The Pentagon Paradox

Chapter One

SCARLET

"You're not really in a position of power to be threatening me, Joe," I say, taking a step forward and leveling my gun a little to the right. Perfect.

"You don't know what you are doing young lady, I am warning you; this will have immense consequences." I can't help but laugh at how strange some people can be, having a gun aimed at them and still portraying power, or trying to.

"The only consequence this will have is a bloody carpet," I nod to the carpet he's standing on. That look in his eyes—the look of a thief caught red-handed, the look of defeat, surrender.

"Goodbye, Joe," I shoot. There's no sound, thanks to my silencer, but the growing pool of blood on his white shirt tells me the bullet pierced right through his heart. He staggers backward. His hand flies to where my bullet went. His back hits the wall, and he falls slowly. I aim again, and I shoot, taking him out of his pathetic misery. Blood spatters all over the wall. A trail of blood trails down the hole in his skull. Joe Windsor, another victim of his accountability.

I sheath my gun and walk out of the office. I press my earpiece once, connecting to Grey, "Agent Azura," he says as if acknowledging me. "Mission complete," I report, pressing twice to cut the connection.

I walk through the long hallway. No staff are deployed on this floor at this time, which is a fairly stupid move.

I walk out of the office, heading to the emergency exit. I slip out the door without being seen by anyone and take the stairs two at a time for quick purposes, but I'm stopped in my tracks when I hear a door open.

I slide into the shadows, my back to the brick wall of the building, hoping my black suit does what it's supposed to do: hide me. I adjust my feet so they are aligned with the wall. When I peek down through the stairs, I see a man coming out of the emergency door right beneath me.

He looks around, checking the stairs under him, and looks up, right to where I'm standing. My hair blows in my face, cons of having short hair. I press the back of my head against the cold wall and stand still, holding my breath. Then I hear the sound of footsteps again. Phew! That was close.

I lean in to the edge to see if he's gone just in time to see a bullet hitting where my head was just a few seconds ago. Shit.

My hand instinctively goes to my gun, but I don't un-sheath it. I can't shoot him. I have orders to kill a target, not anyone else. So I un-sheath my dagger instead, and I run down the stairs with one purpose, injure and escape.

Bullets fly around me; he has a silencer, but the sound of them hitting metal rids it of its use. I take cover behind a pole a few steps above him and aim my dagger. With a flick of my wrist, the dagger flies straight to the side of his head. He dodges it, but not fast enough for it not to cut his ear.

I take his distraction as an opportunity. I un-sheath a second dagger and throw it at him. He uses the suitcase as a shield, a look of fury taking over his face.

He heaps the suitcase on the steps to his right and lunges forward, landing a punch to my jaw. Ouch. He grabs my hair hard. I punch his face, but it's of no use, so I un-sheath my third dagger of the night from my left thigh and thrash at his arm.

He lets go, the dagger slicing his arm and drawing blood. He clutches his now injured and bloody arm, screeching in pain.

I wipe my dagger on my suit and lunge again, but he's faster, landing a kick to my ribs that makes me fly back, my back hitting the stairs hard.

I'm out of breath, but it won't be long before the adrenaline wears off and I can feel the actual pain of the kick. I get up just as his hand goes for my face. I dodge it and kick his shins, throwing him off balance. I take the chance, and I push him off the railing with all my power, his imbalance acting on my side.

His eyes widen a fraction as he falls backwards, his body hurtling over the edge. He manages to grab onto the railing, his fingers clinging on for dear life.

I look at him, green eyes pierce right through my soul. For a moment, I hesitate, the agent in me urging me to finish the job, to eliminate any potential threats. But a flicker of mercy stayed my hand.

"Is that a ninja-thief move, or did you just miss the elevator?" I chuckle and turn back to my daggers, the one on the floor and the one embedded in the suitcase, and grab them, catching a glimpse of the secretary's logo on the black suitcase.

"Don't you dare," he snarls, and I frown in response. What is it with men threatening me on the brink of their deaths today?

I walk back and stand in front of him. There is blood running down his nose now, it seems like the punch did something after all.

"Oh, I dare, I just don't care. Nice swan dive by the way, they should cast you for ninja-themed ballet." I say, walking away and down the stairs. Leaving his life in his own hands. Literally.

⟺

I walk into the bathroom, lifting my shirt to see the bruises on my ribs. It's bad, really bad. It's already turning black and blue and all I did was get home and shower.

I take out the gel and some gauze from the cabinet and lay them on the sink. My phone starts ringing. Ugh, who calls a woman at two in the morning? I walk to the bedside table, it's Greyson, my boss, and my friend. I answer the call and put it on speaker walking back to the bathroom.

"Let me guess, report?" I ask, putting the phone down on the sink, popping off the gel cap. Grey hums in answer. "That's all you call about anyways," I roll my eyes, hoping it would somehow reach him.

"Invalid, I don't call at all," Grey says in his entitled voice, and I roll my eyes once again since the first one didn't seem to go all the way through.

"He's dead, but there was a minor inconvenience..." I tell him, hoping he'll erase the man from the face of the earth, or send me to do it. "A minor inconvenience?" he asks, seeming more interested in the conversation now.

"Yes, a man around six-foot with dark brown hair and green eyes in all black had Windsor's suitcase," I tell him all the information I know, "he had a gun and he seemed to be heading somewhere, he knew what he was doing. We had a small interaction, but I managed to escape without being seen."

"Suitcase? Don't worry about it, he can't do anything, even if he wanted to." he says, typing something on his laptop.

"I'm not worried," I confirm, and i really am not worried, if that man wants to tell everyone there was a scary woman carrying daggers in the secretary's building that day, he'd have to tell them he stole the suitcase. And if he did, which he won't, they would probably believe that it was him who killed the secretary. The suitcase? The gun? All of the clues trace back to him.

I wince, a groan escaping my mouth as I massage the gel into my bruised skin. "Is that what I think it is? Did a six-foot green-eyed male manhandle you, dear?" he chuckles, and I shake my head. He's seen me in worse than a rib bruise.

"I don't know, why don't you ask his body dangling from the emergency stairs?" I mock, and he goes silent for a minute, now it's my turn to chuckle.

"Unlikely. I'll see you on Tuesday, don't forget to lay low and apply the gel I gave you," he ends the call and I finish wrapping the gauze around my torso, walking to my bed and sinking into the fluffy blankets.