Chapter One - An Artist

Frank put his hands on his knees, kneeling over to catch his breath. Moving his hazel eyes from side to side, always alert, his black attire stood out like a sore thumb against the whiteness of the stone wall behind him. Looking back the way he came, the only break in the white of the wall came from the spots of blood that had been splattered up against it. Frank laughed inside. He was an artist. If the dead guards on the floor could speak, they would have agreed. The style that Frank had used to terminate them had been beautiful. He looked up, the mental clock in his head telling him he had to go now. His protégés trick with the security cameras wouldn't last forever, and when they knew he was there, all hell would break loose.

Frank moved quickly, but silently down the hallway. Pistol in his right hand, blade in his left, his body and mind one cohesive unit, aware of all things around him as he moved. After 32 years of practice, this came naturally to him. A drop of sweat appeared on his forehead, which gave him more pause than any enemy had in 20 years. He never sweated. Even though he thought his mind was unaffected by the feelings any normal human would be feeling at this point, his body betrayed him. This mission was everything. This mission was it. It had to be done.

A crossroads appeared in the hall in front of him, about twenty feet away. Frank knew from his studies that he had to turn left. Suddenly, a man walked out from the hallway to the right, a guard in an all gray uniform, with a machine gun resting on his shoulder. The closer Frank got to his target room, the bigger the weapons the guards carried got. Without pause, Frank rushed the guard.

The guard barely had time to turn around, much less call for help, before Frank was upon him. The man was a grizzled veteran, to Frank's delight. Recently, it seemed he only killed the young. Pistol whipping the guard across the left cheek while slamming the blade into the man's chest, Franks momentum propelled the guard against the back wall, the blade going through him and clanging against the stone. Their eyes connected. For a little over a second, they stared at each other, but before the light went out in the man's eyes, Frank had moved on, down the left hallway, leaving another paint stroke on his canvas.

Frank's eyes connected with the many alarms and traps that were placed all throughout this hallway. As his years had advanced, so had the technology. Back in his twenties, this hallway would have been jammed pack with guards, but now, computers were the standard, and Frank had to admit, most of the time, more efficient. But his protégé was very good. Those had been the very best alarm systems, and they had taken a while to crack, but his trainee had done it. That made Franks job a lot easier, at least until the reached his target. And that target, that he knew as well as he knew his wife's body, was in a room, the entrance of which was 30 feet ahead to his right.

Moving quickly, he swiped the manipulated badge through the slot on the door. It buzzed, skipping several steps, and the door opened. He slipped inside, knowing it would be empty of people. Only the big boys would be allowed inside this room. He paused, looking at the lone computer in the otherwise empty room. A new age table held it, other than that, it looked like a room where one might lock in a member of an asylum. There, in that computer, was all of the CIA's employee records. Recently, they had realized what a liability this was, and it was in the process of being destroyed. Luckily, there was a lot of red tape. They had had to move fast to get here before the end date.

Frank moved up to the computer, and taking the drive out of his breast pocket, he held it up to the port in the computer, knowing the second he put it in, everyone would come. A wry grin appeared on his face. This was it. His hand cracked as he plugged it in, but the hand didn't shake. Mustn't get nervous now, old man, he said to himself, keeping the grin on his face. He logged in.

Knowing he only had about two minutes, praying he had two minutes, best case scenario, he quickly searched though the computer for what was needed. 30 seconds past. Damn mouse, it wasn't used enough and it kept sticking. 45 seconds past. His fingers moved quickly across the keyboard. His protégé would be proud. After a little over a minute had past, he found what he was looking for.

Colonel John Casey, of the NSA. Frank had heard of him, but not of his apparent promotion. Code Name Sarah Walker. Strange that it only listed her code name, and not her real one. No time to ponder about that. And finally, there it was. The name of all names, the name he was after, the name he needed so desperately, the name he was sacrificing his life to find.

Charles Irving Bartowski.

Frank had done it. His heart leapt like it hadn't in years, knowing that this wasn't in vain. He quickly uploaded the appropriate file to the drive and pulled it out of the computer, attaching it to his cell phone. There, he quickly emailed it to his boss. Then, dropping the cell phone to the floor as it self destructed, he waited.

Frank had known going into this mission that there would be no escape. There was no way around it, this was a suicide mission. But it had to be done. As dozens of agents and guards rushed towards him, he smiled. He thought of the morning coffee he had every morning for most of his life. The feeling that he had the moment he had been recruited. The second he met his wife, their first kiss, the first time they made love, the final kiss goodbye he had given her earlier that day… oh, the memories.

The sound of feet running down the hallway pulled Frank out of his reverie. And, as he had always done, he fought silently and effectively, not going down without a fight. The CIA would have him no longer, the Ring would not take ownership of him, no, soon, Frank's boss would own the Intersect.

Franks gun ran out of bullets, and a few seconds later, his blood became the final addition to his masterpiece. And oh, what a painting it was.