Till Deceived Do We Part

“Shh.” I complied, my mind reeling. Flint? That was, Flint’s voice, right? I didn’t have time to think about it, for footsteps sounded fast, coming hard in our direction. I felt Flint’s grip tighten, and I allowed it. I even managed to ignore the fact I was practically sitting in Flint’s lap in a... hole?

It was a hole. With a hidden entrance, and dirt all around. It was wet and muddy now, and I’m sure if I could actually see what was around me, I’d find a lot of bugs nests and some unpleasant items. Currently, I was just glad that the men above couldn’t see us.

Me and Flint both held completely still as the footsteps came closer, and closer...

They thundered above and... kept going. Once they were far enough away and I could breath without worrying about them finding us, I flicked open my phone’s light and looked at Flint. Really looked at him,

His left eyes was practically swollen shut, turning a dark blue already. His lips were split in multiple areas, and bruises were already forming on his cheeks. A new scar was puckering at his collar bone, and his shirt was shredded with what looked like knife marks. Many of them also dug into his chest, but not hard enough to leave scars. I could tell that already. Two of his fingers were bent funny, and he had blood and mud all over him. His hair was flat to his head, soaked through, and his opened eye showed exhaustion. And relief.

“You look like shit.” I said, albeit quietly. I didn’t care if they didn’t sound like they were near. I wasn’t taking chances.

“Like looking in a mirror, eh?” I glared at him for that, but didn’t respond. My ears strained, listening for something. Anything.

“They’re going to tear this place up.”

“Yeah.”

“They won’t leave until they find us.”

“Yeah.” I paused, eyeing him. Noticing the glint in his eyes, the way his lips were quirked upwards slightly.

“And you have a plan.”

“Yeah.”

“Which is?” He smiled.

“They’re playing dirty. We’ll play back.”

“How so?” I smiled, liking the plan already.

“You have a phone, don’t you? And police should be at the house you exploded, right?”

“It was an accident.”

“Most accidents consist of spilling a drink on someone else. Not blowing a house
a couple hundred feet in the air.” I smiled.

“Typical life of an assassin.” And amazingly, that had to be one of the first times I made Flint laugh, without causing myself physical harm.

Flint called the police. Low blow, but it worked. While the police detained the men, who were not at all thrilled at having the police show up, we slipped by them. Easier than it sounded, for once. Thankfully.

The rain had died down a bit, only for the wind to pick up. It whipped by us both, sending my hair flying, and Flint’s torn up shirt flapping. We didn’t bother trying to get to my car. With the police, and the speed I had been driving, it would be useless. Instead, we left through the side of the forest, which led to a side road.

The once dirt road was now covered in mud, making each step a struggle to stay standing. Neither of us spoke, not even when I landed on my ass, or when Flint landed on us knees. We remained silent, trying to put as much space between us and Dalton’s men, as quick as possible. Sure, running would be faster, would be better, but walking was something we were both struggling with. With my injuries, and now his own, we were both a couple of gimps.

I was guessing I had a couple of either cracked, or badly bruised ribs, to show from the explosion. Also, a loss of hair. I’m sure the heat singed some off. Flint had many superficial injuries, but also two broken fingers, and maybe a broken toe or two judging by the way he was walking.

“So.” I finally said. “Why were you out here?” He glanced at me with one eye, the other one completely swollen shut now.

“Issaiah’s hit wasn’t far from here.” I should have known that.

“How did you end up here?” So he explained it.

Issaiah had wanted a rapist drug dealer dead. No argument there, he deserved to die. He had raped three women, killed two, and savagely beaten another four. He dealt to minors, along with little kids. He’d give them free hits to start off, and once they were addicted, would make them pay. He was as low as scum could be, so Flint took pleasure in killing him. Especially with the fact he dealt to kids, for Flint could feel for the parents. He was going to be one soon, anyways, so the kill brought rage out in him.

After killing him, not quickly, Flint took off. Only to see two men poking around the house that was now blown up. That had been their next target, their next explosion to have caught on camera. Flint interrupted. Only, there were more men inside, instead of just the two. He got in over his head, and hit the emergency button, also known as the base 911 button, on his phone.

The dead man in the pantry had caught him in the act, and grabbed the cell. They had begun to beat him, but Flint managed to get the upper hand. He didn’t go into details, only said indoors, their skills for keeping prey sucked. If he knew they were trained for outdoors, he never would have ran into the forest. As it was, he did. Two caught up with him again, which was how he got the broken fingers. He got away, but by that time, he had been spotted.

He hadn’t known I had showed up until he heard that commander one was down. He had been hiding at that point, and overheard the conversation. He figured, and hoped, that it was me. As it was, he was relieved. The first time he had ever been relieved to see me.

Jake picked up on the first ring, his voice ringing frantically through the receiver. Most frantic voices are high pitched, nervous and very fast. Jake’s was deep, slow, but repetitive. He also asks a lot of questions when he’s frantic, or so I’ve noticed.

“Why-?” he started, but I cut him.

“Can you send a car to pick us up? To the GPS signal, because I have no clue where the hell we are.” Flint snorted, but remained quiet.

“Us?”

“Flint’s alive, but he lost an arm.” Silence, in which Flint stopped walking and stared at me, his eyes narrowed, but his eyebrow raised. I smiled. I was alive, Flint was alive, and we had Zane’s whereabouts. All was good, so why wasn’t I allowed to toy with Jake?

“Did you bind it properly?” I smiled. Jake’s voice was tight, trying not to sound un-composed.

“No. I’m letting him bleed as we walk. The red adds colour to the boring muddy roads, it livens things up, ya’ know?” Silence again.

“Drake.” Was all he said and I laughed, tossing the phone to Flint. He caught it with a glare to myself, before continuing on. I followed.

“Jake, don’t watch the news. That car also sounds real nice, I’d rather not have to endure Drake any longer. As it is, my sanity is barely hanging on.” I shoved him, he laughed, and all was well. For the moment, anyways. And that’s all that mattered.

I jumped out of the car, onto the base’s grass. Flint followed, more slowly. He was hurting. As was I, but if I had to endure the sexist looks from the driver one second longer, I’d lose it.

Jake was on the front porch, a smile on his face. It really did make him look better, more alive, younger. A part of me sighed in relief, seeing that he was alright. For if he was alright, surely I was, right? If the great Jake could endure almost losing his second in command, I could survive temporarily losing my brother, right? Right?

“Flint. Call Cindy.” Cindy was the girl Flint knocked up. She was twenty and in training, barely up to level three hits. There were twelve levels, in our base anyways. Ones were the simple ones. As simple as walking. They gradually increased, if barely, up until five. Five switched from easy to hard. Four was the medium level. Five separated the pro’s from the men who just knew how to pull the trigger. Six and seven were just gradual increase, whereas eight and nine were hard. Any men who could pull eight’s and nine’s, were the assassins just below the top’s, and in consideration for being a top. Sadly, there were never many of them. Usually a top ended up pulling an eight or nine.

To become a top, you have to be able to pull a ten. A ten is a hit that requires all skills and the ability to think fast and on your feet. It puts you in deadly situations all the time, and ten’s are usually the hit most top’s die on. Eleven’s and twelves were always done with a partner. Always. No exception. According to Jake, the numbers do go up, but not in our base. You would need at least twelve tops for some of the higher hits, according to Jake. And our base didn’t have that man power, or that much skill. The bigger base’s did. So we left the higher hits to them.

“The meeting?” I asked, walking past Jake and through the door he held for me. He followed my heels.

“Took place. I’ll fill both of you in later. Now, go to your room and research the papers I left on your bed.” I obliged.