Title translates out of French as 'Sins of a Murderess' for reasons that become apparent later The long and short of this is my fic Scars Don't Fade from alternating POVs; M/Evelyn's, Camille's and James's. Will be majorly written in first person. You don't have to have read SDF first, but it may help. Enjoy!


EVELYN

This is madness. Why did I agree to this? What crazy part of me decided that this would be a good idea? I swear to god, I will kill M if I manage out of this alive, which right now looks unlikely.

He stared out of the window, not making eye contact with me the exact way he always did when he decided to send me out onto the kind of impossibly risky assignments that he seemed to keep reserved for a Ms Evelyn Cameron. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, me. My head cocked involuntarily to one side, my teeth grinding together and willing him to look at me.
"Sir? I'm still here,"
"Oh, em...005, you may want to sit down," I did as I was told. He turned to face me, his eyes cold and gleaming like dark chips of glass. "I trust that after your recent episode with Agent Rodriguez, the pair of you have made a full recovery?"
"Well, being shot at by Al Qaeda was never going to be fun, but apart from the scars, I know that I'm reasonably okay by now. You wanted to see me?"
"Yes. Something else has come up in Rene, and I think you're the only one for the job. As far as I know, there's no Muslim extremist terrorist groups involved this time, but it's dangerous," he brought up a few mugshots on one of the wall screens; a dark-haired woman, horrific scars to the olive complexion of her face, a high-boned male Spaniard and another man; tall, blonde and terrifyingly strong. "They're your targets. The guys are Javier Sanchez and Luc Sauvage; the pair of them were released from prison less than four months ago. The woman; Camille Delacoire. She's directly related to one of our technicians, Christophe Delacoire. She worked for the CIA until about 1977, when we believe she was captured, and no-one's seen her since; she's allegedly been dead for years.
"The three put together have almost four hundred criminal convictions to their names; murder, rape, torture, grievous bodily harm, high treason, arson, possession of illegal substances and manslaughter to name but a few, and all have served at least one term in prison in at least one counrty. Sauvage's wanted in over six countries and was on death row in the United Arab Emirates until he broke out. They're a force to be reckoned with; three of Europe's most wanted criminals. They're currently leading the French drugs cartel Deja Vu, which we believe are responsible for almost 72% of drug crime here as they're linked to and supply most street gangs in the UK.
"I'm warning you now that this could result in the end of your life. It's risky, but it's important. Are you sure you're ready?"
"I've been ready since before I was born."

Why in hell did I say that? If M says that it'll go wrong, then it probably will. So I reckon I'm paying the price for the biggest cock-up of my life right now.

"What the hell are you doing here!?" A raised voice speaking heavily Spanish-accented French hits my ears as a hand grabs my ankle and tugs me violently from underneath the industrial ledge shelf where I had been attempting to stick plastic explosive. My mission objective had been 'kill targets; bugger off; try and drag my arse back to the UK at least reasonably unscathed' and I'd been sent out armed to the teeth with guns, explosives and goodness knows what else, so I'd decided that blowing up the HQ of Deja Vu was my best bet at doing just that. But I'd managed to put that plan straight down the toilet in one fell sweep by forgetting to put my phone on silent.

Yes, that's how I've been found out. M decided that now was an appropriate time to call me for an update. I grimace in pain as my face drags along concrete and I'm forced into glaring torchlight. Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! I don't have my gun for reasons beyond my understanding, and now all three of the French drug lords I'm meant to be assassinating are right in front of me. I twitch away from the three of them; I can't help but notice that to my 5'1", the lot of them - probably even Camille - are well over six foot tall. I'm beginning to think that criminals are always tall simply to spite me. The enormous blonde dude that had a hold on my ankle speaks again now. "I found something."
"Congratulations, Javier, what do you want, a certificate?" It's the woman now; Camille. She slaps past him and towers over me terrifyingly. "What the hell are you doing here?"
My tongue is numb. Whatever I want to say - to say anything at all - it isn't coming out in English, let alone French.
"Cat got your tongue, lady? I want to know who you work for, because no random just walks in here with explosives."
I still can't speak; I shake my head lamely and shut my eyes, hoping that this is some kind of dodgy nightmare and that any second I'll wake back up in London and none of this will have ever happened.

"Well, if it kills me, I'm going to find out. Javier; strip search. Luc; make sure she can't go anywhere."

This command is what starts the living hell. I curl into myself, hoping that he's not going to kill me or anything like that.

I would far sooner be dead. Before I can tell what's happening, he's stamped on my shin. As his boot collides with me, I hear the sickening grind and crunch of shattering bones, at the same time agony exploding in my leg. What has he done to me? I look up, terrified, and realize that my lower leg, ankle to knee, now forms about six jagged angles, each about an inch apart from the next, the sharp edges of my shattered tibia threatening to push through my flesh. I wretch and throw up a little in my mouth, the pain suddenly worsening now that I know what kind of state I'm in.

He's not finished. A hank of my hair is pulled up in his hand, and my head smashes off the ground with such a force I'm bloody surprised that my skull doesn't shatter as well.

Everything goes black...

TO BE CONTINUED...