BRUSHES WITH FLAMES

Tick-tok. Tick-tok. Tick-tok.

The un-altering sound of the clock ticking is killing her especially with her history of impatience. She has always been able to adapt to even uneasy situations but perhaps her true personality is shining through as she bites her lip in frustration until blood appears on her teeth, the taste of iron on her tongue. Even then she wonders what she should do.

Sweat drips from her forehead as the first drop of blood falls from her lip. Huh. She didn't even notice the pain. Her lip will heal though and everything will be fine. That is, if she gets away from this hellish nightmare where her wrists and ankles are tired together separately by rope that cuts into her flesh, infecting the skin. Her face is bruised and her shoulder dislocated but else, she is fine. Her pride is wounded but like these wounds, it will heal and she'll be back to the normal adapting, feisty and mind-reading person she was before this incident.

She thinks of it as a minor fault in her planning. Getting caught. Whilst it surely wasn't anything she had planned, it doesn't ruin her final scheme at all. After this, the item she is to acquire is still in the vault and her skills aren't influenced by the physical impact on her body. She can still run and fight.

As she makes a self-prudent move – raising her chin to declare that she has not admitted defeat – she winces. It hurts, that she cannot deny. It will take some time to heal, and she has to have it reset before it starts to heal incorrectly. She has still not allowed tears to break her ice-cold exterior and though it is far from the truth, she believes herself somewhat invincible. It is like playing tag; you have to be good at running to stay alive. Else you'll get 'it' and in this world, 'it' is worse than an unintended push towards the gravel. 'It' is becoming what you're fighting.

A smile escapes her lips at the analogy. Perhaps tag is a wrong comparison. It does sound as a very disturbing version of a child's play at least.

The door to her filthy cell opens and a man comes in. He is of the common type; ugly, dark hair and dark eyes. She might have seen him before but her blurry memories (she hasn't been cataloguing them like she should have) let her down. All she sees is how he moves towards her and is hit from behind with the butt of a rifle. She doesn't even flinch as his body drops limply to the ground. Her adrenaline levels heighten as she prepare for a new enemy and her body tenses. Is this intruder a friend or a foe? She wouldn't be surprised if he is just someone in the group who wants a higher rank. These men can be quite brutal, she has learned, though they have spared her. At least this time her skin won't be marred by cuts, shrapnel and debris.

Her curiosity gets the better of her (last time it had almost cost her a finger to appear curious, flippant) and she looks up. True, the stranger wears the same filth-stained clothes as the men responsible for this diversion of her plans, but his complexion is lighter although tanned and his sea-green eyes tells her that he has not an exotic bone in his body. His hair is dark ash brown but could easily have been dyed for the purpose of conviction. His eyes flicker towards her and she finds a slight emotion of surprise in his glossy eyes. She meets his eyes with an intense and burning glare of her own, ready to fight although she is tied to the chair, if it becomes necessarily. His body relaxes as he gives her the standard look-over, identifying the old, 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'.

He rushes to her help, his senses still alert on the door he came through and the lifeless body of an Arabic-speaking interrogator (or at least she thinks he is – he could have been just a guard for all she cares. He still proposes a threat and her eyes doesn't leave the seemingly unconscious man – that he is, is a safe assumption but her training tells her otherwise).

Cleverly the unidentified man – who she by now assumes is an ally (though that doesn't mean trustworthy) – has started with her ankles and hands her a knife for the wrists. At first she frowns at this: she can easily stab him with it, so why trust her with a weapon? But then she seizes the chance for freedom and starts to cut the rope. She can hear the voices of uproar above her and wonders when armed and unfriendly company will join them. It makes her cut faster.

"How long have you been here?" the man asks. It surprises her how young he sounds and she states that it must be the filth and combat clothes that ages his appearance. The question isn't what she expected. It is calmed yet alert. He is not just a fool on a mission; he has been trained to provide shock treatment.

"A day or two," she replies, identifying his American accent that shines through in his moment of sheer panic. She smiles a tiny bit at his flabbergasted expression but quickly eyes the rifle. "Got any bullets left?"

He recovers from the surprise of her collected appearance and nods as the last rope is untied. She examines her wrists and is satisfied that they are not infected. They are red and sore from struggling but otherwise she is fine. He doesn't seem to think the same, though, and her earlier mentioned mind-reading abilities kick in. She has always had a flare for knowing what people want and expect. Right now they can't afford for her to be the damsel in distress.

"Good, 'cause we're gonna need it." She watches him load the gun in an all-too-rookie-like confidence as she jumps to her feet with her own arrogance. It may be too soon for her to use the dislocated shoulder and her face feels like it's been dragged through the landscape, but right now she's not interested in complaints or gentlemanly upbringing.

"Where are you from?" he says casually as she checks the door for people luring outside. She mumbles a slight 'clear' and moves further along. The hallway is empty and there's a ghostly abandonment over the place but her haste pace isn't affected by that, though her limp is visible to the man.

"It depends," she absentmindedly answers and her attention is elsewhere. It takes her a few seconds to realize that he is now wearing a questionable expression and his focus is not on the threat the sneaky hallways are posing.

"What about you? You surely must be with some sort of Intelligence?" she deflects, not taking her eyes of an assumed target. The shadows jump from wall to wall, keeping them alert. "Did you come alone?" she suddenly adds with no regard for the question.

"I'm with American Intelligence," he whispers. "And no, I didn't come alone," he adds, as if he reprimands her for underestimating his preliminary appearance. "Two men on the sub-level, three on the ground level – one civilian."

She rolls her eyes. Civilians. Who brings civilians onto hostile grounds?

"What's your rank and name?" she hisses through the silence and before he can answer, there's literally fire in the hallway. Bullets fill the air and they both press up against the wall, shoulder by shoulder, for cover. She feels pain shoot through her shoulder but instead of flinching, she bites her lip. Gosh, she must look like a vampire now, blood running freshly from her mouth in a crimson sauce. Yet she doesn't wipe it away with her hand, mostly because her main centre of attention is the stray bullets flying in the air between them and their enemy.

"Chris Lavell, field rating exchange officer of the DEA," he reveals as he shoots back in the direction of the hostile bullets. For a second there is no reflexion of his actions, and it is enough time for him to look at her, expecting a similar response. His sea-green eyes practically scream – and you?

"Let me tell you this, if we survive, I'll tell you. I'm with the EGIS." There, then it's said. Through her inappropriate field gear – leather stilettos strapped to her feet, gauzy leggins and a long lilac tee – and bizarre hairstyle (her dark hair had been pulled back in extreme head-aching trauma for the purpose of a unique tight horsetail, but now strands are loose from sweating, torture and her capture) – she has now revealed her identity. Lavell can easily pull records on someone who has recently joined the Egyptian General Intelligence Directorate within her characteristics. She is certain that her makeup is too faded for it to confuse Lavell of facial structures that is not hers. She is simply herself, quite filthy and smudged on the edges (though not completely unattractive in her current outfit). Lavell can think what he wants to think of her.

He widens his eyes a bit when he receives this information and his mouth opens slightly but his sentence – whatever it may be – is interrupted by bullets in need of dodging. Lavell prepares to shoot from the safe angle and she rolls her eyes, knowing that he won't hit anything if he remains against the wall. She grabs the rifle and in a swift and almost choreographed movement, she steps into the line of shooting, firing intensely with aim as she twists her body against the opposite wall. Lavell stares at her somewhat in awe, confirming her previous thoughts of him being a goddamn field rookie. Well, he is cute and he does have a field clearance of the DEA although she has no idea why an agency who specifies and deals in drugs would value a heroic wannabe-soldier be the name of Christopher (or possibly Christian) Lavell.

The silence that follows the shootings and the clicks of emptied clips is the signal. She throws the rifle at Lavell and motions for him to follow her. Injuries forgotten, she moves quickly before their enemy has any chance to reload the ammunition. She brushes against the corner, Lavell hot on her heels, and a spasm causes her to halt for a microsecond before she continues. The smoke clears, and she can make a person out of a silhouette. She doesn't have time to think, as the silhouette is in front of her – and aims a fist at said person who falls to the ground, obviously not expecting the punch of a former prisoner. Before he recovers she kicks her opponent in the gut. Although not the same affect as a combat boot would have, the stilettos do their job and the lackey groans in agony.

"Wait, wait!" Lavell gasps and then looks at the Arabic on the floor. "No, nothing, thought it was one of my guys," he excuses cheekily with an apologetic smile. She cannot help but mentally laugh at the possible scenario. Satisfied with the gut-kicked lackey, she picks up his rifle and uses the butt of it to knock him unconscious – possibly breaking his jaw, too. She doesn't waste time and starts running, soreness now getting to her.

Lavell's radio buzzes and starts to speak, "This is Delta team, All upper levels cleared, sir," a man's voice lets him know and suddenly she is aware that Chris Lavell may have more experience than she thought. He responds quickly but stays alert. Perhaps he is the one in charge of this operation.

"Lavell here, I've found one prisoner. Two men is taken out, I repeat, one female prisoner. Need for medical attention non-critical," he reports through his radio. A reply makes its way through but she concentrates on her former mission: opening the vault above her. She has schematics printed on the inside of her skull so she is well-aware what is the exact location of the titanium vault. But how will she lose Lavell?

One answer is the only thing that makes it through her mind and she sighs internally. Her sex is why she is usually chosen for missions. People usually underestimate a female opponent and always expect someone male. It throws them off. So she has to use her body for certain.. persuasion.

"Chris," she calls and stops. "I have to go get something."

Her voice has changed from purely professional towards relaxed and makes her bodily appearance more prominent. It's difficult when she's covered in filth, sweat and blood, but she hopes – God, she hopes – that Lavell will be able to see her for what she is: woman. Her olive skin is not as filthy as his and her hair curls up to where it reaches her shoulders. Her kissable lips – what she's been told although they are slim and not considered full – are dry with blood and her dark eyes can convince him. Except he's trained.

"What for?"

"Some of my equipment. You said there weren't any more hostiles," she insists.

He furrows a brow at this. "No, I didn't. They said they had encountered five assailants. We don't know how many there's down here!" Lavell hisses.

"There was seven," she informs him quietly with a calm voice. Before he can ask how she came of this knowledge, she interjects. "Five up-there, two down-here. Do the math – we're safe. Let me get my equipment so we can leave!"

He hesitates but nods reluctantly. She realizes she still has his knife and offers him it back. He shrugs it off, gesturing that she might need it. She grimaces but smiles at his prudence. The knife feels great in her hand and the blade is clean, unlike any of them. It is not too heavy but its handle is smooth. It is approximately four inches long and made of steel. It could easily penetrate a lung and definitely cause major damage. It scares her to know that one move from her can be considered lethal. As in, ending someone's life. It also comforts her.

"I'll be back in three minutes," she promises and doesn't waste time on waiting for his reply but instead knowingly passes through the hallway, up the stairs and directly into the vault chamber in a hidden room.

Like a different era, she steps into the room with caution. The information on revealing the secret passageway the EGIS got from a lowlife on the street with ties to someone in the organization. There is a 70 per cent chance that it is wrong but luckily for her, the slight press onto the lower part of the door reveals the chamber. The chamber where the vault is located directly on the opposite wall of the door, in all its titanium strength. It is designed simply but it has state-of-the-art security. The panel pops up as soon as she enters the chamber and by heart she types the codes – 6678.433117-09502 – and confidently pushes ENTER. After a moment where doubt consumes her, the vault opens in an eerie silence and it is like uncovering an ancient secret.

The vault is perhaps larger than the chamber itself, and prized artifacts are located around on the shelves. She is only interested in what she came for – the scrolls.

She seizes the opportunity to look around as she stashes the scrolls in the backpack she left here when she was caught; on them are information the EGIS needs. She grabs the laptop that is situated next to the scrolls – probably for translation – and drops it in the backpack. By heart she knows that their values, diamonds, are in small velvet bags beneath the shelve of a great vase. She takes almost every little velvet bag and secures her foundings in the backpack, swinging it over her shoulder in a swift motion and she hurries out, doing the security notions backwards. When Lavell's team finds the chamber, they won't see anything missing. That is, if they are here to find the chamber or even examine the property.

She is just closing the secret passageway as she hears shouts in a foreign language she cannot identify; she can only rule out Yiddish, English, Hebrew, Arabic and German. A shot is fired and all her senses alerted. She finds the knife – perhaps dagger is an appropriate term – and storms to where she left Lavell. The sight is troubling.

Blood is staining Chris Lavell's arm – the one he uses for shooting she notices – and he is trying unsuccessfully to put pressure. He meets her eyes with a stint of panic in the sea-green orbs and she acts fast. Throwing the knife with perhaps not the greatest aim in the world proves successful when she hears the drop of a body dumping to the ground. Whether or not the stab wound was lethal, she is unaware. The shooting has stopped, is all she thinks about as she kneels down and tearing off a strip of her tee, she secures the arm and puts pressure on it. He is in chock, from what she gathers, and doesn't say anything. The sound of his radio scratching cuts the silence or panicky breathing and adrenaline burning.

"Lavell, do you copy?... Lavell, DO YOU COPY?"

She takes the radio in her hand, familiar with the model and says: "Whoever you are, Levell is down, I repeat, he has been shot. I am the female prisoner and I pose no threat. We need medical attention for Agent Lavell! Roger?"

Seconds pass and she imagines how the team leader grimaces by her stern voice and professional verbal use. Nevertheless, his surprised grimace passes and he reports: "Female prisoner, what's your status? I am sending my men down. Where are you?"

She looks around. The stairs are to the left and she knows their exact locations. She informs the Delta Team Leader about it and continues to put pressure on Lavell's arm. He bites his lip in a suppressed groan and she smiles genuinely for his sake. He still thinks I'm worth being macho over, goes through her head and they exchange a moment of silence and understanding. Her dark, dark eyes – almost black irises – meet his sea-green orbs of sincerity. She compares Lavell to a puppy because he looks at her as if she was something unique when frankly, she is just a prisoner who happened to be there when he came down in the basement. That is what makes her smile. The oddity of the situation. Two strangers.

Because it is not a cruel smile but one of relief and hope. Hope that they will have other memories. Memories of recovery and she knows that she will first sigh of relief when he is discharged from the hospital and well. Then she can go on and never see him again. She doesn't like funerals after all – who does? – and she is not a team player.

But I'd like to be, she wishes as Delta Team Leader comes to their help. He stares at her, obviously she is not what he expected, and nods understandingly. When Chris Lavell is put on a gurney, he motions for her to join him in the ambulance because she, too, needs medical attention, and more importantly, somebody has to debrief her.


Reviews are desired! Especially because they guilt me and make me writer more faster :)