The Last Mission Vol. 01

CHAPTER 1

"Oh my god, I can't believe this is actually happening!" said the redheaded tourist as the bus driver announced that he was approaching their destination of Old Town/Lipscani.

"Are you sure you don't want to come with us, Monique?" pouted her blonde twin. "Callie knows where all the hotties are."

"Shut up, Clara! You make me sound like such a slut!" Callie giggled as she swatted her sister.

"But for real, though..." Callie turned to Monique. "I do know all the bangin' spots."

Monique smiled at the seasoned traveler, held up her tablet, and politely shook her head. "I really wish I could chill with you guys, but I have to hit all the places on the agenda."

"Ick! Boring!" teased Callie. "That is exactly why I don't miss working for a travel agency. Sorry..."

"It's cool," Monique assured. "You think I'd be working on a night this wonderful if I didn't have to? But... gotta pay those bills."

"Hear, hear." Callie raised her beer-filled travel mug.

The twins toasted their complimentary mugs with Monique's water bottle as the bus came to a halt.

"Okay, thrill-seekers—last stop! You can either meet me back here in three hours for the ride back to the hotel or take one of our lovely taxicabs at any point in the evening. Be safe and enjoy the Old Town strip. Thank you for choosing Experiența România Tour Lines. Noapte buna!"

Cheers could be heard throughout the crowded bus as the mostly British, Canadian, and American tourists grabbed their belongings and single-filed their way off the bus. Monique was the last to exit and the twins threw their arms around her, promising they would keep in touch.

"Uh-uh, you are so not leaving without a selfie. Get over here!" exclaimed Callie before Monique could make her escape.

"Damn... I really wish I could, but once again company rules are trampling my fun." Monique explained to her confused new friends, "I can't have my picture taken. It's against company policy to be photographed while traveling."

"That's crazy!" Clara exclaimed.

"Let me guess—so that local bars don't know what you look like and give you special treatment to up their reviews," Callie guessed.

Monique tapped her nose to signal to Callie that she was correct.

"Yet another reason 'professional traveler' is both the best and worst job ever."

The trio said their goodbyes and the twins rushed off to their favorite dinner spot. Monique watched as they laughed and frolicked like schoolgirls. Times like these made her long for normalcy. Simple pleasures like carousing, sharing memories, and even friendship were foreign in her field of work.

She frowned as she watched a homeless child pick the pocket of an unsuspecting tourist who was admiring a necklace at a trinket stand. The boy ran past Monique, giving her a mischievous wink as the man reached into his pocket for the cash to pay the vendor. The man, of course, found that his wallet was missing. "Another night in Romania," she sighed.

As much as she hated to admit it, the orphan gangs were her favorite part of the country. They were rude, nasty little thieves, but they offered her a sense of familiarity. They were survivors. And in that struggle, she and the orphans were members of the same global family of the lost and forgotten. Monique approached Club Zero and was just about to get in line when she heard loud chanting.

"FAIRFIELD! FAIRFIELD! FAIRFIELD!"

She quickly scrolled through her phone as she walked toward the crowd of drunken soccer players. "Whoo! Two and oh, baby!" she shouted as she approached the small crowd.

"Holy shit, we got ourselves a Yank!" said a tall, muscular Brit who fit the description of a European football player to a T.

"Fit li'l blackbird too!" declared another footballer in his cockney accent.

"Yeah, totty! Had to see Fairfield whoop that ass while I was in Romania!" she replied in her best New York accent.

"All right, motherfuckers—inside before you blow my fucking ears out!" ordered the annoyed bouncer as he opened the ropes for the rowdy group.

"Come on beautiful, you're on the pull tonight!" shouted the tall athlete as he took Monique's hand and led her in with his group.

Monique surveyed the interior of the three-story club as the soccer player ushered her over to the bar, mentally comparing it to the layout she had memorized. She checked her watch and was pleased to find that she had ten minutes to spare.

"That's a nice piece!" said the athlete, nodding at her smartwatch. "Apple?"

"Yup."

"Posh... what are you drinking, love?"

Before Monique could answer, the group spontaneously broke into another chant. The tall athlete abandoned his questions and joined in with his teammates. Monique seized her opportunity and slipped off into the crowd, leaving her admirer completely oblivious to her exit. She always sought out soccer players for this very reason. They were usually popular and horny enough to get her into any European club, yet drunk enough to easily ditch.

The interior of the club was rather unremarkable. It offered the usual smoke machines, black lights, and molly trippers typical of every club these days. For the time being, her interests lay upstairs. She danced and smiled her way up the stairs to the third level, blending in seamlessly with the rest of the crowd. She spotted a jovial dancer in his twenties, twirling glow sticks as he danced chaotically in an apparent drug-fueled daze.

"Ce mai faci?" she shouted to the smiling partier. How are you?

"Nicki Minaj!" he exclaimed in his strong Romanian accent as he leaned in for a kiss.

Monique laughed before giving him a smooch on the lips.

"Eşti cel mai tare! Te iubesc!" You're the best! I love you!

He was so intoxicated that he could barely focus.

Perfect, she thought as she began to dance with him.

The rolling Romanian was none the wiser as she danced him toward a hallway guarded by a large bouncer. She was careful to evade the bouncer's eyes as she circled behind her dance partner. She began to caress his slender torso as she slyly snaked her leg between his.

"Da, Nicki!" he exclaimed as he turned to give her another kiss.

Unaware that her leg was between his, he tumbled as he attempted to turn and fell into another patron, forcing the man to spill his drink down the front of his date.

"Idiotule!" The angry patron's eyes flashed with anger. His date shouted obscenities at the bewildered partier.

Monique faded into the crowd as the two men began to shove each other. The bouncer rushed over to break up the scuffle and Monique slipped into the hallway unnoticed. She paused as she neared a corner and entered a sequence into her watch. She held the left button down until the watch vibrated, then released the button before holding it down for another five seconds. She pressed the right button and waited for the second vibration. When she felt it, she rounded the corner and walked past the security camera.

She walked up to a door and pressed her ear to it as she adjusted her earring. Satisfied the room was unoccupied, she entered it and locked the door behind her. The bathroom seemed a little larger than the floor plan suggested. Must be newly renovated, she thought as she stopped at the mirror.

She ran her fingers through her long, wavy auburn hair and adjusted her Marilyn Monroe inspired black dress. She admired the way it showcased her figure. She turned to the side and placed her hands on her hips, striking a divaesque pose. She had the body of a female tennis player, her curves accentuated by her African heritage. She frowned at her reflection, feeling that familiar longing to be the woman in the mirror.

The sexy single.

The carefree, club-hopping traveler.

The fashionable diva.

She shook the irrational thoughts from her head and walked to the window. She yanked it open and reached under the frilly skirt of her dress to retrieve a mid-sized black gun, then pulled the clip from the strap on her other thigh. She slammed the clip into her gun and gave it a twist, then peered up at the roof and aimed at the ledge. When she pulled the trigger, it silently shot a rod up to the roof, where it embedded itself into the cement and sent out three razor sharp anchors.

It was a low clank, but it never failed to get her guard up. She hated that the grappling feature still wasn't silent. Nevertheless, she climbed out of the window and swung to the next one over.

The window had been left cracked just enough. She hung on to the rope with one hand as she held down the left button on her watch with the other. After the confirming vibration, she opened the window and entered the dark office. She walked to the desk and crouched behind it.

As she checked her watch, she heard three male voices speaking in Romanian.

'Right on time,' she thought as she silently flicked a switch on her gun.

Suddenly, the door to the office opened and the lights came on.

She waited in silence until two of the men left the room. The one left behind began to whistle as he approached the desk.

She readied herself as his footsteps got closer.

And then there was silence.

She furrowed her brow. Nothing. This wasn't right.

Without warning, the desk slammed into her, sending her crashing into the wall.

Monique quickly recovered and rolled out of the way of oncoming bullets as the laughing man shot his silenced weapon at her. She jumped to her feet and ran, returning fire as his bullets zipped past her. He matched her speed and zigzagged his way to her, avoiding her shots.

'Fuck, he's fast.'

She continued firing at her target to no avail.

He aimed for the light and took it out. Monique backed away, plotting her next move as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Suddenly, she felt her weapon kicked from her hand. She rolled out of the way as he fired, but was unable to escape his last bullet. It pierced through her shoulder.

Monique fell against the wall, reeling in pain. She listened as he approached and rammed into him, knocking him to the floor. As they landed, she brought the elbow of her uninjured arm into his chest, knocking the wind out of him.

He gasped, but kept his wits about him and brought the handle of his gun into the side of her head. She stumbled to her knees before falling to the floor.

'This is it. The last job,' she thought before he landed another blow, knocking her out.

II

"This is nice."

She strained to see through her blurred vision as she began to regain consciousness. She winced at the intense ringing in her ears. Her head throbbed angrily as though someone had placed a vise around her skull. Fiery pain shot through her left arm and into her chest and back. She attempted to reach for her injured shoulder but was halted by the tight bindings around her wrists. She didn't need to see her hands to know that they were bound. She attempted to lift her legs to confirm that they were bound as well. She shifted her weight and felt the soft give of springs beneath her.

'Fuck.'

Experience had taught her that absolutely nothing good can come from waking up tied to a bed. And judging by the way her legs were tied, the Romanian had nothing good in mind for her. Her arms were lashed to the posts, but her legs were tied much differently. They were open and bent at the knee.

A rope had been tied from each ankle to the bottom of the bed frame directly below it, leaving very little slack. She could neither straighten her legs nor raise them from the bed. And though her vision was still blurry, she could tell that her halter-top dress was now mysteriously white.

"Where did you get this?" asked the same deep, male voice that had woken her.

She bent her head and strained to bring the blurry silhouette of the man perched at the edge of the bed into focus. She realized that he was holding her watch. He examined every angle of the device and smiled in approval.

"Bat cave? I mean, I always wonder if there's an underground warehouse for spies and assassins that is literally underground." He stood and walked to the head of the bed, bringing himself into clearer view.

He had a very strong Eastern European accent, but she had a hard time placing exactly which region he was from. He traveled. A lot. This was typical for gun and narcotic omegas. They had to travel constantly to ensure deals went smoothly, so they picked up an array of regional inflections. But this was her target. He was Alpha. Yet aside from the near-perfect English, his accent was muddled.

"Because... I've seen almost every type of gun there is. You name it and I've either bought or sold it at one point or another. Even this one." He pulled out her gun from the back of his waistband. "This I've seen. It's rare and I've only fired one twice, but I've seen it. But this..."

He held her watch a foot away from her head and continued, "...shit like this? Where do you find this? It says 'Apple'. But it's no 'Apple'. The logo comes right off. Probably so you can put another one on. That is fucking ingenious." He was clearly impressed by the smartwatch.

"I know it has internet. And obviously, it can make calls. But what really amazes me is the way it fucked up my cameras."

He leaned in close to her and dangled the watch over her head. "I don't really know how... but I know it was this. It had to be this!"

As he spoke, she realized something odd about his face. It had absolutely no imperfections.

She recalled wondering why Paul had sent her such a filtered and obviously shopped picture, but now that her target was in front of her, she realized the picture hadn't been doctored at all. His eyes, brow, ears, jaw, and mouth were completely symmetrical. No one's face is symmetrical. Yet even the point to the slight widow's peak of his otherwise square hairline fell perfectly in the middle of his forehead. Someone had sculpted this face, perhaps even envisioned it before it was assigned.

However, there was no trace of that either. It was this seamlessness, this lack of evidence that even the most skilled surgeon would have left— should have left—that she found most alarming. He was unreal.

"What the fuck are you?" she asked as she glared into his deep green eyes.

"You think I look strange?" he asked calmly, without hesitation.

She stared back in silence.

"Most people don't think I look strange, but most people don't understand how the human face works. The ones that do, the ones that study faces for a living... they always think I look strange."

He stood up and shrugged. "It's my money. I can spend it how I want," he concluded as he walked over to a dresser and placed the gun on top of it.

"Why did you change my dress?" she asked.

"Why did you piss yourself?" he countered. "It's all just one big chain reaction."

He opened a drawer, retrieved what looked like a medical box, and brought it over to her. He placed it on the dresser near the bed and opened it. He took out a syringe and a small glass bottle and filled the needle.

"Also, you look better in white," he added.

He pulled out a rubber strip and walked over to her good arm. She struggled as he approached.

"Shh... Pro-chlor-perazine. Pretty sure I said that right. Very small dosage. I'm sure you have a concussion. And like most sane people, I fucking hate the smell of vomit," he said as he tied the band around her arm.

Knowing that at the moment she had no choice in her fate, she looked around to examine the room. She was in a hotel. She could tell by the expensive, yet generic, decor. It seemed to be an upscale room, but there was something strange about it. There were no windows and she had a hard time locating the door. She felt the sting of the needle as he injected the anti-nausea drug.

He returned to the box to retrieve another bottle. "Demerol." He held up a second small glass bottle. "I know, I know...such a gracious host... always looking out for my guests... as always, I've outdone myself. No need for praise."

His words dripped with sarcasm as he spoke for her, "You're too kind." He tapped her arm for another vein.

"I really hate to break up your cheesy monologue, Joker, but I'm a blind enlist. I can't give you any information, because I don't have any. I don't even know your name. All I know about you is what you look like and that you're supposed to die. That's usually how this assassin thing works. So, you might as well just kill me instead of wasting your time."

"Oh, I already know who hired you." He paused to roll his eyes. "I know who hired the guy who hired the guy who hired you, that is..." he clarified with an exhausted wave of his hand. "Which is why that bullet was meant for your heart and not your shoulder." He injected the Demerol into her arm.

She inhaled deeply at the rush of relief she felt from the strong painkiller. She looked at her arm and noticed several puncture marks. She grimaced at the thought of what she had been injected with during the course of who-knows-how-long.

"What was that you just said? Mono... what is that?"

"Monologue. A dramatic, long-winded speech intended to elicit a reaction. Or, as in your case, convey a series of inner thoughts and irrelevant ramblings."

"Wow. Impressive brain in you. I don't know many hit men who can add to my list of fancy Eng-lish words. And to think I almost lost my chance to hear you speak..." he smiled coyly.

"...but thank goodness for aiming in the dark," he said as he removed the needle and held a cotton ball over the puncture.

As he held the cotton to her arm she noticed a patchwork of scars which traversed his forearm and traveled beneath the fabric of his rolled sleeve. There were also a few scars on his neck that disappeared into his collar.

"Because while I was climbing to the top, do you know what I never considered?" he asked.

She stared at him blankly.

"How absolutely fucking boring it would be once I got there." He untied the band from her arm and returned the medical box to its drawer.

He stepped back into view. Normally she tried not to focus on the particular details of a target. She avoided their facial expressions and tuned out their voices Those little details were just fodder for her haunting nightmares. But this fucker... she wanted to memorize him. On the off chance that she actually survived this, she would hunt him down and cut him to pieces. He was fairly tall, around six feet. Maybe a little less. She could tell that he was extremely muscular. Even in a dress shirt and jeans, he could pass as a boxer.

She couldn't tell whether his hair was dark blond or light brown, so she settled on "dirt" as the perfect descriptive. His lips were very supple, for a man. Especially a white man. Not huge, but definitely full. And pink. He smirked a lot. She imagined how satisfying it would be to bite those smirking fleshy lips right off his goddamned face.

He leaned over, bringing his face about a foot away from hers, just out of reach of a headbutt that would have easily broken his perfect nose.

"This is the most exciting thing that has happened to me all week," he stated with enthusiasm. "Maybe for you, too. I can tell that you're just as bored as I am. Why else would you suggest that I kill you?"

He sat up and removed his shoes and socks, then continued, "When your job has become completely monotonous, even death sounds exciting."

He crawled onto the bed and mounted her, keeping a safe distance from her mouth. He took a butterfly knife from his pocket, opened it, and placed it on her cheek as he brought his face to hers. "Now..." He settled himself on top of her. "Before you bite me... you should know that if you do, the first thing I'm going to cut out is your eyes," he said matter-of-factly as he gently tapped the point of the knife just below each of her eyes.

"Things," she corrected without emotion.