Till Deceived Do We Part

Dalton had wanted me from the start. Lincoln hadn’t. They both agreed to burn Jake’s life to the ground, but they argued on who to attack individually. Lincoln figured that I would be too easy to break and would be no fun. He wanted Flint. He figured that taking down the second in command would send Jake spiralling . Dalton disagreed. He said that if they took out me, they’d need Zane to do so. That would take out two tops, sending Jake spiralling. Dalton had been right. If they would have snatched Flint, while Jake would have been upset, it wouldn’t have been worse than when they took Zane. I would have been able to think with a clear head, for I had no deep emotional attachment to Flint. Zane would also aid me, and we’d both be able to find Flint. Instead, with Dalton’s plan, they took the peacemaker; Zane. Me and Flint don’t work well together, and that had hindered us greatly.

Dalton had no thoughts about killing me though. They had lost my brother already, and myself once, he wasn’t about to do that again. He wanted me. On his team. The idea was ludicrous, but what did I expect from him? Also, according to Zane, the bombings were to take out people, but that wasn’t the main goal. Dalton wanted to cause panic, so he could devise a new plan. He managed to take out the people, but not succeed in the other goal. Why? Because we didn’t care anymore. While we usually monitor all the people threats take out, Jake had his eyes set on Zane. He didn’t care if people living in the world died, as long as they weren’t under his roof.

I drifted to sleep after Zane filled me in. I’m not sure how long I was asleep, but when I did wake up, it was due to Zane shaking me. Not too gently, either. He was hissing words in my ear, his voice hushed. My mind took a moment to click into assassin mode.

Hushed voices. Sounds in the distant. A high pitch in Zane’s voice, indicating fear. He wasn’t being gentle with me while I was injured. Men were coming. For me.

“Slow down,” I finally whispered.

“They can’t kill you. Get out.”

“Like they’d give me an opportunity.” Zane stared at me, and I realized what he was saying before he said it. I was shaking my head immediately.

“They’ll give you plenty of time. They don’t expect you to leave me.”

“I won’t leave you! They’ll ki-“

”I don’t care, Drake! One of us has to survive, and you-“

”Shut up, Zane! Just shut up!” He looked away, his jaw set and his one opened eye narrowed. I took a deep breath.

“Listen, Drake,” he murmured, trying the calm approach. “The base hasn’t managed to find me in all of this time. I have faith, but not that much faith. They’re not going to find us.” That struck my memory, and I smiled. I glanced briefly at the outside of my cell, straining to hear the sounds. Footsteps, close, but still too far away to see us.

“Hold onto this,” I whispered, digging into my sock. For a painfully long second, I thought it wasn’t there, but I found the small metal device on the bottom of my sock. I pressed it into Zane’s hand, ignoring his penetrating look. “Hide it.” He did.

“Is that what I think it is?” I nodded, and he smiled at me. “Alright. New tactic since you’re stubborn. Stall them. Talk to him. Don’t lose your cool, Drake. It’s been approximately seven hours since they first tossed you in. If there’s going to be backup coming, it’ll be soon.” I nodded, my eyes drifting to the approaching footsteps. “There’s two of them. The one with the scar on his face? Has a bummed left knee. A swift kick will take him out. He hides his limp well, but it’s there. The other guy? The one who looks like he has something foul under his nose? He’s a good fighter, but has crappy peripherals. He can only see straight on.”

I nodded, ignoring the fact the only way Zane could know all of this about them, was if he spent a lot of time with them. And the only men he’s spent a lot of time with, were the men who tortured him. Time for revenge would be later.

I spared Zane one last glance, taking in his fear filled eyes and pained posture, before pushing him from my mind. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and got in the zone. Zane was on the sidelines. No cause to worry about him. Injuries? They were just a small problem in the equation, easily enough to be ignored. I’d just fight one-handed, every other part of my body still worked, albeit painfully. Dalton was not the man who murdered my parents and tortured Zane. He was the man who needed to die with witnesses. Plan? Stall until said witnesses got here. Tactic to stall? Play on his need for me and to be in control. Backup plan? Kill his men and threaten him. Likely to succeed? Twenty-five percent. Twenty-five percent I could work with.

“If it isn’t the little pup? Looks like he found himself a bitch.” I opened my eyes slowly, to not seem anxious, while deep down I was dying to shove his tongue down his throat.

The man who uttered the words was taller than myself and Zane. Obviously hired for muscles. He held the scar on his face that Zane mentioned. It was across his right cheek, in a zigzag fashion. His skin was ruff with stubble, and his jaw held an angle that looked very definite. His eyes were cold and emotionless; soulless. However, behind that mask was an ego. A very large ego inspired by the helplessness of others. His head was shaved in a buzz cut, as was the other man’s. He had bulging muscles, and wore the traditional, and cliched, black outfit. Who was I to argue? I wore the same thing too many times to count. If I hadn’t known about the bummed knee, I wouldn’t have noticed. He stood almost with an equal distribution, the small weight difference in them so slight I had to re-check my calculation.

The man beside him was even taller, with a set face stricter than the Scar Man. He would be harder to taunt. He held the same emotionless look, the same soulless gaze, only he didn’t have an underlaying ego. He didn’t see the point of ego. Or the point in competition. Competition to him was a humane trait, something he lacked. He also was bulging with muscles, and seemed to have no physical weaknesses. I was thankful for the knowledge of lack of peripherals, for I could see myself losing a fight to this guy.

I know I’m good. I won’t even lie about that, but I’m small. And female. While that is sexist to say that I can’t hold my own, it is partially true. I can hold my own, as long as I’m in my game and not pinned. When I’m pinned, I’m basically screwed. I don’t have the weight to undo the pin, and only in rare cases, Lincoln’s for one, can I actually get out of it. So the solution? Don’t get pinned. But I was beaten and had a broken arm. That sounded harder than it should have.

“Jealous? That I don’t need to force women in my presence?” Zane’s voice held a lilt of amusement, meant to taunt the Scar Man. Despite the injuries, and the emotions he had only just showed, he was emotionless now. Not in pain. Not scared or worried. He was the typical assassin facing down an opponent.

“Really?” The Scar Man sneered, pulling out a set of keys. His eyes were locked onto Zane, paying the blonde female, a.k.a me, no attention. Good. “Seems she’s surrounded by bars. If there were rats down here she’d befriend them first.” He turned to me, his lips pulling up into an ugly attempt of a smile. For a moment all I saw was red and Zane’s torturer. I got the emotions in check quickly. “Want a real man, baby?” I locked eyes with him. That’s all it took.

He paled, his fingers dropping the keys as he gaped like a fish out of water. Mr. Peripheral, as I named him due to his composure, actually chuckled at this, the only sign of a shred of humanity on him. He picked up the keys, elbowed Scar Man aside and unlocked the cell. I remained sitting. My fight lay with Dalton, not these two. Scar Man quickly composed himself and set his face in a scowl, stalking up to me.

“Think you’re tough? Lying in a cell? Beaten up?” He grabbed the front of my shirt and yanked me to my feet, making my body scream in protest. I ignored it. It was only then that I realized my kevlar vest was gone, and that I’d probably been searched. No doubt my daggers and guns were gone. I was just thankful that Zane held the GPS now.

I allowed him to slam me against the brick wall and allowed his disgusting face to come close to mine, but I didn’t allow him satisfaction. He got off with other people’s pain. He liked being in charge. I gave him none. Just stared at him blankly the entire time, which acted as fuel to his anger. He cursed at me, and tossed me to the ground. It hurt, but what hurt more was the emotions running through Zane, the control he was trying to keep. He didn’t like seeing me take a beating. I guess that made two of us.

“Enough.” Said Mr. Peripheral as Scar Man went to kick me. “Dalton wished to speak to her. Not perform an autopsy on her.” His voice was cool and sufficient, as I figured it would be.

He pulled me to my feet, taking a place behind me with both of his hands on my shoulder blades. Agony raced down my side from my arm, but I clenched my teeth and bared it. I didn’t have a choice this time. If I showed weakness, I would end up dead. I had no doubt about it. Dalton wanted a strong assassin, not a weak one who rolls over at the first inclination of pain.

Zane watched me go. I didn’t look back, I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving him behind again. So I didn’t think about it, I just stayed in assassin mode.

“Don’t worry, pup, we’ll be back later.” Scar Man taunted, slamming my cell shut behind me.

They first took me up a set of bloody stairs, away from the cells. More were occupied, but I couldn’t afford to know by whom. I had my mission. I didn’t need, or want more details on what they’ve been doing to others. That would come after, and there was going to be an after.

They unlocked the door above the stairs, and pushed me through. Warm ait hit me, and despite the urge to get back to Zane, I found myself anticipating Dalton’s death. For he would die today. I was sure of that.

The floor was marble, wherever we were, and the walls were a pale pink. Manly, in my opinion. They led me down one of the hallways, not giving me enough time to observe anything else. That was probably the point. We passed doors on doors, all closed and plain looking. Even the walls were boring. There were endless hallways, yet none of the halls held one picture, one hint of what the occupants of this place was like.

We turned multiple times. Left, right, left, left, left, right. I kept it mentally stored for later, for when I went back for Zane. The hallway began to widen, the walls spreading farther across and making the hallway bigger and bigger. It opened up to a small waiting room, benches and chairs scattering the sides of the wall. In the centre of the wall was a double door, guarded by two men and locked with a number padlock.

We headed toward it, earning the men to type in the code. I watched, but only caught the first number being a seven, the last two being a three and a five. I missed the other six numbers. The guards, also dressed the same and relatively the same in appearance, opened the door, watching me very inattentively.

I’m not sure what I expected when we walked in, but it wasn’t this. The room was round, similar to that of a Colosseum. Pillars formed a circle around the centre of the room, holding up what appeared to be a higher balcony. Guards surrounded the base of every wall, two positioned for the stairs to the balcony. In the centre of the room stood a man, admiring what looked like a painting that another man was holding. There were a few exchanged words, in which I gathered anger from the one holding the work. I was kept back as they argued.

The man I was assuming was Dalton, smiled at whom I presumed to be the artist, nodded and reached in his pocket. The artist must have assumed it was money, from the happy look on his face. It wasn’t, I could tell that much from far away. It happened quickly. Dalton pulled out the gun, shot the man point black, then re-pocketed the gun. He waved at a guard who took the painting, and turned. That was when I got my first true look at Dalton.

Unlike Lincoln, he did not look like a business man. He looked like a model. Square shoulders, flat stomach, muscular arms, round large eyes, pouty lips, a defined jaw and a very good posture. He didn’t look his age. I put that on the factor of plastic surgery. So Dalton was a fanatic about his looks? Never expected that.

He smiled when he saw me, his lips pulling upward to show off a perfect pair of dimples, and a perfect set of teeth. He indicated for Scar Man and Mr. Peripheral to bring me forward. They did so before backing off. They stood behind me. Far enough that I had room, not far enough that they couldn’t catch me if I made a run for it. But why would I? I was in a circular room with at least twelve guards, not including Scar Man and Mr. Peripheral or Dalton. I also assumed there were guards on the balcony, but there was no way to be sure unless I ran up there. Something I wasn’t about to do.

“Andrayka! How nice of you to join us.” I didn’t respond as Dalton walked toward me, smiling widely the whole time, as if there was nothing wrong with this situation. His eyes glanced at my arm and injuries before he tsk’d. “Would you like a doctor, Andrayka? It can easily be arranged. That looks utterly painful.” I remained silent again. He was trying to bait me, trying to get me to accept a favour and put me in his hands. I wouldn’t allow that. I would take the silent approach as far as it could, but in the end I knew I would have to talk to him.

“Well then. Let’s get down to business, shall we?” He waved his hand, and almost immediately two guards appeared with regular dining room chairs. He sat in one, and waved at me to do the same. I did, but lingered enough to be rude. “I apologize for the misunderstanding about your colleague and the unfortunate events that have occurred.” Bottle the anger. Stall him.

“You’re sorry?”

“Of course.” He said, almost tripping over his words to answer the first two I spoke.

“When one is sorry, it means they regret and repent what they have done. It means they wish to set everything right. If your apology is sincere, you’ll release Zane. Alive. Now.” Dalton studied me, his eyes drilling into mine. That’s how I saw the real him. Cold. Callous. Egotistical. Superficial. He liked to be in charge yet appear to be the charitable one. The artist lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood and brain matter showed how his charity actions tended to turn out.

“I’m afraid we both know I can’t do that. How else will I encourage you to listen?”

“Torture, perhaps? You seem to have the equipment.” He leaned forward, his eyes seeming to glisten. He was enjoying this.

“That I do. I have big dreams for you, Andrayka, and we both know torture will be lost on you.”

“You still want me, even after I killed Lincoln?” I asked, leaning forward, keeping my bad arm as still as possible. “Even after I killed your partner? The man who was going to rule with you?” All I got was a slight twitch from his eye, but it was enough.

“It is a shame that Lincoln had to die for us to begin our partnership, but everything happens for a reason, does it not?” Dalton leaned forward, his knees wide open, his hands clamped together and his eyes glistening. He really was insane. I could tell that much from his eyes, from the way he talked about his dreams and ambitions. They were ludicrous, insane, idiotic. Yet he still believed them.

“We will never have a partnership, Dalton.” He didn’t even flinch. He smiled, showing his pearly whites off, and stood. I remained seated. I wouldn’t let him know I was on edge. I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction, or the one that inside, a part of me was afraid. Not for my own well being, no, but for Zane’s. My life held his. Was I willing to sacrifice my own free will to let him live? Was I willing to do whatever Dalton said, even after he murdered my parents? Could I do that, even if it meant Zane could live?

I would be a fool to think that Zane would ever be free. He’d be held over my head for the rest of my life, if I ever agreed to Dalton’s wishes. He’d remain a captive for life, something I knew he would hate. I would rather die than have myself in that situation, but somehow, if I let him die, knowing he wanted it, I doubted that would resolve my guilt. The fact I let him die would always haunt me. So the simplest solution would be to keep him alive. And not in captivity, if possible.

Dalton circled the chair I was sitting in a couple times before deciding to stand behind me, resting his hands on the back of the chair. He leant his head down my ear, his posture casual. I had to fight to remain composed, having him so close.

“I disagree, Andrayka. We’re both smart here, aren’t we? We both wish for the best, don’t we? So therefore, we’d make excellent partners. Don’t you agree?” It was his last statement that got me. It was said with venom, with an undercurrent of hate and anger. His hands moved from the back of my chair to my shoulders. Disgust rolled through me, soon washed away by pain. He squeezed painfully tight, his head remaining by my ear.

“We both know your consent doesn’t matter here, don’t we? So let’s skip the pleasantries and get down to it. You’re mine now. You work for me, you serve me. You do everything I say. If not? Well, Zane has many limbs he won’t be using as he rots in that cell, don’t you agree? Good!” He clapped me on the shoulder, backing off. “First thing’s fir-“

There was nothing I could do without repercussions. So what was the point of doing anything he said? Of obeying him? Me and Zane were both screwed anyways, so that led me to the fact at hand; die trying. I was going to show Dalton here and now that I wouldn’t obey. He would never get me, even with the threat of Zane’s life hanging in the air. So he would have to dispose of me, and while I wasn’t ready to die, I was ready to accept it. I would accept that over Zane rotting and myself being a slave. Both myself and Zane were fighters. Being cooped up in captivity and having our free will sucked out of us was a worse death than either of us could imagine. So I was going to make sure we went out in style. If the backup arrived in time, hooray for that. If not? Better than the alternative.

I stood, hooked my hand on the chair, and spun, whipping the chair up in the process. My bad arm stung from the movement, but the pain was nothing more than a buzz. My mind exploded in a wave of thrill as the chair connected with Dalton’s chest, sending him reeling and wood flying. I pounced, dropping what was left of the broken chair in the process. Dalton scrambled, but not fast enough.

My knees struck him in the chest as we both went down. In the end, I think it hurt me more than him, but the satisfaction of seeing the shock on his perfect face made it worth while. My fist had barely grazed his face, barely marring that shocked expression, when I was pulled off and tossed carelessly.

I didn’t hold in the gasp of pain as I scrambled to my feet, my body sliding to a stop. Scar Man stared at me, his eyes twinkling in excitement, his fists twitching. Mr. Peripheral stood over Dalton, murmuring words as Dalton struggled to his feet, refusing help.

I scanned the area. Armed guards everywhere. No exit. An angry leader, a beaten up assassin, and no escape paths. This was bound to be interesting.