With light brown hair and clear green eyes much like his father's this boy would be quite a looker when he grew up. The ball the boy had been playing with rolled and landed near a tall, handsome man. Smiling into the boy's big green eyes, much like his own, the man gently threw the ball back. The eight-year-old boy grinned at the man toothily before he turned around and pitched the ball as hard as he could at his sister. Mark's mother frowned disapprovingly at him.
"Mark, you're playing catch, not kill-my-baby-sister-with-a-baseball."
The man grinned to himself at Mark's reprimand. A light breeze blew, catching the woman's chestnut hair. The small family was having a picnic in Madison Square Park. The lush green foliage provided a brief sanctuary from the concrete jungle that surrounded them.
Blake looked up from the happy family as he heard a car door slam. A man in his mid forties clad in an expensive suit climbed out of the passenger's seat of a midnight blue Mercedes. He began making his way to the family, his hand reaching into his coat, as the car pulled back into traffic. Blake sighed. So much for the happy moment; duty called. He reached inside his coat for his M-23 A8 suppressed, loaded with one composite round. Aim never wavering, Blake pulled the trigger and the bullet embedded itself in his target's chest. As if in slow motion the target dropped to his knees and fell forward as the chestnut-haired woman clutched her two brown-headed children to her with a scream. The man in the suit was dead before his head had hit the ground. Perfect shot. Pushing his mother away, Mark ran to the body screaming, "father!"
....................................
Blake briskly strode away. He inconspicuously placed his gun in a brown paper bag and tucked it back into his coat pocket. As he passed the 4th trash can on the street he threw the brown paper bag into it without a second thought. A homeless man walked over to the trash can and took the brown paper bag. Blake and the man made eye-contact. The well-disguised agent would properly dispose of Blake's gun. Blake pulled his coat tightly about himself walking towards the car that would deliver him to his new apartment. He got into the black, chauffeured car at the end of the long street. The driver avoided looking at Blake as he opened the door for his new employer. Leaning back against the new leather seat, Blake closed his eyes and let his mind wander.
....................................
A little boy of three stood by his mother watching her cry as she turned her head from the television set.
A handsome man's arm was looped with his young wife-to-be as they walked pass the paparazzi. "...Multi-Millionaire Thomas Gregory Gucci had just gotten engaged to his girlfriend of four years, New York socialite and debutante Katherine Bethany Somerville. The two families have been long-time partners, with the marriage of Thomas Gucci and Katherine Somerville the two families hope to merge their businesses..."
The little boy walked over to the television set and turned it off, hoping his mother would stop crying. He began to play peek-a-boo, remembering that his mother would do that to get him to laugh. His beautiful mother looked up from her crying into the face of a child who looked so much like his handsome father and began to cry harder. She motioned for her son to come near.
"Maman, pourqoi est-ce que tu pleure?"
The mother swiped angrily at her tears as she tried to put on a smile for her worried son. "I'm not crying, Blake. Maman is just being stupide. Come give me a hug."
Blake hugged his mother fiercely, not knowing why she was so upset. "Do not worry maman. Tout va bien." he tried to reassure his mother, which caused her to cry even harder.
............................
Opening his eyes, Blake shook his head. That was not something he wanted to remember. Pulling out his buzzing cell phone he cursed as he saw the number. Apparently his boss didn't believe in reprieves. Placing the phone to his ear, Blake looked at the driver in the rear-view mirror.
"Go."
............................
Alexia Whitt loved Mondays; it was the day she was allowed back to work. She was such a workaholic that her boss made her take Sundays off. Alex decided to take a cut through Madison Square Parks that day. With her hot drink in hand she bounced cheerfully, singing September by Earth, Wind and Fire as she entered the park. Alex noticed a Mercedes pull up to the curb and a distinct, handsome older man stepped out. Watching where the man was heading, Alex let out a heartfelt sigh. Of course he'd be walking towards a family. The pretty brunette who Alex was sure was the man's wife, flashed him a radiant smile as she looked up from playing with two small children.
Just as Alex turned away, the woman let out such a scream that Alex shrieked in surprise. Whether her shriek was a reaction to the woman's scream or the fact that she had spilt her boiling hot chocolate over herself because of the woman's scream, Alex couldn't tell. Probably both.
By the time Alex looked up from her ruined clothes the woman and her two children were crying over the man's body. Wracked with fear, Alex rushed toward the fallen man. Some of the other families in the park gazed at the family curiously as others moved quickly to put distance between them. A few people were standing near, uncertain of what to do.
Alex dropped to her knees besides the man and managed a smile for the sobbing family. Placing her hands on the man's chest, she leaned forward to determine whether or not the man was breathing. He was not. Alex got up and removed her hands, preparing to start CPR.
Originally Alex wanted to be a doctor. She had gotten her GED at 16 and attended John Hopkins University. By 22 she had gotten her medical science degree and masters in Business Economy. She never understood why she didn't become a doctor. She had trade in her dream of helping others for a high paying job at Richardson Corps as co-supervisor and 2nd director of the technology department. Alex had always regretted not pursuing her dream and more so that she had wasted so much time. But right now Alex was grateful for her medical knowledge because maybe today she could use it to save some one's life.
Looking down at her unusually damp hands Alex let out a terrified scream. She had not noticed before because the man had been wearing a black suit, but now that she examined closely the suit was soaked in blood, as were her hands. Alex saw where the flow of blood was coming from; a bullet wound in the man's chest. She sat back on her heels and looked at a small present in the man's hand. Choking on a sob, she averted her eyes. There was nothing she could do. The man was dead.
.................
Blake looked out his large windows at Trump Palace on 200 East 69th Street. His new apartment was too big. There were three bedrooms, and two full bathrooms, one with a Jacuzzi tub, a full kitchen and dining room and living room area that also came with a home theatre. The place was fully furnished and a Bose system had been installed in every room, including the two bathrooms.
Normally Blake would insist on a smaller place to live that was equally expensive. He didn't need more than one bedroom. No one would be visiting his home. And even if he did invite someone home, she sure as hell wouldn't be sleeping in a separate bed, considering she'd be sleeping at all.
"You told me I could do what I wanted, as long as I killed him efficiently," Blake calmly spoke into his phone. His employer's errand boy was beginning to sound redundant.
"And you consider killing him in a public area efficient?" the irate voice on line demanded. "What the hell were you thinking? How are we going to catch his partners now? After that display Carmelo's buddies are going to be lower key than ever."
"I hope so," was Blake's cold answer.
"You, you what!" the voice spluttered.
Pulling his view away from the window, Blake walked towards the kitchen.
The onyx counter-tops were spotless and polished. There was an island in the middle of the kitchen where top of the line cookware were hanging overhead. The kitchen was something a person would see on Iron Chef. Thinking about the dinner he wanted to cook, Blake looked around and asserted he had all the spices and equipment he needed. When he was done with this call, he'd head out to buy the ingredients. He opened the refrigerator's well-concealed door and took out a bottle of Evian. The insistent criticizing was bringing on a headache.
"I don't see what the big fucking deal is." Blake had his cell phone wedged between his shoulder and ear as he threw the Evian from his left hand to his right. His French accent was beginning to surface. It happened when he became too emotional and right now he was becoming extremely irritated. "You tell me kill him, I killed him. That was the best opportunity that presented itself and I took it. I hope Carmelo's partners are hiding, I need a challenge. All I had to do was visit Carmelo's office and pretend to be a potential client."
"And they told you were you could find Carmelo?" the voice asked, amused.
"No Matt, I flirted with the new secretary a bit," Blake explained impatiently. "After a few looks and complements, she was a font of information."
"Did you get anything important out of her?"
"Just where Carmelo was this afternoon and that my coat was very fashion faux pas," Blake said, smiling for the first time since the conversation had started 45 minutes ago.
"Dammit Blake this isn't a joke. People's lives are put at stake and you're telling me Carmelo's secretary thinks you need to buy a fashionable coat? Never mind, forget it. Dane wants me to assign you on another case. Apparently you are the best agent for this case we have available and he doesn't want you working on the case you're working on anymore."
Blake stopped throwing his bottle of water around and managed to not groan aloud. When was the last time he had a vacation? With a defeated sigh Blake demanded, "Do I get paid a lot for this next job? Is there anyone I need to kill? And most importantly, do I have to pretend to be someone this time?"
"Yes, maybe and yes. Whether or not you can get evidence of this company funding terrorists, you'll get paid enough to spend a quarter year at that damn place you like so much in Spain. We aren't expecting for anyone to get killed until more evidence is collected either. And regarding the identity, we are fabricating a background for you right now with your name Blake Xander. After a month of training, you're going in as a computer and technology genius, which shouldn't be hard for you to pull off."
