Emerald leaned back and stretched her cramped back. She had been sitting in the same position for – she looked at the clock, five hours now, unable to look away from her computer screen as she found out more and more about the identity of the only man she had ever hesitated to kill. She was wondering if it was something planned, something in his cologne (which smelled deliciously masculine) which had messed with her mind just as her “perfume” had paralysed his. Such was not the case, she had already found that the scent she had smelled was indeed merely cologne, and as she researched into his life, she found that there was nothing indicating any special mind altering powers he could potentially possess.
His name was Andrew Brenner; he was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. His life was pretty average, both parents alive and working, no siblings, a dog – almost cookie cutter. The only thing which marked him as even slightly different from everybody else around him was his interest in the military. His parents had signed him up for various martial arts classes as a child, and he had quickly risen through the levels there. During high school he became a Cadet, and was a champion at his local paint-ball arena. He had no problem being accepted into the army, and was just about to be deported to Afghanistan, but here it seemed that USASS had gotten involved.
The records show slight alterations to Brenner’s status, as his plane ticket was never validated despite the fact that he was said to be serving in Afghanistan. Nothing was heard about him for two years, which Emerald assumed meant that he was being trained. The official records then stated that Brenner was killed in action, but Emerald found his face in the USASS databases, slightly changed and roughened up from what must have been some gruelling training, under a new name – Bart Whitman. He was one of the key researchers for USASS, as his ability to quickly synthesise material into a reasonable hypothesis that proved to be correct 99% of the time as legendary amongst his colleagues as his excellent marksmanship. His missions tended to be lengthy undercover assassinations which took months of spying, moving to different countries, and generally removing himself from the map for months at a time, a fact which it seemed that his girlfriends had not liked.
Emerald had found several moving records, all of the properties having been signed under two partners. It looked like Whitman was nice enough to leave his apartments to his ex girlfriends – what a gentleman. There was only one case where the girl had ended up dead from an “accident” – more like an accidental breach of security, Emerald thought to herself. Hunching back over to look at her screen, she once more looked at the pictures of Whitman which she had managed to find, and she still couldn’t understand what it had been about him that had made her hesitant to kill him.
He was more rugged than handsome. His nose was slightly crooked where Emerald thought that he must have probably broken it, his eyes were a light brown, and slightly sunken into his skull, and his lips were thin, seemingly pulled up in a perpetual smirk. His hair was light brown and slightly wavy, framing his face, the tips just brushing the beginning of his jaw. The official USASS records listed him as 6’4” tall and weighing at about 230lbs – Emerald’s brow furrowed, he had felt lighter. She shook her head, trying to dispel the odd feeling in her chest which seemed to appear whenever she thought about that man. It seemed that it had been his computer that she had hacked as well. She frowned. These odd feelings could be a liability. She hoped that she would never have to see this Bart Whitman again; she had a bad feeling that he could significantly complicate things for her, and unfortunately, her bad feelings were always right.
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Everything was going terribly, terribly wrong. As she ran, Emerald made a mental note to kill the little twerp that had developed the intel for her assignment, she knew she should have done it herself, but no – Grey said that it was time she let some of the smaller fish do some of the work , much good that did her. The worst part was that she could not call for any sort of backup, because not only did she not have time to stop, but she feared that the lines were being monitored with extra vigilance this evening, so she ran. What had been a standard break-in had turned into a chaotic mess.
