Renegade (h.s.)

Mission: Lay Low

V:

TW: brief mention of gun violence

In the heart of the city there is a tiny, abandoned church lined with slate-colored deteriorating brick and stained-glass windows that reflect a kaleidoscope of light on the barren pews that line the inside.

The no trespassing signs posted on the doors, white walls bathed in graffiti, hardwood floors rotting and dusty, and angled ceilings filled with cobwebs make the old building appear as if no life has stepped foot inside since it was erected.

It looks as if God herself vacated the building long ago.

But, it's what's hidden beneath the holy land that pulses with life.

Angel's birthplace.

Not where my mother gave birth to me, but where —much later— I was reborn.

Down there is where I spent my youth. Where I trained in combat and weaponry, where I learned how to use my body and my mind, where I became poison-resistant... where I was molded into a weapon.

The haunting memories from those years spent in captivity —hidden from the outside world and almost entirely isolated— make me avoid this place like I do most churches. Even just hearing the creaky floors and smelling the decay make my screams echo in my ears and bones ache with ancient pain.

But, today I find myself looking up at the rusted cross that now hangs upside down atop the apex of the outside of the church like an ominous warning.

A sharp gust of wind has it swinging precariously to one side with a loud creak and I briefly wonder how much it would hurt if it fell on top of me... if it would kill me. A sardonic smile curls up my red lips at the thought of a cross being the thing to finally take me out.

How fitting.

I do a quick sweep of the neighborhood to check for any red flags or inconsistencies, but not much has changed in the last decade... this area chosen for a reason.

Even though this entrance to Headquarters is rarely used, the company would never risk someone getting caught walking inside the condemned church and bringing attention to the forgotten building.

One red-light camera at the intersection facing the back of the church that hasn't worked in years. One easily avoidable CCTV camera at the bodega across the street that only captures the front entrance of the building.

There aren't many civilians on the street as the as the sun moves westward, but I'll have to be careful when I leave because New York comes alive after the sun has made her final descent.

Carefully, and as casually as possible, I open iron-wrought gate at the back of the church's overgrown garden and wince when it lets out a loud shriek.

That's a new one. I'll have to alert the boss about the rusty hinges.

I walk on my toes so that my heels don't clack against the cobblestone path, grabbing the key from a hidden pocket inside my striped blazer as I approach the heavy wooden door. The click of the lock sliding outing of place is thankfully covered by the blare of a horn from down the block.

Slipping through the cracked door fast, I grip the handle of the gun tucked into my skirt as I take stock of my surroundings through the office and into the chapel. I'm generally opposed to using guns —preferring knives or hand-to-hand combat— but, every now and then some freaky teenagers decide to defile a pew or some squatters will post up in the office and I have to pretend to be an undercover cop to get them to leave without raising suspicions.