AGENT 23 BLACKOUT (Agent 23 Book 1)

CHAPTER 4

As Agent 24 towers over me in the darkness, the soft glow of a waning moon materializes from behind streaks of drifting clouds and frames his whisker-laden face in a swath of pale light. A buzzed cut of black hair covers his round head like a manicured lawn. His eyes look like dark orbs and his grin curls upward at the corners of his mouth, revealing the heart of an assassin who loves his work, an artist about to paint a grim portrait of two innocent people murdered in cold blood. Obviously, his admittance that he has to do what he has to do was a lie crafted to convince us he wasn't all that bad of a person, seconds before he pulls the trigger and ends our lives.

The muzzle fills my vision, an ominous hole within the circle of the gun's suppressor. My eyes grow large and cross as the barrel draws closer to the spot in the center of my forehead. If I'm going to do something, it has to be now. I can't dally and wait for the hammer to strike the back of the bullet and blast a chunk of lead through my frontal lobe and out the back of my skull, obliterating my brain into useless drivel.

I took Biology 101 as part of my advanced curriculum, and I know what the frontal lobe of my brain controls: my cognitive skills such as emotion, memory, language, and problem solving, not to mention my judgment and sexual desires. Basically, it's the primary circuit board of my brain. My personality derives from it. It's how I communicate, and it drew me to Kayla Sims. It's me, and without it, I'm nothing but a human robot living without the understanding of the world around me. Also, if a bullet blows a crater through my head, I'm dead, and Kayla would be next. I can't let that happen.

Without conscious thought, an unknown quantity of knowledge pulses through the synapses of my brain and connects with, you guessed it, my frontal lobe. My palm flies up and shoves the man's gun hand away from my forehead.

Shock races across the man's face as he realizes he took too long to decide if I was the correct target.

With my right hand clutching the bottom of his fleshy palms under the handle of the gun, my other hand crashes into Agent 24's elbow. In theory, the move should have cracked his arm and hyper-extended the joint, but the man is too strong. He braces against the upward force, stiffening his body, swinging our arms down toward the asphalt.

Kayla joins in and grabs the man's arms, trying to help me counter his overwhelming strength.

I lock his wrists and stop the gun from aiming back at my body. No matter how hard I try, I can't muster enough muscle to pry the weapon from Agent 24's grasp. I imagine his biceps are as big as my head, and with his ridged arm next to my cheek, my estimation is close to correct.

Kayla's help provides me with leverage. She doesn't shrink away from the fight and whimper next to the dumpster; she rises to the occasion.

With all three of us grimacing from the exertion, Agent 24 wrenches one of his hands free and swats Kayla aside, leaving only one hand to hold the gun. Regardless of her determination and grit, she's small compared to the man. She yelps as her body careens across the alley and slams into the building next door to the coffee shop.

She groans as I struggle with the assassin who's big enough to be a bodybuilder in his spare time.

While the hand that Agent 24 struck Kayla with continues its arc away from me, I seize the opportunity and crack my elbow into his chin. Again, he's a big man, but the countermove catches him off guard.

I smash his gun hand into my knee—twice—and send the weapon falling to the ground.

Instinctively, I kick the gun under the dumpster, removing it from the equation.

I spin like a whirlwind against Agent 24's body and back fist him in the nose. This stuns him, and he stumbles backward.

But his retreat freezes mid-stream.

His cheeks screw into an angry scowl, and he marches toward me.

He swings and I duck. With him off balance, I strike with a shot to his exposed ribcage. My knuckles sink into his side and only make him angrier. Just like he did with Kayla—who I've lost sight of—he smacks the back of his hand into my chin and launches me across the alley. I thud against the exterior wall, my breath expelled from my lungs.

I don't waste any time. I push to my elbows and knees, a sense of urgency driving me to rise. When I glance up, Kayla stands behind Agent 24. The man's attention is on the ground, searching for his gun. Apparently, he didn't see it skid across the asphalt and disappear under the dumpster. Distracted, he never sees her sneaking up behind him with a steel pipe in her hands. Where she found it, I don't know. It must've been a section of electrical conduit that someone intended to toss in the garbage container. When they missed the opening and the pipe skittered to the ground, they didn't take the time to pick it up and dispose of it.

She whips it into the back of Agent 24's skull. The impact sickens me, but it's necessary.

The man collapses face-first to the ground, writhing in pain.

Kayla offers me a hand, and we flee from the alley.

What surprises me more than Kayla's poise under pressure is Agent 24's resiliency. As we round the corner of the alley, I look back to see him rise to his feet. My last glimpse is that of the assassin turning to chase after us with a glare of retribution in his eyes.