PART I
SATURDAY, CLUB DE LA ROUX (BELARUS): 0236
The beat gets her gasping and nauseous and she's trying to swallow mouthfuls of air, but he just won't let her.
Fuck. Make this difficult for me, why don't you...
She lifts her leg up on the desk in front of him to get a better angle, as she pushes against it and uses the force to pull, with him resisting the motion. You are making it worse for yourself, idiot. They're both panting now, the struggle is getting heavier. Her arms feel like lead, but she is good at what she does. And there is no way in hell this one is getting away from her.
She can feel him slowly still behind the tight fabric she had strung around his neck exactly thirteen minutes ago.
Make that fourteen.
Finally releasing her grip, the huge man known as Fernando Almonzo (what a pimp name) slumps to the floor, his face purple from being suffocated with the tie of her silk gown. That was work, she thinks. I'm gonna need a raise for this.
Her hand instinctively draws behind her ear as she speaks.
"Next time," she says between exhausted panting, "warn me before sending me after Santa Clause." She kicks his dead weight, the flab of his belly jiggling at the force.
"Christmas was two weeks ago, what are you talking-"
"You could have mentioned that the fucker gained, like, what, a hundred pounds? Two? Shit, I can't feel my arms." Her tired body slumps on the bed in relief. What a night. She can still hear the pounding of heavy music just outside the VIP lounge, something Rihanna spewed out of her ass, probably. Their little struggle had thrashed the lounge almost unrecognizable. Clean up time.
"Oh my god, did you strangle him?" Confused noises from the other end (sounds like the gurgling of a carbonated drink), but she just rolls her eyes as she picks up the traces of herself from the floor: a pair of Louboutins, her purse, her lipstick.
"Calm your tits, okay. He wasn't going to fall for a roofie-"
"That's the eight time you've deviated from protocol, Beca. A is going to lose her shit."
She goes straight for the liquor table and takes the largest bottle.
"Well, A doesn't have to know, now, does she?" she says, opening up the glass bottle and absently pouring the contents all over the corpse and nearby areas. "Unless you tell her..."
She pauses. This is a gamble.
"Goddamnit, Beca, I can't keep covering for you."
She takes a swig from the open bottle before she continues emptying it into the cashmere carpet. Damn, that's some good alcohol. What a waste.
"That's why I love you. You always have that common sense you never listen to."
"Bitch."
"Whore."
"You have thirty seconds."
"I'll see you in twenty," she says, taking out a lighter from her purse, flicking it on and letting the really good whiskey catch fire. It'll be forty seconds before anyone notices. Luckily, she'll be well out of the usual suspects circle by then. She drops from the window with nothing but a sleek cord of fabric around her waist to guide her fall.
*Crash*
Chloe nearly spills her diet coke on the van's equipment when something hits the roof of the vehicle. Curse Beca and her stupid antics. It's a miracle the woman's still alive past the age of 25. She jumps out of the van to perform a damage check.
Beca is lying flat across the top of the van, sprawled in the cold night air with nothing but a pair of lacy undergarments and her open dressing gown.
"How'd I do?" Beca asks, breathless and looking more than a little bodily harmed.
"Oh my god! You couldn't take the stairs?"
They waste little time, Beca getting down from her precarious position, wincing a bit as Chloe helps her into the van.
"I had to improvise. The plan was shit anyway, and you know it."
"Five floors... five floors!"
"I said twenty seconds."
"Christ, Beca. This is why we can't have nice things."
"Well... I'm nude," she says, and her look implies so don't give me this shit about protocol right now.
They speed away, another complete operation tucked into their belt.
Aubrey Posen, Rebeca "Beca" Mitchell, and Chloe Beale. Also known as The Alphabet. Three of the best freelancers in the known world. They head The Bellatorum, an organization known only in the highest echelons of espionage. Mess with them, and it's the wrath of hell to the third degree for you...
"Did you even get-shit!"
Chloe has no choice but jerk the wheel when out of nowhere, a large armored truck cuts them off right across. The defensive maneuver sends them ricocheting into the air and landing upside down, turning them into lettuce in a salad spinner. The thin strap of their seat belts are the only things between them and them in past tense.
Of all the times they could possibly get ambushed, it would be tonight. Of all nights. This was a simple slip and slide. Drug him, get in, get it, get out. What the hell. Barden rookies could pull this off while playing beer pong, for god's sakes. And here they are, playing bump car in the middle of the damned freeway, fucking safety first. It doesn't help that Chloe isn't even cut out to be tech support. They should have gotten C-Rose or Lilly for this shit, then maybe they would've gotten away with the driving. But no, she had to be paired with the one Bella who had failed the intensive driving course more times than Lindsay Lohan went to rehab.
Beca feels it in her cracked ribs when the seatbelt bruises her side. Damnit, this is gonna leave a mark.
The eight seconds it takes for the two of them to regain composure is enough time for two masked figures to come down from the armored truck.
"Beca..."
A disoriented Chloe motions to Beca's side of the car, where a pair of nice leather shoes (Armani, by Beca's estimates) walks towards them, crouching just enough to meet the two women with what they can only assume to be a cheeky grin on the other side of the thick fabric of the mask.
"Ladies."
The man's eyes (definitely a man by no stretch of the imagination) are subtly drawn to the fact that Beca is upside down... semi-naked... wearing no less than Victoria's Secret and a flimsy fabric that's barely covering her arms... and she's upside down...
Beca rolls her eyes. Men.
"Enjoying the view there, aren't we?"
So quickly does his eyes snap back at hers. And is that a hint of embarrassment?
"I believe you have something we need," he says, his smooth voice dampened by the cloth. Beca does not miss the Glock 17 in his right.
"Sorry pal, I'm on break. Catch me again later, when I'm feeling a bit more limber. I'll be standing by my usual corner," she deadpans.
"Don't make me take it from you."
"I'd like to see you try."
He doesn't miss the sincerity in her voice when she says this, because damn, it's hard to miss. This woman will put up a fight that he's not sure he can win. He also does not miss the reddening of her side, the bluish hue of bruising starting to form. Probably a few broken ribs, a hit from the back. Or the result of a fall, he thinks. His clinical observations does not take more than a split second, as he nods to his comrade on the other side of the vehicle, Chloe's side. As soon as he does, the man on the other side grabs Chloe's mouth and stifles her shriek.
Beca is temporarily distracted, and he takes the opportunity to make use of his lightning reflexes.
"What the-" But too late, as he recoils his hand from her... panties.
"Wow. Okay. If you wanted to feel me up-"
"I was talking about this, actually," he says, holding up a small flash drive as Beca manages to pull back her disbelief quickly enough. No one knew she had that there. No one. But if he had surprised her, she's not showing it.
"It's encrypted so-"
"I am insulted that you think I would fall for that. Really."
Fuck. Beca bites her lip so slightly now, and doesn't even try to hide her annoyance. This is not good. Only now does he let his gun's barrel turn towards her.
"Now, you ladies be good and don't try anything. We'll just walk away with our prize, if we may."
He backs away slowly, cautiously, as his comrade hurries back inside the armored truck, himself following. Beca and Chloe have no choice but to watch with absolute horror and disgust. No, this is why we can't have nice things. When they have sped off, Beca does not try to hide her rage.
"Fuck!" Beca slams the dashboard hard.
"Beca..." Chloe's voice is filled with concern, as she reaches over and parts a bit of dressing gown, revealing a spattering of blood on Beca's side.
As soon as he closes the door to the passenger's seat, he shucks the mask off his head. Though a job well done for them, he doesn't particularly enjoy using the Bellas to their advantage. It isn't very honorable, and, thievish as they may be, he believed in integrity in their work.
It's difficult enough being part of the number one espionage organization in the world, never mind that it isn't official. He's been jet lagged more times than he can keep up, but he loves his job because of one thing: art. There is an artistry to their work. It's a beautiful thing to create a masterpiece of movements that allowed them to perform daring tricks of the trade, but if all they're going to do is illegally park an armored truck in the middle of the freeway, then he'd rather sit at home and watch Le Mis, thank you very much.
"And score," he hears from the driver's side, as he hands him the small packet of vital information. He wonders how such a small thing can carry so much damage.
"Thank you... Mr. Happy," the driver comments, after he hands it with less than a smile.
"It doesn't exactly take a genius to do a hit and run."
"Maybe not, but I honestly don't care right now," the driver replies, kissing the little device before he pockets it and revs off.
"Bumper-"
"Those dumb bitches had it coming, anyway. Jesus, a slip and slide? My dick could do a better slip and slide than that."
"Really did not need to know that," the man from behind them says, removing his mask and putting on a pair of glasses too big for his face.
"My sentiments exactly." They try to shake away the mental image.
...unless you're one of the T's. Over the years, intelligence have gathered enough data that supports the existence of your favorite urban legend, the Triplus. More commonly known as The Bad Boys of Espionage, they are the most heartless, ruthless sons of bitches that have never crossed our radar.
Although most of their members remain nameless, there are a few notable characters that you should be on the lookout for. Their leader, also known as "The Bumper" for his uncanny ability to bump every other criminal out of the most wanted spot, is priority number one.
The organization operates on the premise of direct democracy, making it all the more impossible to identify any one mastermind, but there is, however, one that you should look out for.
Remember the name James Swanson, because that's all we've got. Twelve years operating in and possibly out of the United States, the man's got a rep sheet longer than most of Interpol's most wanted. So if you see him, if by the slimmest chances you get to actually verify this son of a bitch, do the world a favor and take him out. You have the express permission of half the world's nations to do so.
This concludes this briefing. Do you have any questions?
"No, sir," the blond young man answers, his English accent not wavering.
"Then that would be all."
In a sleekly furnished conference room, he closes the dossiers he has on each of the main players, stands up, and is about to head out.
"And Luke..."
He stops.
"Try to be careful. Things like this, they can get messy."
"I'll do my best," Luke says, heading out of MI6 HQ.