Lethal

- 1 -

Not once in my life have I ever been hugged.

This is the only thought going through my mind while I sit in a cold, dark box of a room and await my orders. At least, I can't remember a single time in my life when someone has hugged me. And if they had, then I can't remember what it felt like.

The hard metal chair creaks beneath me as I shift my weight. I hadn't been told how long I'd have to wait here in this windowless room. "The coffin," Sir calls it. But, to me, it looks more like the interior of one of those metal tins that Sir's coffee comes in.

As I sit here alone, I'm not nervous. But I am anxious. Hot adrenaline courses through me, quickening my heart rate.

It's time for me to receive my very first assignment.

The only door in or out of the room swings open. The corner of my mouth twitches, ever so slightly—a minuscule movement that almost any other person wouldn't be able to notice. But, to a highly trained individual like myself, a movement in the face like this would be a telling display of my inner thoughts.

Get a grip, I scold myself. I know better than to allow my emotions to have any hold over me. I know better than to have emotions.

I take a slow, deep breath and look up at the tall figure entering the room.

"Are you ready, Cilla?"

Dark, deep-set eyes stare down at me from beneath thick, silvery eyebrows. Every muscle in my body stands at rigid attention in the presence of the broad-shouldered, commanding man before me. 

Sir.

"Aren't you the one who decides whether I'm ready or not?" My face remains expressionless, but I allow the tiniest bit of snark to creep into my voice.

The glimmer of a smile flashes through Sir's dark eyes, but it's gone before I can even blink. This is a sort of game we often play, the closest thing to affection that my guardian and I ever exchanged. For as long as I can remember, I'd had it drilled into my skull by Sir that I must be in total and complete control of my emotions, including the way I express them. So, I developed a way to show him I was in control, but that I was still letting him know what I'm thinking through the slightest means. Through the ghost of expressions, we exchange an entire subtext amid our conversations.

Sir nods once, slowly.

"You're ready."

He sets down an inconspicuous brown folder on the table in front of me. My mouth twitches again.

I stare up at the man who made me into what I am. I know him by no other name than "Sir." That's what I've called him my entire life, even back into the farthest reaches of my memory. Do I feel an emotional connection to him, the way a "normal" teenaged girl feels connected to her father? I don't know. All I know is that he's the only other living human being I've ever had any kind of connection with. He was the person that raised me. He created me.

"Open it." He slides the folder closer to me.

"Yes, Sir."

Sixteen years. Everything in my short, strange life has been leading up to this moment—to this unassuming, brown folder.

I flip it open. There's a file inside. Pages and pages of data. At the top of the first page, a name. I read it aloud.

"Elton Harrington."

My target.