NOT THE CIA AGAIN
Jonella Paxton hadn't been in Chicago in a few years. If the truth were known, she actually didn't miss it. In the wintertime, it was dreary and colder than a well digger's ass. During the summer, the city streets radiated sickening heat. There was nothing 'go between' about the city at all, and she thought that's what she hated about it the most. She checked her wristwatch and griped under her breath when she realized she was fifteen minutes late for her meeting with the lead operative. She had been sent on a special assignment, and she wasn't looking forward to it. She had decided that this would be her last year with the agency. She couldn't take it anymore. You're tougher than you think, Pax, a fellow op had told her once. You have a cold streak in you and that will take you far. Of course, the op who had shared his 'wisdom' was now heading up a team of undercover agents. He was colder than she could ever be in three lifetimes. What did he know about her anyway? Hadn't they worked together a very short time? However, in that short span of time, they had literally been together day and night. Nothing 'romantic' had ever happened between them. She could care less about the fuck, and she wasn't 'prim' enough for him. She wasn't excited at the prospect of seeing the fucker again. He had never been anything less than a thorn in her side the entire time she had known him. When she had been taken off the assignment with the dipshit, she hadn't seen him since. Fare thee the fuck well.
As she cursed downtown traffic, flipping off another motorist in the process, she wondered how she would approach Frank Donovan. He wasn't a stupid man. He wasn't even close to stupid. He knew her well enough to notice every ounce of bullshit in her. He had detected it more than a few times before. If anything, his senses would be sharper. He had gone through a lot since leaving the agency. She shuddered when she recalled how Frankie had gone nutso when offered the same assignment that she had had since day one. She and Frankie were fairly buddy-buddy, but he had no real idea what she had been trained to do. Basically, while on their assignment together, she had two roles to play where he had one. Frankie's intelligence almost became the ruination of her. He was suspicious when his partner had begun to disappear for hours at a time, only to return as if she had gone out for nothing more than a pack of cigarettes. He also noticed the sheer coincidences that occurred at the same time as her little ventures out into the world. Ten or so top Colombian bigwigs had begun to disappear mysteriously. These little bad boys were funneling money to every terrorist in the country, and they would come up missing right before the other ops could move in on them. Gee, what a nice fucking cowinkydink. You have a foul mouth, Frankie had scolded. Fuck you, dude. I say what I want when I want. Her fellow ops wanted to capture these folks alive, because more than one of them had plans to assassinate the president of the good ol' U S of A. Perhaps torture would trip them up, make them spill their yellow guts. Of course, she had ensured that their yellow guts spilled…literally.
One evening, she had gotten a call from her 'other' lead op who had a big job for her to do. She jumped at the chance to take it. Back then, she was a bit on the ruthless side. A bit? You really like to lie to yourself, don't you? Fuck off, Frankie. Why is my little voice always him? She went out, telling her partner that she needed an adult beverage, and he waved her off as if he didn't give a fuck. He probably didn't. Frankie was like that where she was concerned. She didn't realize that Frankie decided to tail her. She was trained enough where she should have noticed that someone was following her. However, she had fallen asleep at the wheel. Years later, she told herself that she had wanted the Dono-Man to follow her, to discover her juicy secret. She met with the lead op at a deserted restaurant in the heart of the city, and he gave her the directives that would lead to a successful mission. Or so she thought.
Jonella went to the location in which she was directed and found a difficult task ahead of her. What bigwig would be caught dead in this place? She stood in a deserted slaughterhouse. She wasn't sure what animals had met their doom here, but the big hooks hanging from the ceiling freaked her out in a big way. She had nowhere to hide and wasn't certain where she would go until she tripped over a fucking door handle in the floor. Cursing silently under her breath, she yanked on the handle [the door came open with an aged screeeeeech] and saw it had hidden a short set of steps that led down into a deep crawlspace under the building. There wasn't enough room to stand up, but she could draw her body into a tight crouch and squeeze off a good shot or six. It would work fine, wouldn't it? Oh yeah. She wasn't afraid of much in life, but confinement didn't thrill her. She did it, though, because she never went against direct orders. She darted down into the crawlspace and yanked at the handle on the other side of the door and closed it over her. Walking like a duck and looking like a dork, she moved around until she spotted a knothole in the floor above. Oh, her luck was holding out beautifully tonight. However, she began to curse herself. You fucking idiot, she thought. How was she supposed to shoot someone in her position unless the guy happened to stand right over her? Sighing, she duck walked back to the door and flopped it back impatiently. Well, what do you know, she had called out. Frankie had found her. After an intense shouting match [she had thrown a couple of punches, and the fucker threw them back], she told the Dono-Man to fuck off, that she had a mission to complete, and if he didn't want a bullet up his ass, he would leave her. It was then and only then that he had acted as if he liked her [don't lift your eyebrows, folks, he didn't like me like me]. They were professionals, for fuck's sake, and Frankie stood arguing with her as if they were fighting over who would pay the check after a particularly sucky dinner date.
If you fucking mess this up for me, I'm going to kill you, Frankie, she had cried. Two sides, Pax. What are you trying to prove, he had shouted in reply. Two sides my sweet fat ass! We're working on the same team, aren't we? Were they? Were they really? Dono-Man wasn't an idiot, he knew the CIA had trained assassins, and most of them did the dirtiest work known to man. They lived on the fringe of the agency and were highly guarded. Hardly anyone knew they existed, even the fucking president of the U S of A. Plausible deniability, Pax, the director was fond of saying. How fucking apt, eh? The director was the same genius that funneled millions of dollars into Area 51. What a fucking dumb ass. Shit. Off track again. She went back to screaming at Frankie, demanding that he take his skinny, lanky ass back to camp and let her do what she had been directed to do. The stubborn jerk off refused. At gunpoint, at fucking gunpoint, he told her that if she didn't follow him back to camp, he would take her into custody. Who the hell did he think he was anyway? God? He was nothing more than an arrogant prick who thought he was destined to be the next J. Edgar Hoover [cross-dresser and all]. Almost as stubborn as Frankie, she refused again. She had been ordered to put three bullets into Nando Canessa, a putrid fuck who wanted to take out the entire Colombian government, and she damn well intended to do it. Frankie [who was every bit the putrid fuck himself] put one bullet in each of her legs. She wondered how the brain would explain this? He then threw her over his shoulder and carried her back to the waiting military jeep. There would no assassinations on his watch. Oh, how she hated Frankie. How she hated failing at a mission.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, she had screamed at Frankie. You shot me, you prick, and fucked up the hit. Goddamn, if I could raise my gun, I'd blow a hole between your eyes! What did he do? What the fuck did he do? He laughed at her, laughed at her pain and anger. Oh yeah. Frankie was fucked. Uh huh. As soon as she healed, she was going to stomp his arrogant ass into the ground. She could do it, too. She had whipped his ass a couple of times. Pax, what are you doing? You want the life of an assassin? Is that what you wanted to do with your life, Frankie had asked, slipping back into 'serious mode.' She hated the fucker, but she also respected him. He never failed to make sense, even when she didn't want him to, and tonight was one of those times. She lay there bleeding, and he was preaching at her, moralizing. How funny. A ruthless fuck such as he was giving her a sermon. Get me to a hospital, Frankie, before I bleed to death. If I die tonight, I'm coming back to haunt your ass, and I will haunt you for the rest of your life, she had said calmly. Of course, he knew she would. By the way, he had added as an afterthought, don't call me Frankie, I detest it. Well, fuck you, Mister. She would call him any damn thing she liked. He had taken her to the hospital and actually sat with her throughout the bullet removal ordeal. The anesthetic shots had hurt like fuck, and she was tempted to advise the doctor to neuter Frankie for her while he was there. War baby, oh yeah, war on Dono-Man.
The morning after the bullets were yanked from her, her 'other' lead op came to her room and demanded an explanation. At the time, Frankie had gone for food and coffee, and she was relatively unguarded. She had heard that occasionally, if an op failed, he or she might get a permanent and eternal vacation. However, she had made up this ridiculous story of being shot before she even made it to the hideout. Yeah, crossfire, that's what happened, Bossman. It was the weirdest thing. He didn't believe her, of course. Yet, he couldn't really do anything about it. Sitting right there in the hospital, she had been given an exclusive assignment. Like the trooper she was, she took it. Bossman left just before Frankie showed up with a mug of black coffee for her. Aw, Spankie [what she called him when she was in a particularly good mood…he hated it more than Frankie], you brought me a present! Not so kindly, he told her to shut up. She thought she saw a blush creeping up his neck. She had actually made the cold fuck blush. How dainty. Frankie had tried to secure a promise from her that she would back out of the assassin game. What assassin game, she had asked. She could neither confirm nor deny it. It didn't matter that he had seen her, but still, blurting out one's status was severely frowned upon. Whatever. She couldn't make a promise and mean it. With a set of mentally crossed fingers, she swore to Frankie that she would never take another life unless he/she/it deserved it.
Three days later, Jonella was on crutches. She had no intention of staying in that fucking bed another day. The pain was incredible, but she didn't care. She had to get out, to do her job. She had to make it up to the upper brass before they sent an assassin to take her out. Her partner came to her as often as he could to monitor her progress and report it to their superiors. Eventually, she would be released from the Colombian hospital and return to the beauty of the South American jungle. Oh joy. What was worse? The torture device in physical therapy or a humid stroll in the jungle? What to choose, what to choose! Whatever. Frankie's presence annoyed her. She didn't want to admit it, but the arrogant fuck was persuasive. He about had her talked out of returning. She couldn't believe it. Three days ago, her mind had been made up. Fuck Dono-Man; get me back on the streets. On that day, she was fucked up and confused. It didn't matter. She was a reasonable girl; she had morals, and stick-to-itiveness. She wouldn't let the pushy fuck tell her what to do. After all, he wasn't her father, now was he? Of course, Frankie had been around, he had deeper, darker secrets that would probably never see the light of day [unless he pissed her off enough to tattle], and maybe…just maybe he might know what he was talking about. Then again, he wasn't nearly as obsessive as she. Once given a job to do, she did it. It was no different this time. Was it? Was it? Yuck.
Upon Jonella's release from the hospital, Frankie came to pick her up. She didn't know if she were grateful or hateful. It didn't matter. She had been told a couple of days before her release that she would be transferred out of South America and sent to the states. Her lead op wanted to send her to D.C. for further training. Of course, that wouldn't take place until after her mission in Colombia. Instead of taking her back to camp, Frankie took her to headquarters. Aw. How sweet. The Dono-Man was worried about her and didn't want her sleeping on the hard ground. How utterly fucking chivalrous. Actually, she didn't mind. Lying on a cot was much better than the fucking jungle and getting eaten alive by every blood-sucking bug ever created. Mosquito netting doesn't work, folks. Then again, sleeping away from Frankie for a change would give her an opportunity to slip away for her night moves. He would never know, and when he found out, she would be long gone. She wondered if ol' Frankie had read her mind, if he knew she had lied. It didn't matter. Soon enough, she would never see Frankie again. Was she happy about that? Naw. She actually had grown to tolerate the fuck. Besides, he could make awesome coffee. That talent alone made him A-okay in her book. That night, Jonella slipped out and took care of her mission. The next morning, she was gone.
Jonella sighed. It had been a while since she had thought of ol' Frankie. If she didn't have to face him some time today, she probably wouldn't have thought of him ever again. He was a fairly easy man to forget. He had so many bugs up his ass that he chirped like a cricket when he walked. Yet today, she would face him and she knew he was aware of what happened to her. She had gone on with her assassin role and had taken out more people than she cared to remember. Her role today would be one of someone leaving the game. Can we say irony? It was exactly what she would do if she could just get these last hits done. She pulled the car into the parking lot of what appeared to be a vacant warehouse. Do they always have to pick such cliché locations for clandestine meetings? She nearly giggled, but didn't. She didn't want the gang to think that she had lost her mind. Sometimes, she felt as if she had. She was just barely thirty, but suddenly felt sixty. Granny Jonella, that's me.
* * *
Oh God, Donovan groaned. Please tell me I'm not looking at what I think I am. He hadn't seen the name Jonella Paxton since he left the CIA. When he saw her last, she was sprawled out on a cot with banged up legs. He had known she went on to accomplish whatever covert deed assassins were given. He didn't know much about the gig, and honestly didn't care. It had been offered to him in the deepest jungles of South America, and he had almost choked on his coffee. Assassins were the most guarded ops in the field, but they were also the most expendable, especially if they weren't any good, or had made mistakes. Pax had been a walking mistake. She was ruthless enough, sure, but unlike most of them, she wasn't a machine. She had acted appropriately, but she didn't have enough control. She had always been a loose cannon, and he was surprised she had lived this long. He stared down at the file handed to him by central. How many times had he said he didn't enjoy working with the CIA? It brought about too many memories best left in the past. Pax was the past, a ghost he had put to rest years ago. Yet, she would show up at any time, probably screwing up everything she touched. Paxton will be phased out as an AOP. He had been told this directly, but he didn't believe it. She had lied to him then, and wouldn't hesitate to lie to him now. If she were lying [and he knew she was], he would not only shoot her again, but also strangle her just for the sheer pleasure it would give him. Jonella Paxton had buried herself into his skin like some kind of gigantic burr.
Speaking of burrs, Donovan thought as he peered down at his electronic organizer. He had an appointment with his attorney late this afternoon. After weeks of fighting, screaming, and crying, he and Remy had come to a mutual agreement regarding the divorce. He had finally relented. Holding out was only delaying the inevitable. Remy wouldn't budge an inch, and she didn't mind fighting for something she wanted. Of course, Donovan had no trouble doing that, either. However, the longer he fought against the divorce, the further away she drifted. This evening, both attorneys would sit down with him and Remy and hammer out everything before their marriage was dissolved. He was still shocked that it gotten so bad so quickly. His only saving grace was Stasia. His daughter kept him sane, kept it all so real. Whenever he felt like yelling at Remy, he would focus his eyes on his daughter, and center himself. Right now, she was the one person who mattered most.
"Boss," Cody yelled. "I think you need to see this!"
What now, he thought, rolling his eyes. Donovan left his office and sauntered casually downstairs. He soon understood what Cody had been yelling about. Jonella fucking Paxton. She hadn't changed much. She was tall and very thin, but not bony. To any other person, she would seem fragile. However, there was strength in her thin limbs, and she had kicked his ass more than once. Her ash blonde hair, which she had kept cropped brutally short back in the day, now flowed over her shoulders in a thick cascade. Her dark blue eyes held intelligence, mirth, and a hint of mischievousness. Her delicate boned oval face still held the same defined cheekbones, small nose, and full lips. He nearly laughed when he stared at that button of a nose. It was slightly crooked where he had broken it [strictly by accident] during a training exercise. Cody had yelled about her because of her outfit. She looked like a cross between a Ninja street fighter and a beatnik. From head to foot, she was draped in black and had even donned a long black leather trench coat. Already naturally tall, her spiky heeled boots gave her three or four extra inches. When they were grudging partners, she had worn similar boots, and the damn bitch could flat out run in them. Goddamn, he thought. She was the same irritating thorn digging into his side, needling him.
Jonella fixed her eyes on Frankie Boy. She mused [as he did] that he hadn't changed much. Dono-Man was still tall, less thin, still lanky, and stiff as a poker. His black hair was almost spiky short with a smattering of gray at the temples. Ohhh, Frankie, time for some Ms. Clairol. He had grown a goatee and she nearly giggled at the ridiculous facial hair. She had never known him to go five minutes without putting an electric razor to his face. He haired up relatively fast and whined when he couldn't shave. She also noticed that he had yet to get plastic surgery to correct that lip defect of his. Oh, and those ears. Gawd almighty, pin them back…pin them waaaaaaaaay back. With all his money, he could afford to fix his flaws. He stood with his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. He was decked out in dark slacks, an equally dark sweater, and had on a shoulder holster, as if he were Steve fucking McQueen. She also saw another distinguishing feature. He was wearing a wedding ring. He finally found someone desperate enough to marry him, she thought.
"Frankie, I missed you so," she said with a smarmy grin on her lips.
He laughed a trifle bitterly. He was tempted to break her nose again. "Wish I could say the same, Pax. You never change."
"Aw, Fwankie don't like me no more," she said in an irritating 'baby' voice.
"Did I ever like you," he asked.
"Nope. Did I ever care? Nope." She walked past him, knocking him down with her cloying perfume, and approached the conference table. She glanced back at Donovan and waited patiently. "So, Frankie, are we going to get down to it, or would you rather goggle at me with those sexy brown eyes of yours."
She removed her coat, revealing a tight turtleneck sweater underneath. She pulled out a chair and dramatically lowered herself into it. Donovan shook his head. She had no shame about her at all. It seemed as if they had picked up right where they left off. "Take off your coat, Pax, and make yourself at home," he said.
The other agents in the room were a bit perplexed. They hadn't seen Donovan acting so…jovial. Was that description even appropriate? Anyway, he was behaving in a totally different way than they had ever experienced.
She looked up at him and smiled brilliantly. "Thanks, Frankie. Got coffee?"
Without a word, Donovan moved to the coffeemaker to pour her a cup. Before he turned around he said, "Oh, I don't allow anyone to smoke in here," he said.
He turned toward her and handed her the cup. She sighed. "I might have been offended by that if I hadn't quit a couple of years ago." She took a sip and rolled her eyes as if in the throes of a mind-bending orgasm. "Goddamn, Frankie, you haven't lost your touch." She set her cup down and crossed her hands before her. "Can we get on with this, please? I have a pedicure at three today."
Donovan called over the rest of the team and they joined them at the conference table. With a captive audience, Jonella performed to the hilt. Every now and then, Donovan would glance at her, not believing that he was working with this woman again. He hoped they could trust her.