Rampage of Love

T: Is this Mrs.Rockwell?

I: Who the hell are you?

T: My identity isn't important. What's important is that you come home soon.

I: Who the fuck are you? Are you at my apartment?

T: Your wife is waiting for you. I suggest you hurry. Before you have no wife to return to.

*click*

The man chuckled as he put down the phone.

Isadora ripped through the streets with passion as her bike roared into the night. She drove with fury, fueled by love and anger. She had been pencil-pushing all day, filing papers, doing reports, and all kinds of other "bureaucratic bullshit" as she often called it. Even though she loathed desk work, not being on globe-trotting adventures kept her closer to her wife, Lucia. Every day she worked, going through the motions so that she could indulge in the sappy domestic life they had built for themselves. But now, as the lamp posts stretched down the road in front of her, she couldn't help but feel afraid. Lucia had been in danger before; after being a spy for so long it was a given that her personal life would be attacked. Though no one had ever gotten close enough to hold her hostage, especially not in their home. Lucia could fire a gun, Isadora made sure of that. But in a pickle, she couldn't win a real fight. If this was just someone with a personal grudge there wouldn't be many of them. But if they were serious, they might have the whole building. In any event, she needed to strike hard. No matter who it was, no matter what they wanted, she'd let no one touch her life and get away with it.

She flew through the city, the streets familiar enough for her to navigate by memory. As she arrived at her building, Isadora parked her bike across the street. She was wearing a red sweater, black sweatpants, and old dirty tennis shoes. Not standard attire for an op, though it would allow plenty of mobility.

As the engine of the bike cut off, she examined all of her gear. On her shoulder holster were two semi-automatic pistols, and on her hips were a holstered revolver and a prototype grapple gun. In her back pocket was a pocket knife, and more magazines of ammo. As she prepared herself to leave, she got off her bike and lifted its seat. In the undercarriage was a bundle of smoke grenades, all of their pins tied to each other.

"I'm coming for you baby," Isadora muttered to herself as she took the grenades. She closed the carriage, took out the ignition key, and then turned to face the building.

Their home stretched into the sky with a modern flair. Its sleek design burst with wealth and vanity. The windows shined, reflecting the lights of the city like a pillar of stars. The building was fifty stories tall. Isadora and Lucia lived on the 31st.

Peering into the lobby, she saw about twelve men, all dressed in ugly brown jackets and black t-shirts. They were all unshaven and dirty looking too as if she were to be assassinated by bums off the street rather than trained killers. They were sitting around playing cards and smoking, unaware that they were being watched from across the street.

"I wanted to be on the fifth floor, but noooo,"

"We have to be higher Isa, we have to have a good view. All the lights will look so pretty Isa," she said, mocking her wife's heavy Hispanic accent.

"Now you're gonna die and I'm gonna have to pay our high ass rent alone," Isadora said bitterly as she pulled the string. In one fluid motion, all the pins slid out of the grenades and fell to the ground with a metallic clatter. Isadora started walking toward the building, then threw the bundle through one of the plate glass windows that bordered the building lobby.

She took a deep breath in.

"No. No, she's not going to die," she told herself. As the lobby filled with smoke, she drew one of her pistols and marched in.