London, taking some computer codes to our office there. When he stepped out of his car, though, two men in ski masks got out of a car from across the street and shot him, stealing the codes.”
Whoa. Not a great way to wake up.
“Is he okay?” I asked, desperate.
“The codes were retrieved by the police, who have apprehended the culprits.”
“Is Aaron alright?” I hissed into the phone, about to yell, but my head was hurting way too bad to yell.
“They shot him right in the head…he died instantaneously,” Lindsay said, dryly.
How could this guy make something so serious sound so…trivial?
“What?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.
“Aaron is dead…his body will be brought back to the States tomorrow.”
Seriously, I wasn’t expecting an answer. And yet, he gave me one.
I sat up, speechless. Well, what was I supposed to say to the boss of my now dead fiancé?
“If you come by Credit Dauphine today, we have some things of his from his desk. I’m sorry to call so late, and I’m sorry for your loss,” Lindsay said, and then hung up.
I immediately jumped up and grabbed my long black coat and slipped on some shoes. Then I walked down the stairs of my apartment and out into the cold night air, which hit me like a bullet, making me wish I’d brought Aaron’s black ski hat, which had been sitting on my dresser since last winter.
“I wish you’d take your hat home,” I would say, almost everyday, like clockwork, when he would leave for work.
“I’ll get it later,” he would say, smiling, “plus, I think it looks nice on your dresser.”
And then he would kiss me good-bye, and I wouldn’t see him until he’d come home from work or whatever trip he was on.
And now I would never see him coming through my door again.
I ran back inside and grabbed the hat, shoving it on my head and over my ears. Then I left again. And I walked very quickly, almost running, to his apartment. The entire street was empty, maybe because it was 3 am on a Sunday night. It was two blocks away, and never had those two blocks seemed to go by so slowly. I ran into his building, and then up the stairs. I pulled out the set of keys that would let me into his apartment, and opened the door, desperate to get in and see if this was all a dream, and if not, to be with his stuff, at least, if I couldn‘t be with him anymore.
His apartment was torn completely apart. Books, papers, and furniture were strewn all over the den, turned over, broken, and ripped. I moved through the apartment quickly, wondering why it had been ransacked when he had been killed in London. I looked in his bedroom, which was in similar shape to the den, with objects thrown carelessly everywhere. My foot crunched on top of something. It was a picture frame. I picked it up, and saw a picture of myself, after the performance of Swan Lake with Pittsburgh Ballet Theater. I was still in my white tutu and feathered headpiece. Aaron was right beside me, grinning. The glass of the frame was cracked, and the picture bent. I set it back down. I saw a shadow in the door to the bathroom.
The intruders were still here.
I went back into the living room and grabbed the fireplace poker. I wielded it like a baseball bat, and moved back into his bedroom. Swallowing my fear, I went to the bathroom. The shadow moved back. I was about a foot away from the door. I stopped, and then I kicked it open, swinging the poker as I went. I hit the shower door, which was closed, shattering the glass.
There was no one in the room.
I stopped, dropping the poker. There had definitely been someone in here. I had seen the shadow, and I know I wasn’t going crazy.
Was I?
Suddenly, pain shot from my throat to my head. My vision blurred, and I gasped for air as something thin and sharp, a wire I guessed, wrapped around my throat, cutting into my skin. I reached for my throat. Purple dots danced over my eyes.
I felt the hot breath of my attacker down my neck, causing goosebumps to arise on my skin. I had to do something, and now, before I passed out and died. I swung my leg around behind me, knocking my attacker down. The wire’s grip around my neck slackened, and I yanked it away. My attacker was on the ground, but was getting up. I jumped over him, but he grabbed my leg in midair, pulling me to the ground. My jaw hit the tiled bathroom floor with a surprising force, and my teeth clamped down on my tongue, drawing blood. I pushed up with my arms, shoving my foot backwards, connecting with some part of his body, probably his face. He cried out in pain. I scrambled to my feet and ran out of the bathroom. I made it back into the living room, but slipped on some of the books and papers. I heard the heavy footsteps of my attacker running after me. I got back up, but slid again on more papers, falling into the kitchen. I began to get back up, but was suddenly stopped by my attacker, who had jumped on top of me. He grabbed my hair, yanking my head back with it. In his hand was a kitchen knife. He placed the kitchen knife at my throat, and then nuzzled his head into my hair, right next to my neck.
“You are a pretty one,” he whispered into my ear, “too bad I’m ordered to kill you…”
I whipped around, throwing him back, surprising myself with my sudden strength. I kicked him in the face again. He grabbed my arm, but I wrested it away from him. He jumped on me again, driving the knife through my shoulder. The pain blinded me, and I screamed, but I had to keep fighting. The attacker suddenly jumped up, and ran out of the apartment. I stood up, holding my arm and moving back into the bathroom, to try and find some bandages. It wasn’t until I saw a vague shape through the rest of the frosted shower glass that I realized the attacker hadn’t just been hiding in the bathroom. He had been doing something in the bathroom.
I pulled back the shower door, blood still dripping down my entire arm, because I hadn’t discovered any bandages, and when I saw the shape, I screamed.
It was Aaron, a bullet square through his head.
I screamed. Then I bent down, and touched his head. I held my hand there for a minute, looking into his staring, dead, deep blue eyes. They had a look of horror in them. I pulled my hand away, and it was covered in blood, my blood mingling with his. I tried to scream again, but it was muted by a sob. I swallowed my sob.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” I screamed, louder, and clearer.
My headache suddenly came back with surprising force. Tears streaming down my face, my mascara making two long streaks, I opened the medicine cabinet, trying to keep from looking in the mirror. No Advil?
I closed the mirror gently. The moment I looked at the reflection, I saw a man in a suit behind me. He instantly grabbed me around my middle, clamping my arms to my side. He lifted me and dragged me out of the bathroom, with me kicking and yelling all the way. When he got me into the bedroom, he slammed me facedown on the floor.
Something sharp jammed square into my back. I reached back, and felt something hard and long sticking out of my back. Then I turned around on my back. My vision blurred, and I could barely see. The last thing I saw before I passed out was three men dressed in suits, coming towards me.
My head was pounding again, only more painfully. My eyes felt stuck together, and my back ached, kind of like your arm when you get a flu shot, only ten times worse. I tried to reach back to massage it, but I couldn’t move my hands very much. I opened my eyes, wondering why I couldn’t move my hands. It was because they were cuffed in front of me. I sat up, awaking all the way. I was laying on a cot in a semi-dark room. In front of me was a door with a small window in it. I got up, and walked towards it. I immediately tripped and fell onto my stomach, knocking the wind from me. Looking back, I saw my foot was cuffed to the bed.
Well, this was just peachy.
I got up, pushing up on my cuffed arms. Not a great idea, considering the nasty little incident I’d had the night before with the knife in my shoulder.
I’d completely forgotten about last night.
I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten about it. I sat up.
Aaron was dead. I was being held captive, by somebody.
And Aaron was dead.
He had a bullet in his head.
I looked down at my hands. His blood was still staining my right hand and the cuff of my shirt from where I’d touched his head, mingling with my own from my arm.
He was dead. And I had found him.
I couldn’t shake from my mind how I’d found him.
The image of his eyes, his eyes with that look of terror still in them, was ingrained in my mind.
Aaron’s ski hat had disappeared, and so had my coat. My gray shirt was still on me, thankfully, but it was uncomfortable due to the dried blood that was gluing the remaining part of the shoulder area of the shirt to the nasty gash in my shoulder. I winced in pain because of the sharp soreness in my back and the throbbing pain in my shoulder.
And suddenly, I felt wetness on my cheeks.
I was crying. Again.
Well, it’s understandable. If you’d just gotten a call from your fiancé’s boss saying that he had been killed in London, and then gone to his apartment and got a knife run through your shoulder and found said fiancé with a bullet in his head in his shower, and then was knocked out with a tranquilizer by unknown people, who might just well kill you, then you’d be crying too.
After about an hour of just sitting there, in incredible pain because there was nothing else to think about but the pain in my shoulder, the door opened. Two men in suits entered, one aiming a gun at me, casually. The other came over and bent down beside me, unchaining my foot from the bed.
Then they both grabbed my under the arms and forced me out the door and along a dimly lit hallway.
Guess they didn’t notice the large amount of blood and the hole in my shoulder.
They led me into a very high tech looking room, with black walls that had little strips of light in them. They sat me down in a chair and cuffed my hands to each arm of the chair. Then they left.
I stared down at the Tiffany engagement ring on my hand.
It was only about a minute before another very creepy man in a suit came in. I remembered seeing him at Lindsay’s dinner party. He had a small beard and scary bright blue eyes. His face was wrinkled and sun damaged.
He picked up four electrodes, and pressed them at different spots on my forehead. Then he went behind a table and turned on some machines.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” he said, in a scratchy voice, “Please answer them as truthfully as you can.”
“Alright,” I said, my voice cracking from my dry throat.
“Is your name Guinevere Alexis Hartman?” He asked.
“Yes,” I answered, trying to be strong, but failing, and ended up sounding exhausted.
“Is the state we’re in right now New York?”
“Yes.”
“Are you originally from South Carolina?”
“Yes.”
“are you a dancer for New York City Ballet?”
“yes.”
“Is your fiancé Aaron Scott?”
“No.”
He smiled, seeing that I hadn’t fallen for his tricky wording.
“Was your fiancé Aaron Scott?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing at the time of his death?”
“Sleeping.”
“Did you get a call from Michael Lindsay, the head of this office, saying he was killed in London?”
“Yes.”
“Did you believe Michael Lindsay?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you go to Aaron Scott’s apartment?”
“I don’t know. I wanted something to hold onto him with.”
“Did Aaron Scott tell you anything about Credit Dauphine?”
“Yes.”
“What did he tell you?”
“he told me that it was a bank, and he was a liaison for the bank. He also told me about a week ago that he was going to quit his job at the bank and become a museum curator.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever read this piece of paper?” the interrogator asked, sliding a folder across to me. It read:
My dearest Guin-
What I’m about to tell you will sound crazy, but I trust that you will believe me, because you are the only person in this world that I can trust. I’ve lied to you since the day I met you, and I can’t take back any of what I said to make up for it. What I can do is tell you the truth. I don’t work for a bank. Credit Dauphine is actually a black-ops division of the CIA, called SD-7. All Credit Dauphine banks are covers for the SD cells. The branch in Los Angeles is SD-6, for example. I was sworn to secrecy, Guin. We all are. I can’t keep it from you any longer. And when you come across this paper, I know that I will have done my final act for you, and that I will have done the right thing. I love you.
-Aaron
My eyes filled with tears. I vaguely remembered this guy asking me a question.
“No,” I sobbed, my answer sounding very squeaky.
“Are you positive?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever tell you about any of the contents on this paper?”
“No.”
My interrogator left, uncuffing me as he went. He closed the door, and locked it back. I looked out the small window in the door, and saw him talking to Lindsay. Lindsay nodded. Lindsay walked in.
“How’s your arm?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s just peachy,” I spat.
“At least we gave you pain killer and medicine to reduce fever, or you’d be delirious by now.”
“Well, thanks for caring.”
“I cannot stress enough the fact that you cannot tell anyone about what has happened. It will not turn out well for you. We want you to work for us. We need an answer soon.”
Then they let me go.
I returned to my apartment. I looked at my clock. It was 6 am. I knew that there was no way I was going to class today, for obvious reasons. I walked over and set Aaron’s ski hat beside a picture of me and him. It was of the two of us standing outside of the theater in Pittsburgh where I had performed that night. Two days after we met.
The day we met. Two years ago. I was grabbing a quick bite to eat at a sandwich shop. I grabbed my sandwich, chips, and Diet Sprite and sat down at a table. The restaurant was very busy. I pretty much had the last table with a seat free. A man with tousled brown hair and green eyes and a scar running from his eye to his mouth came over, holding a bag and a soda can. He was wearing a suit and tie. He was cute.
“Hi,” he said, “Would you mind if I sat here?”
“Not at all,” I said, and he pulled out the chair and pulled out his sandwich from the bag.
We sat in silence for a moment, eating. Then he sat his sandwich down and drank some of his Coke. Then he extended his hand across the table.
“My name is Aaron Scott,” he said, with a smile. I took his hand.
“Guin Hartman,” I replied, his smile making me smile.
Then, we started talking. I found out he was on business in Pittsburgh and that he worked for a branch of a bank, Credit Dauphine, in New York City. He found out that I danced with the Pittsburgh Ballet Theater but New York City Ballet asked me to come dance with them so I was moving to New York in a few months. He told me about his cat named Socks, I told him about my big half wolf dog named Adolf. Then the name Adolf got us started on history, and pretty much our conversation progressed from there. He met me again for dinner that night, and then he came back to my apartment…
And I think you can figure out the rest from there.
I opened my eyes, tearing myself from that happy memory. I felt dizzy. I looked down, trying to regain my balance. And my sanity, for that matter.
Then I saw the paper on the floor. To: Guin From: Aaron, it read. I picked it up, and unfolded it.
And what I saw, changed my life forever.
Dear Guin,
I know that by now, you’ve received my other letter that Credit Dauphine has. They were meant to give that to you. This one, though, cannot under any circumstances fall in their hands. Because, once again, for the last time, I have had to lie to you. Yes, Credit Dauphine is a front for SD-7. But SD-7 is not part of the CIA. It’s actually part of an umbrella organization called the Alliance, who is a terrorist organization. Guin, SD-7 lied to me. They lied to everyone, telling us that they were black-ops CIA. They led me on for 6 years. Guin, I love you, and I’m sorry I had to get you involved. But I felt you had a right to know why I was killed and why you won’t be getting married. I’m sorry. Please destroy this message. Please. I love you.
-Aaron
I ran down the street, a lone girl, racing down the busy Washington D.C. street, people turning a staring for a second, and then forgetting all about that running girl who, unknown to them, was full of desperation and misery and heartbreak and fear and grief and hopelessness. My mid-back length long brown hair flew out behind me. I ran to the building, bursting in through the doors, trying to keep my tears from overflowing my eyes. I raced over the emblem of the American eagle, labeled Central Intelligence Agency. I stopped, out of breath, at the shocked receptionists desk.
“May I help you?” she asked, carefully.
“I need to speak with someone…now,” I gasped, praying they wouldn’t kick me out.
She kept staring at me.
“I’m a walk in,” I finally said, feeling as though I really, really needed to sit down.
“Yes, we have a walk-in,” she said, into her headpiece.
“Come with me,” she said, motioning me. I followed, my legs aching and my arm, still injured and uncared for since the attack, throbbing painfully.
She led me back into a room with a conference table, empty.
“Sit here please,” she said, pulling out a chair. I sat down.
“Someone will be here in a few minutes,” she said, and then left me.
After the door had closed, I put my head down, trying to shut out the horrid reality. I had taken the first flight I could get to Washington, DC after reading that letter and tearing it up and flushing it down the toilet. Then I came here, praying that Credit Dauphine, or SD-7, or whoever they were, wouldn’t find out, and also that the CIA would help me, or at least explain everything to me.
I’d brought nothing with me. I hadn’t had time. I was afraid to stay too long in my apartment, afraid that someone would be waiting for me to do the same thing to me that they did to Aaron since I had learned the truth like he had. Then two young men walked in.
“Hello,” the first one said, a young, thin but muscular man, with brown hair and brown eyes said to me, holding a cup of coffee, “My name is Agent Anderson and this is my partner, Agent Williams.”
Agent Anderson walked to me and set the cup of coffee down in front of me. I breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of the coffee. It awoke me, bringing around my senses. I took a sip, enjoying the warm beverage.
“Thank you,” I said, setting it back down on the table. Agent Anderson sat down in one of the chairs beside me.
“What’s your name?” he asked, sincerely.
“My full name is Guinevere Alexis Hartman,” I answered, “But please, call me Guin.”
“Can you tell us what happened to make you walk in here?”
“From the beginning?” I asked, hoping not.
“Wherever you feel would be most beneficial,” he said.
“I am…was…a dancer for the New York City Ballet. I moved to Pittsburgh when I was 19 to dance for Pittsburgh Ballet Theater. That was 8 years ago. After two years of living there, I met Aaron Scott at a sandwich shop. Aaron was a liaison for an international bank, Credit Dauphine. I met him a couple of times, for dinner, coffee, whatever. Then I moved to New York City to dance with NYCB. I got to see him more, and more. We went out on regular dates. About two months ago he proposed, and we were engaged. Last night, I received a call, around 3 am. It was Aaron’s boss at Credit Dauphine, Michael Lindsey. He told me Aaron had been shot while on a trip in London by people wanting computer codes that he had. I went to Aaron’s apartment immediately. When I opened the door, the entire apartment was torn apart. I walked into the bathroom and was almost killed by the intruder, but I managed to hold him off. The intruder ran away. I went back into the bathroom…and found Aaron. With a bullet in his head. After that, I was apprehended by Credit Dauphine officials. They asked me questions, with a lie detector. They gave me a piece of paper, on which Aaron had written me a letter. It said that he didn’t work for a bank, he actually worked for SD-7, which was a covert branch of the CIA. When I got home, he had written me another note that he must have hidden somewhere. He said that he had found out that it wasn’t CIA, that it was a terrorist organization called the Alliance.”
“Wow,” Anderson said, “and this all happened last night.”
“No,” I said, exhausted, “this morning.”
“Close enough. So why did you come here?”
“Because,” I said, feeling exasperated, “I wanted to know if it was real. If there really was an SD-7. And if it is real, I want to bring them down and destroy them. And I figured that if I came here, you guys would have a plan for that.”
“How do you know that they’d let you in as an agent?” Anderson asked, dubiously.
“Because they already want me to work for them. They asked me. They’re giving me three days.”
“You’ve never been trained, have you?” Williams sneered.
“Jack…” Anderson began, but Williams came and sat beside me. I turned to look at him, and he looked back. He had a sneering expression.
“Have you?” he hissed, clearly doubtful of me.
“No,” I said, suddenly ashamed of myself.
“And how are we supposed to know that you aren’t going to turn into a triple agent?” Williams said, louder, standing up and turning.
“You’d just have to trust me,” I retorted, growing angry at this man, and suddenly, I realized, my anger was turning to the CIA also.
“I mean, come on,” Williams said, “This random girl just shows up, with this story about how SD-7 killed her fiancee, who worked for them. Listen, girl. We’ve gotten this story twice before. Both of those people we sent in as double agents, and they ended up becoming triple agents, compromising three missions, and killing around twenty agents in all. So, in other words, the CIA isn’t interested, so go home, and tell your employers that you failed.”
I looked at Anderson, hoping that he might provide some sort of help. He looked away from me.
“Well, there is Sydney Bristow in Los Angeles,” Anderson started, but Williams cut him off.
“No,” Williams said, “Classified information.”
“Fine,” I said, standing up, ignoring the pain from my shoulder, because I was not going to let these two guys see me in any sort of pain, “I’m not going to let a refusal from the CIA stop me from gaining the vengeance for my fiancee. I thought the CIA would be open, would help me, if not for me, then for their own sake. But I guess I was wrong. I will avenge the death of my fiancee…and I will bring down SD-7. With or without you. I’m a dancer…I’m not trained to give up. And I won’t now.”
“Can we get you doctor for that shoulder?” Anderson began, but I stopped him.
“No,” I said, “If you’re not going to help me with SD-7, I’m not going to let you help me in any other way.”
And then I stormed past the both of them, and left.
I ended up running to a payphone. I decided to call some of Aaron’s friends who had been fired from SD-7, hoping that maybe they could help me. Good thing that Aaron was so unorganized that I’d had his work address book for about three months now. Aaron always forgot something at my apartment. I picked up the receiver, wincing because of the pain in my arm, and dialed the first number. His name was Richard Faulkner.
“This phone has been disconnected,” was the mechanic reply. I hung up and moved on to John Orias. This time a woman picked up. My disappointment from the last call subsided.
“Hello?” she asked.
“Hi,” I said, “Is John Orias there?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “But that was the old resident. We moved in about a year ago. I’m not sure where you can reach him now. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” I said, trying to hide the disappointment.
I hung up, and moved down to Martin Navarro. His phone had been disconnected. Same went for Jake Benham, Harry Oakley, and Rob West. About a dozen more had moved. Bill Guy had died two years ago. After I hung that call up, I was in tears. It seemed there was no one in the world could help me. Not one person.
There was one more name. Brad Murray.
Please. Please let Brad Murray still have his phone connected, please let him be alive, and please let him be at this address, which was, coincidentally, in Washington DC.
I dialed. I prayed. Each tone given off by the phone instilled more fear in me. And then it picked up.
“hello?” a deep voice man asked.
“Hi,” I said, trying to hide my tears, “Is this Brad Murray?”
“Yes,” he said, cautiously.
“Hi, my name is Guin Hartman,” I said, thankful, “You knew Aaron Scott, my fiance. I was wondering if we could meet somewhere.”
“Sure,” he said, “How about the Starbucks near Pennsylvania Ave. in about thirty minutes? Order a Java Chip Frappucino and a brownie.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
And then he hung up. I immediately hailed a cab, and I went to Starbucks. I walked to the woman at the counter and ordered the food. Then I went to a small table for two and sat down. I waited for about twenty minutes, not worried, since I was early. I watched the door. A tall, muscular man with blonde hair walked in. He saw me, and walked to me.
“Guin Hartman?” he asked, cautiously.
“yes,” I answered, “Brad Murray?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you so much for coming.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer me truthfully. And I need the truth. The real truth.”
“Alright,” he said, hesitantly.
“How did you know my fiancee?”
“We worked at Credit Dauphine together. I left a few months ago due to injury,” he said, showing me a brace around his ankle.
“Aaron’s dead. He was killed last night. I need you to tell me the truth.”
“Alright. We worked together at Credit Dauphine. I left a few months ago because I couldn’t take the stress of lying and screwing up everybody’s life for just one organizations purpose. So, one night, I went home, took a pain killer, and cut through my Achilles tendon in my left foot, snapping it. I came here for surgery, and Credit Dauphine let me go. Happier with a screwed up tendon and being free, rather than having my tendon and being bound to about two dozen non-disclosure agreements. And that’s how I knew Aaron. So, what are you doing down here in DC, if you live in New York?”
“I want to bring the people who killed Aaron to justice. I know who Credit Dauphine really is. I went to the CIA first. They turned me down. So I called about a dozen people who were in Aaron’s address book. You were the only one who I could get. I need your help. I need someone to help me bring down Aaron’s killer. Please.”
“I’m not sure of any off the top of my head. But if you give me your number, I’ll see what I can do, and I’ll let you know.”
I hurriedly wrote my cell phone number on a napkin and gave it to him.
“Thanks,” he said, “Now, all I can tell you to do is to go back to New York and bury your fiancee. That’s about all you can do.”
“Thank you so much,” I said, and then I left.
That night, I boarded the first plane to New York and returned home.
When I arrived in my apartment, I made sure to look around. No one was there. I went to my bathroom and washed my face, then I inspected my shoulder. I carefully peeled off my gray shirt, and tossed it in the trash can. No point in keeping it. Then I carefully washed around my wound with soap and water. It stung, but the dried blood all washed away, revealing a deep cut. I grabbed some gauze and some medical tape and wrapped it up. Then I pulled on a shirt and flopped into my bed. I fell asleep immediately.
I was walking down a white hallway. The whole hallway was white except for the black carpet. I arrived at a door at the end. I opened it, and saw Aaron. He came towards me, without a word, and led me to another door, which he opened and motioned me through. After I had passed through the door, it closed behind me, gently. This hallway was pitch black, with a light at the end. I walked carefully, trying not to trip. I passed by Agents Anderson and Williams, who ignored me. Then I passed by Brad. Next, further down the hallway, was a man in a mask, so that you couldn’t see the face. I kept walking, and snow fell down around me. I walked all the way to the end of the hallway, and found a door. I opened it. And I was in an office, with Michael Lindsey turned around with his back to me. He turned and faced me, an evil grin on his face. I looked down, and saw I was wearing all black, skin tight leather. I was holding two short swords with figures inscribed on the blades, one in each hand. He walked to me. I flipped the swords in my hands, and then ran at him. I attacked him, slicing his arm. He punched me in the side of the face. I retaliated with a kick to his abdomen. He staggered, but moved back toward me, punched my again in the face, and then scissor kicking me in the face also. I fell to the ground. I tried to get up, but he shoved me back down, holding one of my swords to my throat. He nicked it, and I felt a tiny trickle of blood. He grabbed me by my throat and pulled me up.
“You will not destroy us,” he said, echoing off the walls.
And then he ran the sword through my stomach.
I woke up with a scream. I was sweating, and scared. I laid back down, too scared to move. I couldn’t call anyone. There was no one to call. I looked at the clock. It was six am. My phone rang, causing me to jump. I walked cautiously to it, and picked up.
“Hello?” I said, hiding my fear.
“Guin,” a woman said, “this is Mary Scott. Aaron’s sister.”
“Oh, Mary,” I said, sadly. I could hear the pain in her voice.
“Aaron’s funeral is tomorrow. I tried to reach you yesterday. I’m sure you know what happened.”
Aaron, lying in the shower, flashed through my mind. I shook it out, keeping some form of composure.
“Yes,” I said, “I do.”
“Will you be there?”
“yes. Of course.”
I stared straight in front of me. The preacher was saying something, but I didn’t register it at all. All I could think of was how I’d found Aaron, and what had happened as a result of it. I held the white lily in my hand, loosely, resting it’s bloom on my lap. Mary was next to me. She squeezed my hand as she stood up, but I pulled away, not wanting the love. I didn’t know how I would ever love again.
I wouldn’t. it was that simple. I’d live alone, I’d die alone. I’d be an introvert. It’s what I was used to anyway, before I met Aaron.
“We all remember Aaron,” Mary said, giving her eulogy, “He was a good brother, and a kind and loving friend.”
Mary went on to tell some happy story about her and Aaron when they were five. How could she be so happy and full of energy? How could she even think of the good times she’d had with Aaron? I tried my best, but it always made the pain worse. Then again, she hadn’t found him like I had. She still thought he had been killed in London because of codes. She didn’t know he’d been murdered because he knew the truth about who he worked for. Every time I thought of Aaron, I only thought of how I found him, and how much I wanted to kill everyone who had caused it to happen. Thunder rumbled in the gray and cloudy sky. I closed my eyes, and remembered the day Aaron and I had gone on our worst date.
The rain poured in buckets. We’d been stranded out in the rain in Central Park. We finally reached my apartment, after an hour of walking and laughing. We walked up the steps and onto my stoop. We were both dripping wet.
“come in,” I’d said, grabbing his hand.
“No,” he said, smiling, “I have to go on a trip.”
“Come on, you’re soaked.”
“No,” he said, holding his hand up, “I have to go to work in an hour.”
“You always go to work,” I said, angry with him, “Does a bank really have that many trips?”
He looked away, wanting to tell me something but not able to.
“I’m sorry, Guin,” he said, “But it’s just for a few days. And I’ll be back first thing Sunday morning, here at your house.”
Then he gave me a quick kiss and ran out into the rain, hopping into a taxi.
After that, I had become accustomed to not seeing him for days. And I would be angry with him all the time.
And now I knew what he had been really doing. But it was too late to understand for him.
A drop of water on my nose brought me back to reality. The rain began pouring. People picked up umbrellas, and used them for shelter as they got up. The funeral was over. Mary had already left. I walked over to Aaron’s grave and dropped my lily on it. Then I headed for my car, knowing I couldn’t stay any longer. I turned my head, and I saw Michael Lindsey, under an umbrella and heading for a black limo. I glared at him, hatred seething through me. He walked to me.
“Guinevere,” he said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“No,” I said, angry that he had come to talk to me, angry he‘d used my full name, “No you’re not.”
“Have you considered our offer at all?” he asked, amused.
“Yes,” I said, “But I need more time. May I have another week?”
“Of course. Stay strong.”
He gripped my hand. I yanked it away, angrily. He smiled at me.
“Don’t…you…dare…touch me…again,” I said, seething.
And then he climbed into his limo and drove off. I stood alone in the cemetery, everyone else having left and gone home or to the reception. I walked back to Aaron’s grave. I put my hand on the cold, hard, gray stone that Aaron was now going to be known as. The gravestone was so unlike happy, teasing warm, colorful Aaron. I could no longer hold my composure. I fell to my knees on the muddy, fresh dirt, soiling my black suit. My body wracked with sobs, and tears soon mingled with the rain on my cheeks. I bent my head down and rested it on the dirt.
I will make them pay for this Aaron…no matter what it takes, I promise.
I arrived back at my apartment and changed into some jeans and a black knit top. I checked my pile of mail, and I tossed it aside. It just didn’t seem important at the moment. I turned on my cell phone, and immediately, it rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize. I answered.
“Hello?” I said.
“Guin,” a male voice said, “It’s Brad. This is a secure line. I’m so glad I finally got you. I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour. I thought maybe…they’d gotten you.”
“no,” I said, “just a funeral.”
“Anyway, I have some information for you. If you can meet me in D.C., then we’ll be a whole lot safer than if we met in New York.”
“Alright.”
“But I need to ask you something. And I need you to be honest.”
“Alright.”
“Do you really want to do this? Do you want to risk your life?”
“Yes.”
“Alright.”
Brad wrapped my hands with the heavy tape, and then put the boxing gloves on them. Then he got behind the bag. I walked to it, and punched it, lightly.
“Come on,” he goaded, “Hit it like you mean it. Imagine it’s Michael Lindsey.”
All the moves I’d learned over the past two weeks came out, and I ended up kicking and punching the bag with all I had, with all my heart, until I accidentally hit Brad in the face and gave him a black eye.
“Alright, stop,” he said, and moved away, but I didn’t stop hitting it. All I could see was Michael Lindsey, the man who’d killed Aaron, the man who was now blackmailing me, the man who was now my reason for living, standing in front of me.
He grabbed me, pulling me away.
“Stop,” he said, “If you’re going to do this, you have to take care of yourself at the same time. You can’t let yourself be ruined by this thirst for revenge.”
He unwrapped my hands, and blood was trickling from my hands. I hadn’t even realized I’d injured my hands. He grabbed some gauze and wrapped them back up again.
“Take care of yourself,” he said, patting my hand.
Then we moved to the shooting range.
BANG BANG BANG!!!!!!!!!! I didn’t flinch a bit when I shot the gun now. I’d learned how to use pistols, rifles, shotguns, knives, even these really cool weapons called sais, which were like three pronged knives, with the middle blade being the sharpest and longest. I was especially good with these.
“If only Aaron could see you now,” Brad said approvingly one day after I had just finished a round with the sais and some sandbags, and now the floor was covered in sand, “I know he’d be proud, but I think he’d be worried.”
“Worried?” I asked, out of breath, “Why is that?”
“Because you’d be giving him a run for his money.”
I woke up the next day in the hotel. It was the first morning I wasn’t sore from head to toe. I looked at the mirror, and saw the gradual building of more muscles than I already had from dance. I brushed my teeth and got dressed. I was meeting Brad at the Lincoln Memorial. He was going to give me the information that he’d called about. I’d hoped to get the information before I started training, but whatever. It had been three weeks since I’d come to DC, but it only seemed like one week. I grabbed my purse, in which I had my cell phone and some money, and I walked outside into the bright sun. I breathed in the fresh air, and instead of calling a taxi, I decided to walk to the Lincoln Memorial. I walked down the street, passing people who I assumed were senators, congressmen, and representatives, and other business people. Some were just high school students, either going to class or skipping class. I was voting for skipping class. As I walked, I passed by someone familiar looking. It was Agent Anderson from the CIA. We made eye contact, and we kept it until we had passed each other. He looked shocked. I completely ignored him.
But why was my heart beating like crazy all of a sudden?
Anyway, so I finally made it to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Brad was already sitting there, and a bunch of tourists were already flocked around the huge statue of Lincoln. I sat down beside Brad.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hello,” he said, “I have some good news for you.”
“Yeah?”
“One of my old contacts is in Russia. He said that he had an opportunity for you to gain SD-7’s trust and become an agent. This is all that he told me, but I figured you’d want to go.”
“When do I leave?”
“In about two hours,” he said, handing me my plane tickets.
“Thanks,” I said, pocketing them and about to leave. He held my arm.
“Guin,” he said, “I’m proud of you, and I’m glad to know that you’re the one who will be bringing down SD-7. I hope to hear from you again, but if you can’t get in touch with me again, then I wanted to tell you that you are my favorite student.”
He held out a small box. I opened it, and inside was a long rectangular silver pendant, with inscriptions written between it, Celtic inscriptions, on a long silver chain.
“For good luck,” he said, smiling.
“Thank you so much,” I said, and then hugged him.
I walked into the dim bar. The tables had an old look to them, and the whole place looked dusty. Oddly, it was very cozy and warm. I walked to a small table for two in the corner of the bar. A woman was crooning sultry Russian songs into the microphone up on the stage. A waiter came up to me.
“What can I get for you?” he asked, in Russian.
“Vodka,” I said, with a Russian accent, “On the rocks.”
“Very well,” he said, in a Russian accented English, “I’ll be right back.”
He returned with a glass of vodka and set it down in front of me. Then he walked away.
Then another man walked up to me. He was dressed in all black, a black blazer with black top under it, with a black leather glove on his left hand. His hair was short and dark brown, slightly curly.
Did I mention he was hot?
“Vodka?” he said, teasingly, in a perfect American voice, “you seem more like a fine red wine kind of girl…or a cosmopolitan.”
“You’re right,” I said in my sultriest Russian accent, “I am. But I like my vodka too.”
He smiled, not showing his teeth, as though he had a secret he wouldn’t let out.
That smile was familiar. And the rest of his face. His cheekbones, eyebrows, and…
And the eyes.
The colored part of his eyes were dark blue green, like the sea.
I’d seen him before, somewhere. You can’t forget eyes like that.
“Come with me,” he said, motioning me.
I stood up, leaving my vodka, but bringing my purse. I reached in my purse, nonchalantly, and loaded my gun, thumbing back the hammer.
I was ready for anything this guy would try.
We walked into a private room, with nice furnishings and a table. On the table was a laptop, open and glaring, adding an odd bluish glow to the dim lighting of the room. He led me to the couch that was in front of the table. We sat.
The screen of the laptop was blank.
“My name is Raven,” he said, all business now, “You’ve met me before, Guin.”
And now I remembered. It was at a dinner party at Lindsay’s house, the first one that Aaron had taken me to. Raven had been there as a guest, claiming to be in town for the week. Aaron was friends with him.
“Honey, I’d like to meet a very good friend,” he said, leading me by the arm to Raven, “I think you two will have many things in common with each other.”
“Hi,” I said, “My name is Guin.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Raven said, “My name is Raven.”
We shook hands, exchanged pleasantries. Then we sat down as Aaron mingled with the crowd of business people.
“So,” he said, “Let me guess. Your name is short for Gwyneth? Or Gwyndolen?”
“Actually, it‘s short for Guinevere,” I said, wincing, “My parents were obsessed with Arthurian legend.”
“I know the feeling,” he said, empathetically, “my parents were ornithologists.”
“You work with Credit Dauphine, don’t you?” I asked looking at all the employees talking to each other.
“I like to think of myself as a maverick,” he said, smiling, “I don’t like to get involved with all the people. I like to do my own thing. I come in to work when they need me. What about you? I notice you’re not following Aaron around.”
“I don’t know anyone here,” I said, sheepishly, “This is my first Credit Dauphine dinner party.”
“Ahh, I see.”
I looked at him, a little closer. He had a scar, like Aaron’s, running from his right eye down to his mouth. I wondered if it was just coincidence they both had the same scar, or if there was a background story.
I was voting for background story.
Raven’s eyes were, for lack of a more poetic word, gorgeous. They were like looking into two pools of the ocean. That’s how blue-green they were. He was very muscular, and very tan.
And that was how I met Raven. We had ended up spending the whole entire evening together, until it was about one a.m. and Aaron had finished talking to all the Credit Dauphine employees. We had talked about everything, from our favorite foods to our least favorite movies and our favorite philosophy. He’d immediately drilled me with questions once he’d found out I was dancer.
But I had to remember I was indeed with Aaron, but when I left Raven, I felt empty hearted and saddened.
“I remember,” I said, tears almost coming to my eyes again, as I stared straight ahead at the screen in front of me. It had flashed up to reveal a map of Russia.
“I know that you need help,” he said, “You want to become an agent in SD-7 so you can bring them down by being a double agent for the CIA.”
I nodded.
“See this map? That point? That’s a bunker in Severnaya. SD-7 is looking for some sort of map there, something that a prophet from hundreds of years ago hid. KGB found it, and they hid it in this bunker, along with weapons. K-Directorate owns it now. We’re going to go in, steal the map, and destroy the weapons. You take the map back, and you’ll gain SD-7’s trust, and they’ll hire you. Then you can be a double agent and bring them down.”
“Okay,” I said. He took my hand.
“Look at me,” he said, “You can do this. I promise you. I wouldn’t be taking you if I didn’t know you could do this.”
“Raven,” I said, “I haven’t had much training. I learned how to be stealthy. That’s all.”
“You know how to shoot a gun,” he said, matter of factly, pointing at my purse.
“Alright, that too, but that’s it.”
“And you definitely know how to fight, considering you were able to get away from one of the top assassins in the world with only a couple of bruises and a gash in your shoulder.”
“Okay, so that too.”
I looked away, knowing there was no way I would be able to do this.
“Listen,” he said, “If you want to avenge Aaron’s death, then you’re going to have to do this.”
“How did you know Aaron?” I asked. I’d been dying to know ever since I’d found out the truth.
“I was a freelance. Every now and then, I’d come to the SD-7 office, do some work. We met on a mission that we were on together. We just became best friends. On that mission, everyone but the two of us were killed. We were captured. I know you noticed that we both have identical scars. While we were being held, we were tortured. They cut our faces, at the exact same spot, saying that we would always be marked by them. Escape seemed hopeless for us, but then a team of CIA agents, sent for the same mission, rescued us. That was when we both found out the truth…that SD-7 was not part of the CIA. CIA sent some of their people over, and we filled out statements. They accepted us as double agents, but I had to explain that I was a freelancer. They told me that it was alright, as long as anything to do with any of the SD cells was brought back to them. And that was how Aaron learned the truth. So for the past year or so, we‘ve been undercover in SD-7, working as double agents for the CIA.”
“How could Aaron have been able to keep all this from me?” I said, amazed and saddened at the same time.
“Because he loved you,” Raven said, “The one rule you don’t break at any of the SD cells is telling your friends and family, or anyone for that matter, that you work for the CIA, and not really a bank. When he became a double agent, he definitely couldn’t tell you, because then both of your lives would be in danger.”
“Why did SD-7 murder him?” I asked, not really wanting to hear the words, but wanting to know how.
“They found out he was a double agent. So they killed him,” he said.
“Why did they let me go?”
“Because you knew nothing. There was no point in holding you, but there was a point in getting you to work for them. They want you to work for them so they won’t have to worry about you telling everyone the truth, or getting the name of the SD cells out into the public.”
“So, how do you expect me to go on a mission with you if I have no idea what I’m doing?”
Raven got up and opened a door. Inside was a room that was full of weapons, guns, knives, etc. There was equipment, like lock picks, and clothes, like the standard black stealth suits.
“that is how I expect you to go on a mission with me,” he said.
Snow was falling pretty heavy, not quite a blizzard, but getting close. Raven and I had donned black stealth suits and I had even added a furry black Russian hat. We climbed on a ridge overlooking the bunker, the snow gently falling. At least for a snow in Severnaya.
“What’s that?” I asked Raven, pointing to a black lump on the ground not too far away, where there was a break in the thick trees, so you could see down below the ridge.
We crept towards the object. It was a guard, lying unconscious.
“Perfect,” Raven said, “Someone else is here.”
“Not necessarily,” I began, but he looked at me like I was crazy, so I shut up.
“At least there’s a good lookout,” he said, looking below the ridge.
“Look at all those guards,” I breathed, seeing about thirteen guards all toting large guns.
“We’ll be fine,” Raven said, “You want to join SD-7, don’t you?”
“yeah,” I said.
“Then you’ll be alright,” he said, staring at the guards, “Just keep your eyes on the prize.”
He pulled out a sniper rifle. Laying on the ledge, and motioning me down with him, we both gazed out over the ridge. He looked through the view, and shot, hitting a guard. He did this twelve more times, knocking out all the guards, and then he knocked out the cameras also. Then he tossed the sniper rifle under a tree.
“We might need that,” I said, reaching for it, but he grabbed my arm.
“No,” he said, “It’s too big, and I know for a fact we won’t need it.”
I checked all my gear, while Raven set up the grappling equipment. I had a dagger in my boot, and I had two pistols, in my belt. I also had an Uzi, and now an AK-47, which I took from the guard that was already lying unconscious. I made sure everything was there and secure. Then I went over to the ledge where Raven was. We attached to the cords, and propelled ourselves down the cliff. We landed softly in the powdered snow, and hid in the trees as a truck passed by. Raven jumped out from behind the bushes and knocked the driver out. Raven grabbed the drivers hat and put it on. There were no passengers. We climbed in, and drove forward to the huge bunker doors. They opened. We drove in.
Drove into a room full of guards carrying AK-47s.
“Uh, Raven,” I whispered, “We have a problem.”
“We’ll be fine,” he said back, suddenly extremely focused, “Just duck down.”
Raven picked up a cigarette that was lying on the dashboard, and puffed out as much smoke as possible. I ducked down into the floorboard, the smoke from the cigarette tickling my nose.
“” Raven said, in perfect Russian.
“Spaseeba,” another voice said, and then I felt the truck lurch forward. After a few more minutes, it lurched again and stopped.
“Alright,” Raven said, touching my shoulder, “You can come up now.”
“Oh my…” I breathed.
“Yeah,” Raven interrupted, “This is going to be a little harder than I thought.”
The room was full with crates. Racks of guns, every single one different from the rest. I guess you could say the racks of guns were like a box of chocolates…you never know which one you’d get.
“Raven,” I said, but he held up a hand.
“Look,” he said, with a sigh, “I thought it was going to be easier than this. You know, like we’d just walk in, shoot a few guards, get the map, and destroy the few weapons that KGB hid. Looks like K-Directorate has made quite a few additions since I was last here. Listen, if you want out now, I can drive us back out, or we can sneak back out someway. I understand completely.”
“no way,” I said, “I’m here. I’ve trained. I vowed to Aaron that I would bring the people who killed him to justice, and that’s what I plan on doing. I’m doing this. Whether you come or not, I’m getting that map.”
Alright, which was a completely different attitude about this mission than I had when I started.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Alright. Let’s do it.”
We opened the doors and climbed out. I armed myself with my AK-47. Raven went and looked at the different weapons, pulled out a camera, and took pictures. I looked for the map. No sign of anything remotely close to an map.
“Raven?” I asked from across the room.
“Yeah,” he answered back.
“what’s this thing look like?”
“It’s like a big leather case, and inside there’s a map.”
“I’m going to check out one of these doors, see if it’s behind one of them.”
“Alright. Be careful.”
I opened the large metal door. Then I went inside. The room was large, and about 8 feet above me, was a room with a glass window. Inside the room were controls and computers.
If I could get up there, I might be able to find the map. I ran through the room to the door on the other side. To my left was a staircase leading to the control room. I went up the stairs. The door was open. These people weren’t very apt with security. In front of me was a large safe. Perfect.
I grabbed a telephone and took off the part a person speaks into. I pressed the top part that you listen to into my ear. The bottom part, I placed on the safe. Then I turned the dial. Finally, I had the safe opened. Inside was a leather case. I opened it, and a very old map was nestled inside.
“Got it,” I said to myself, and tucked it under my arm. Then I closed the safe back. I went out the door. And I saw a sight that made me sick.
About ten guards were coming through the door on the other side of the large warehouse sized room, all surrounding a young man with blonde hair, talking with a guy in a lab coat.
I dashed down the stairs and hid under them behind some boxes. There was no way I could make it back through the door without them seeing me. So I waited.
All 12 men went upstairs. No guards waited downstairs. I waited until the door had closed upstairs. Then I came out.
I ran through the first door. It slammed shut behind me. I grabbed the handle and yanked. It was locked. I looked to the other door on the other side. It was starting to close. Raven was running to it to try and get through. I ran as fast as I could, and threw the map through the door to Raven. Then the door slammed shut, and I ran into it. I yanked as hard as I could for about a minute.
It wouldn’t budge. I was trapped. I looked up to the glass control room. The blonde guy and the scientist were looking at me through it.
“You will be pleased to know that the map was just returned to us, while you were trying to escape,” the blonde guy said with a British accent, “So your attempt at stealing the map from us was quite futile.”
That could only mean one thing.
They had killed Raven; they had murdered him.
And now they were going to murder me.
Just like Aaron; just like Raven.
That’s when I felt my feet getting cold and wet. I looked down. Water was starting to rise above my ankles. The blonde British guy pressed a button. Metal grates that had been situated up above my head on the wall suddenly hinged down and locked. I pushed up, trying to move them. They wouldn’t budge.
“My name is Sark,” the blonde British guy said smiling, “just for your information.”
Raven looked through the glass.
“You betrayed me!” I yelled angrily. Raven grinned.
“Wouldn’t have,” he said happily, “But Sark paid me more money to return the map.”
The water was up to my waist now. I was beginning to get freaked out. I never cared much for water after almost drowning when I was ten. I had stayed as far away from water as possible since, and had become quite hydrophobic.
And now I was going to die from drowning.
Life is cruel.
The water, rushing in faster by each minute, was now up to my neck. At least I was going to be with Aaron now. But I would never get my revenge on Lindsey. I would never get to bring down SD-7.
I craned my neck back as far as I could to keep breathing as long as I could. But the water got too high. My fingers clutched the metal grate until the knuckles were white.
I was drowning.
As I was losing consciousness, I looked up at the control room one last time. Sark and Raven and the rest of them were panicking. Gunshots raged throughout the room, and the guards went down. Sark escaped through a back door. Raven fell to the ground. Then a face I was amazed to see looked down at me and began yelling at the other team members who had entered the room. They began pressing buttons.
Everything was growing blurry and black. I had to hang on. For just another minute. The need to inhale became too much.
I succumbed to it.
Water filled my throat and lungs. I needed to cough, but that caused more water to enter my mouth.
My fingers slipped from the grate as I lost consciousness. With the loss of consciousness, I knew would come the loss of my life.
Suddenly the water level began to decrease. The doors on either side of the room slid open. Water rushed out. I fell to the ground in a coughing heap. I coughed up water. The blackness didn’t subside after I could breathe air. I saw Agent Anderson run into the room.
“Get a medic now!” he yelled at his other teammates.
Right before I lost consciousness, he gently opened my mouth, and I felt his lips softly touch mine.
When my eyes opened, I knew that I had survived. I was laying on a long plane seat, wrapped up in blankets that were keeping me warm. I took a deep breath. Breathing felt so good now. I knew that Agent Anderson had saved my life by giving me CPR. I took another deep breath.
“Everyone put in antes?” I heard a voice that I recognized as Agent Williams say.
“yeah,” another voice said, “Anyone raising?”
Poker chips clicked against one another as people raised.
I rolled over to my left side, closing my eyes. Then I opened them again.
Agent Anderson was sitting right in front of me, watching over me.
“Hey you,” I said, smiling.
“How you feeling?” he asked, setting down his mug of what smelled like coffee.
“Great,” I said. I tried to sit up. He put his hand under my back and helped me raise up. Then he handed me a mug of warm liquid.
“It’s tea,” he said, “Drink, it’ll make you feel better.”
I sipped slowly. He shifted nervously in his seat.
“We’re heading back to DC,” he said. I nodded.
“We have the map,” he continued, “We made a copy for the CIA. We’re giving you the real one to take to SD-7 and gain their trust so you can join them.”
I looked up surprised. What was he talking about?
“But only if you become a double agent first,” he finished with a deep breath.
“So,” I said, “For you guys to ask me to be a double agent, all I had to do was almost die first while trying to do it on my own? Now you’re taking me as a double agent?”
“Well,” Williams said, coming up behind me, “Yeah.”
I stared at him, remembering how he had treated me that day.
“Hey, I’m sorry about last time,” he said, a lot nicer than he had been before, “It’s just we get a lot of crazy people walking in like that.”
I looked at him, and then at Agent Anderson. Anderson was shaking his head at Williams.
“But now I see you’re for real,” Williams said, “so, welcome to the CIA.”
“Hey, Jack,” Anderson said, annoyed, “You want to get back to your poker game?”
“Fine,” Jack said, walking away, “But don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
“Well, there goes getting a kiss from you,” Anderson said, grinning. I laughed, and then I sipped my tea. My heart was going crazy. I hadn’t felt like this since…since I had fallen for Aaron.
I was falling for Agent Anderson, and I didn’t even know his first name.
“So are you in?” he asked me. I set down my mug.
“yeah,” I said, “I’m in. I have one question though. What’s your first name?”
“Before I answer, I have a question for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Where did you get that ring?”
“Tiffany’s.”
“Your fiance could afford Tiffany’s???”
“Yes, now, for my question?”
“Right. My name is Aidan. Aidan Anderson. My parents were English teachers, so they made my name have alliteration or something like that.”
“I know the feeling,” I said, having déjà vu, “my parents were obsessed with Arthurian legend, hence the name Guinevere, so I promptly nicknamed myself Guin. Good thing they didn’t have a son, or I’m sure they’d name him Lancelot or Galahad or another unfortunate Round Table name.”
“Aidan,” I said, savoring the name on my tongue, “am I going to have to go back and forth from NYC to DC?”
“No,” he said, “The CIA is actually making me your handler, which means I come up with your counter missions and things like that. So, I get to move to New York.”
Things were beginning to look up.
The next day, I walked into Credit Dauphine by my own free will for the first time. The map was tucked into my bag. A guard with a sidearm stopped me at the elevator.
“I’m here to see Lindsey,” I said, making complete eye contact with the guard, “I’m taking up an offer.
