"You stupid bastard. You don't know who you're fucking with…but you will." Isabella Swan, or Bella, stared into the eyes of her former employer, and ex-best friend, contemplating how to kill the man.
"Why, Bella darling, I had no idea you were such a big fan of melodramatics.
"You're such a prick David." She said, raising the gun in her hand, pointing it at his heart.
"Ah, Bella, never one for words, always one for action." He looked at the gun, then in her eyes. "Planning on killing me Bella?"
"Do you even need to ask?"
"No, apparently I don't. It's obvious from your actions that I cant try to give you my side of the story, you'll just shoot me anyway."
"Most assuredly."
"Bella..."
"You were sleeping with the enemy David."
"One night. It was only one night."
"There is no such thing when you are playing the game David. There aren't any ties either. It's when or lose, kill or be killed. There's no 'I'm sorry', there's no 'I won't do it again', and most definitely David, there is no 'it was only one night'." And with that as her parting she raised the gun to his head, pulled the trigger, and watched as her friend died before her eyes.
She didn't cry, didn't feel regret. You couldn't feel those things when you were in the game. That was what it cost her, being a hit man—or woman in her case, you can't have emotion, and it only gets in the way.
Turning from David, who was now lying in a pool of blood on the floor, she dialed the number of the Russian agency.
"Da?" The thick Russian accent filled the phone.
"It's done."
"Good, good. What did you do with the body?"
"I'm leaving it." She glanced back at David's dead form; "The cleaners will find it in the morning when they come in. The bullets unmarked and I bought it out of country. The gun's foreign as well so that shouldn't be a problem."
"Good. Now I have another job. You leave tonight on a plane for Forks, Washington. There's an undercover agency there."
"Who are they?"
"They're called the Strikers. Coincidence isn't it?"
"Yes," Her father, a cop, was—is—apart of the Strikers. A lethal assassin agency, who worked only for the U.S. Where as, Bella, worked for the foreign leniency. "What's the plan?"
"There's a family. The Cullen's, Fathers cover is being a doctor. The wife and children do not know about his involvement."
"Do they ever?" She asked sarcastically.
He laughed, a deep Russian burr; "Be very subtle, skittish even, but use your body as a tool. Play it up with the clothing like you're always so good at. Be slightly nosy, but still slightly sweet."
"Shy, little, good girl?" She asked him incredulously.
"I think it would attract their attention."
"I don't think I can play that roll...but I'll try exceedingly hard. I might slip up, let my boldness show occasionally."
"All the more useful, let them think you can be exciting. Use them and play there emotions."
"Emotions get in the way."
"Then don't show yours." Before he clicked off the phone he said; "You've been in the agency since you were 14 and your mother gave you away. I know you like to keep people separate from you...you can do this."