What happened to my perfect day?

Morgen cowered back against the TV set, asking herself that question over and over as three men in black towered over her. She wished she was taller so she could look them in the eye and not seem so helpless.

For the second time that night, her apartment door was kicked open. Morgen turned her head slightly to see another tall man stride into her tiny home. He surveyed the room as though he owned it, which made Morgen's blood boil.

This had been the perfect day, she thought again. First there had been the lovely thunderstorm to wake up to; then, there was the thick mystery novel she had never read at the library that she checked out, took home, and was halfway through by the evening. The only thing that had dulled her bright day was that little trip and the news it brought, but she had determined nothing would spoil her good mood.

Well, the idiot smiling down on me may change that.

"Morgen, dear," he purred. "I'm so glad I found you at home. You are so difficult to find these days, especially since you failed to leave your next address with our boss."

Morgen attempted to straighten herself, partially to ease the pain on her spine, partially to convey to the intruders that she could not be pushed around.

"What do you want, Cofsky?" she demanded. "I left you and your boss with instructions to never bother me again. I did what he wanted me to do, and he was supposed to leave me alone!"

"Hm. Yes, I guess that was the deal. Too bad it expired."

Morgen started forward, but the meaty hand of a goon shoved her away. Her neck snapped back as she hit the TV once more.

"Now, now, is that any way to treat my favorite spy?"

Morgen's stomach sank to her toes as the last person she wished to see came in behind Cofsky.

Damien Moreau glided in, smooth as a cat, if cats dressed in long black coats and shiny shoes. He cast his black eyes over Morgen's figure and smiled. Morgen wondered how someone so cold hearted could have such a warm smile.

"Morgen. How nice to see you again. Has Cofsky informed you on our little predicament?"

"I believe he was just getting to that." Morgen glared at both men, wary of the three hunks of muscle still leering at her.

"How much do you know about Nathan Ford?"

Morgen's mind raced. Nathan Ford. Head of the phony consulting company, Leverage. Put Moreau in prison in San Lorenzo last year.

She shrugged. "I know a great deal about everybody."

"I need you to get rid of him and his little team." He drew out the last word disgustedly. "He has been a thorn in my side for too long."

Morgen shook her head. She rose, brushed by the men, and entered her kitchenette.

"I told you this two months ago, Damien. I am through working for you. You let me go and promised to let me be." She pulled a jar of Nutella out of the pantry and dug into the chocolaty gooiness with a large spoon.

Moreau merely snorted. "I think you will find it will not be so easy to escape me, Morgen."

Morgen studied him though half-closed eyes, the spoon halfway to her mouth. "I can still kill your three henchmen and disarm your lackey, you know. You don't scare me."

Moreau came close to Morgen and leaned forward. "How is your brother doing these days?" he asked in her ear. "I haven't seen him much lately."

Morgen shut her eyes and pressed her lips together. "You wouldn't," she whispered.

"You will do this for me, sweet Morgen, or you will have the pleasure of knowing you brought about your brother's downfall. And if that fails to motivate you sufficiently," she heard a sneer creep into his voice, "I have other means. I know about your little trip today."

Morgen's fingers curled around the handle of the spoon in a stranglehold.

Moreau drew himself up and stepped back. "Bring me Ford and his team. I prefer them to be alive, but if you must kill them yourself, have at it."

"How soon do you want them?"

"Oh, a deadline isn't important at this point. I know you like working at a more leisurely pace." He grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Just don't disappoint me."

Morgen waited until the last footsteps of Moreau and his men had died away before she moved. The Nutella had lost its appeal. She stuck the spoon back in the container and leaned against the kitchen counter.

Screw my day, what happened to my life?