We left without paying, which came as no surprise. Displeasure once more evident on his face, Loki pulled me out of the café and onto the crowded street. For an instant, I thought about calling out for help, but ice and darkness replaced the familiar roads of New York City. We reappeared on the tarmac of some small airport. The skyline in the distance told me we were on the outskirts of the city.
Two men were standing beside what looked like a Cessna 12-passenger airplane. Loki gave them a nod. I shot him a questioning look out of the corner of my eye.
"Our escorts," he said shortly.
I blinked. Of course: the pilots.
I wondered briefly how it was that Loki had managed to secure the services of the private plane, but decided against asking and simply examined the Cessna with my practiced eye. It looked nice. Very nice.
"Citation X," I noticed under my breath. I had taken a similar model on one of my many assassination missions of the past. It brought back bad memories, so I pushed the thought away as we entered the cabin.
Admittedly, it was a comfortable plane. Everything about it was nice: the leather seats, the clean interior, the smooth ride. Indeed, the only uncomfortable thing was the fact that the person sitting beside me happened to be a cold, calculating, murderous demigod with a sadistic sense of humor.
...And he never stopped watching me. He did not even go to the trouble of disguising his stare. There was nothing subtle about Loki's scrutiny.
The latest issue of People magazine was lying unopened in his lap. How ironic, I thought to myself. As if Loki really cared about people in the first place. Let alone the gossipy articles we publish about ourselves.
Annoyed by the demigod's silent examination, I put aside all fear of Loki for the moment and swiped the magazine off his lap, flipping it open to a random headline that read "Spectacular Celebrity Break-up." I began to scan the article, not interested in the content so much as getting away from Loki's intense stare
He did break eye contact, but it was not in the manner that I would have preferred. Instead, he leaned in closer and read over my shoulder
I slapped the magazine closed and, turning as far as I reasonably could, stared out the window.
"Do I offend you?"
I gripped the edge of my seat tightly and frowned, refusing to answer, or even look him in the eye. Such an obvious question did not deserve my acknowledgement.
"Why?"
Was he truly unaware of the cause of his offensiveness? He was the reason Hawkeye was dead. He had stolen me away and subjected me to the most horrid psychological torment that he claimed was merely a game. To him it probably was. And he called me his 'pawn.' Was that not enough cause for hate?
I sighed, slumping down into the seat and closing my eyes. Loki said nothing more, and I began to feel sleepy. I had not gotten much rest the night before, and what rest I had gotten had been dampened by that heinous vision Loki had brought upon me.
In the semi-darkness of the hospital room, my eyes flew open. The drug had worn off, finally. I sat up slowly, blinking at the faint green glow of the digital clock.
"Two a.m.," I whispered, pulling the I.V. out of my arm. "Ten minutes until I meet that contact."
I swung my legs off the bed and set them gingerly down. My hand ached faintly; the last of my sprain making sure I would never forget it. How could I? It wasn't often I purposely injured myself. In fact, it was almost never. But this job, the hospital job, had been insane from the beginning.
Padding across the small, private room I was ensconced in, I opened the door a crack. There was nobody in the hall. Making sure my breathing remained steady and quiet, I made my way down the corridor. Fluorescent lights scared away the shadows- all but the ones in my heart. It was only for the substantial pay that I had accepted this job.
Some anonymous millionaire was displeased with his associate. The first assassin, now dead, had only succeeded in wounding the target. They contacted me.
Whoever was behind this, he was wanted the target good and dead. Quickly. The minute I had accepted, two men appeared on either side of me. I had fought, but sheer muscle mass won out against all my tricks. They had pinned me down and jerked my arm.
I rubbed the bandage around my wrist as the memory triggered more pain. According to the thugs, the quickest way into the hospital where the target was being was treated was to become the patient. A new set of fake identities, a large mansion whose owners were absent, and I was on the fast track to St. Judes Hospital. My only instruction, annoyingly, had been to wait for further instruction. And now, two days later, a note had come on the inside of the napkin beside my noon meal of gruel.
"2:10 a.m. 1st floor woman's"
That was all.
An elevator pinged to my right, making me jump. A nurse stepped out, giving me a quizzical look. "Everything alright, miss?" she asked, frizzy hair falling out of its bun.
"Fine," I answered, plastering on a smile. "Just stretching my legs."
"At two in the morning?"
"Couldn't sleep." I kept the smile up. With any luck at all, the nurse would be the trusting, sunshine-and-butterflies type.
Her pause felt as long as the plane ride from Moscow to New York City. Surely she could hear my heart hammering. I couldn't get caught, not now. I would end up dead, just like the assassin before me. They had shown me his remains.
"Don't be up too long," the nurse said cheerily.
I didn't bother watching her go. She had not been suspicious. If questioned at a later date, she probably wouldn't even remember me. Breaking into a light jog, I slipped between the elevator doors just before they closed. It was empty. I punched the button for the first floor and leaned back against the wall for a moment as the contraption shook and began to drop. My room had been on the third floor, so it would only take a second-
A backpack in the corner caught my eye. Why had nobody claimed it for lost and found? Had it been the nurse's?
Moving quickly, I knelt down and opened the bag. A set of black clothes rested underneath a few yards of rope and a handful of safety pins. Confused, I zipped it up again as the elevator shuddered to a stop. I slung the backpack over my shoulder and strode confidently out the door. If you acted like you belonged there, people tended to believe it. The graveyard receptionist didn't even look up, immersed as he was in Facebook. I covered the ground to the nearest woman's bathroom in long strides. The door swung open with a light push. Nobody was in there. I walked into the farthest stall from the door and latched the door behind me. I was here. All I could do was trust that someone would show up in the next few minutes. If they didn't... Well, I was being discharged tomorrow anyways.
With nothing better to do, I opened the bag again. Out came the coil of rope and safety pins. Further inspection revealed the dark garments to be my own. The jumpsuit I favored for these types of missions. Shaking my head, I quickly shed the dreadful hospital gown and shimmied into the leather. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes. Something familiar. With all the secrecy, any semblance of control was welcome. I opened my eyes: A sink was running.
My heart rate jumped again. How had I not noticed the door opening?
"Miss Romanoff, coming out of that stall today would be appreciated." The deep voice, heavy on the Australian accent, grated against my nerves.
"You've been here all of three seconds," I snapped, stepping out with the gown in one hand and the backpack in the other.
"Too long." My contact was very tall, very blonde, and very tan. Bright blue eyes fairly snapped with intelligence. He was conspicuous.
"Tell me what I need to know," I ordered.
"Flush that first." He nodded the wadded hospital gown. I did so with jerky movements. "Good girl."
I swore at him, which only seemed to amuse him.
"Now now," he chided. "Is that any way to speak to the man that will give you the instruments you need to gain almost six million dollars?"
"What are we doing standing around then?" I growled. "I thought you hated waiting?"
For a full twenty seconds, we shot daggers at each other. He looked down first. "Here," he said tersely, holding out both hands. In one, there was plain military grade knife. In the other, a simple silver lighter.
"Raid a hobo?" I asked snidely.
Apparently, my contact was through with the games. "Stab the boy, or burn the hospital. Your choice." He set them on the porcelain sink with a slip of paper and left. I grabbed the paper the instant the door swung shut behind him.
5th floor. Private Ward 3.
Again, simple instructions. My target was there, waiting in peaceful slumber, no doubt.
I gazed at the two weapons. The knife would be simple, clean, and quick. But the lighter... Memories of the first assassin's twisted and charred body came to mind. My employer seemed to enjoy making a statement. A massive fire would certainly provide that. Not to mention the irony, whether I survived or not. I picked up the silver lighter and tucked it into my pocket. The last five minutes of the target's life had begun.
I grabbed the nearly empty backpack and walked out the door. Sneaking out would have drawn attention. As it was, the receptionist still didn't look up. I almost felt bad for the man's ignorance and incompetence. Maybe he would survive. Maybe not.
The elevator rose quickly and smoothly to the top level of the hospital wing. I stepped out and paused. Contrary to the lower, windowless halls, the 5th floor was bright and airy. Well, bright in the sense that the lights of Los Angeles gave it a neon glow. A doctor stepped out of a room at the end, frowning down at his clipboard. I turned left and tried the handle for the first room. Locked. Running carefully to keep my footsteps quiet, I moved down the hall. A crease in the carpet, the first in a string of bad luck, caught my toe, causing me to stumble. The doctor stopped and looked up.
"Hey, you aren't supposed to be here!" he whisper-shouted. "You don't have a pass."
There was no need for secrecy anymore. I needed to eliminate the doctor before he could alert security. With long, ground covering strides, I ran at him. Looking startled, he backed up, but it was too late. The backpack fell off my shoulder, and I reached inside for the rope. Instead, my hand closed around a safety pin. I was on top of him; too late to change. I whipped out the pin as I knocked him down. A quick, deep stab to his jugular silenced his surprised cry. I left the safety pin in his throat to keep the blood from draining out. No sense in making a mess. The doctor's eyes were wide and locked on my own as I kneeled on his chest. He choked and weakly flailed his hands. Grimacing, I pushed the pin deeper. Blood bubbled out of his mouth. I jerked my hand, puncturing his windpipe. Within seconds, he was dead.
"A necessary death," I whispered to myself.
For an instant, I considered moving the body. But no, the hospital would be on fire momentarily. There would be bigger problems for the rescuers to worry about. The doctor would be just another corpse.
I rose from his still body and backed down the hall. Room 7, Room 5, Room 3. My target's room. I took a deep breath and held it, trying to the door. Locked. Unsurprised, I reached for another safety pin. While a bobby pin would have worked better, it wouldn't be hard to pop the latch. Correction. Shouldn't be hard. I bit my lip and jiggled the stubborn lock. It only took a minute of trying to frustrate me. I had to act fast. Suddenly, I remembered the doctor. Without wasting a second, I sprinted back to the man and grabbed the lanyard around his neck. Keys. Almost a dozen of them. Swiftly rising, I returned to the door and began shoving keys into the lock. It took several long, tense seconds, but the seventh key I tried clicked into place. I caught my breath. Leaving the key in, I pulled the rope and lighter out of the bag and carefully set it by the doorframe. For approximately twenty seconds, I held my breath, listening to the room and planning every step I would make once I opened the door. I didn't know the room's layout, which was a huge disadvantage, and it would be dark. Deciding on a pattern to follow, I let the door swing slowly open.
A soft, steady snore became evident. Like I had suspected, there was almost no light. I remained still. A minute later, when my eyes had adjusted, I stepped softly inside. A lump on the bed near the window rose and fell gently, but didn't seem to wake up. I crossed the room in three long steps, uncoiling the rope.
A teenager. My heart jumped as his face came into focus. A teenager was the target. My hands acted of their own accord, even as my mind's eye replayed the innocent girl from Bangkok, blood running down her face. I carefully tied the rope to the bedframe, double checking that the knots were tight. I paused looking down at the boy's peaceful face. Curly brown hair framed soft features. His lips parted slightly, and he moved to roll over. I grabbed his hand and twisted the rope around it. He jerked, but before he could cry out, I shoved the excess rope into his mouth. The boy gagged on it. Working quickly, I ripped off a section of the cheap blanket and replaced the rope. It didn't take much longer to tie his other hand up. With the target strung up like a turkey for plucking, I took a step back. No sound came from the hall: Our quick scuffle hadn't alerted anyone to the danger.
A flick of my thumb, and a small, wavering flame appeared at the top of the lighter. The boy's eyes widened.
"Nothing against you," I said softly, lowering the lighter. "I'm just doing my job."
I held the lighter against the blanket near the foot of the bed until the fire caught.
"Mhhh! Mrrrhmmm!" The boy struggled wildly, feet trying to kick out the flames. I ignored him as the fire leapt higher, casting the room in a red-orange light. The frilly, distasteful curtains joined the bonfire with only a touch of the lighter.
With a fake composure that had served me well over the years, I strode out of the room without a second glance at the boy and his muffled shouts. The bed creaked, and an acid smell filled the air as it began to melt. I felt... less... every time. That bothered me.
Don't look back.
Swiftly, I opened the door, stepped out, and closed it, and locked the boy inside. His cries could no longer be heard. I glanced up and down the hall, but saw no one. I let out a deep breath. My mission had succeeded. I still had three safety pins and the lighter to make my escape with. A weird giddiness mixed with pyromaniacy came over me. The hospital was going to burn anyways. Why not help speed the process along? I walked over to one of those horrible fake plants and held the lighter to a leaf. The silk and plastic leaf flared up within seconds, consuming the rest of the plant.
"Hah. Serves you right," I muttered. Shaking my head at my own strangeness, I ran for the stairs.
I made it down two flights before the fire alarm started to blare. Almost instantly, people poured into the stairs. Luckily, nobody seemed to notice the lighter I held clenched in my fist. My breathing quickened as people began to press in on me. Surely, somebody would notice. They had too. A nurse jostled me, the same one from before. Our eyes met, and my heart fell. It seemed as if I would have to fight my way down the remaining flights of stairs and out of the hospital.
"Get out, fast," she mouthed, then plunged ahead.
Not pausing to wonder, I thundered down another flight of steps before the world shuddered.
My eyes flew open as the plane shook. The nose angled downward, giving my stomach a lurch, before leveling again.
"Turbulence," Loki's cold breath whispered in my ear. "Go back to sleep. I was enjoying watching you squirm under the torture of your past..."
"Get away from me," I snarled, standing up. The plane trembled, and I stumbled over his feet. Loki, ever helpful, caught me as I fell across his lap. I struggled to regain my feet, but he held me down.
He leaned over, mouth hovering by my ear again. For endless seconds, I listened to and felt him breath in and out.
"...Careful."
Loki released me. I shot up and glared at him. As if nothing had happened, the exasperating god picked up the People magazine off the armrest and flipped it open to the middle. He began to read the article - "Prince Charles Climbs Wall for Queen's Jubilee."
Co-written with Alassiel
Sorry for the delay in posting this, everyone! I've been out of town a lot... Anyways, you are all amazing and we love your continued support! This chapter was so long, we split it into two parts. Well, actually, we were halfway done with writing it and realized it was already going to be our longest chapter, hence the awkward break XD The next part will be up soon!
What's everyone looking forward to in the Olympics?
(Lady of the Stables people: I am really really sorry about not getting a chapter up... I have a plan, but the words just aren't flowing for that story. I'm really really really really sorry D:)