The Long Way Home
By
E. S. YoungChapter Six: Shooting Blind
This chapter is going to be a little different. Different in the sense that, instead of continuing with the story, we'll be going backwards. . o.o It's crucial to the story itself, however. Really, I don't think the story would make much sense if I DIDN'T write this chapter. Besides, it's not like all of chapter seven will be taking place in the past. It sorta flips back and fourth, as you shall soon see.
- - -
God, it was dark. REALLY dark. And aggravating. Really dark and really aggravating, that pretty much summed up the position. WHY did the CIA always want them to practice in the dark?
'Because it's good training for when you're out in the real world,' a small voice mocked.
Oh yes. The company wanted to keep you on your toes and always ready for anything. The rule was to keep perfectly quiet, while still managing to look normal, and wait for someone to slip up. One single movement, one sound could give a person away.
Oh and there it was.
Quicker than anything, in one smooth motion, a shot was fired. When the bullet hit its target, there was a resounding thud. But there was not time to pay attention to that. Another one had shown up.
Ducking, jumping, sprinting were all very difficult to do while trying to fire a gun, but a person can manage. And here was the proof: All of the targets had been hit, and in total darkness, too. However, one cannot assume that just because they've done well so far, that it's all over. You're never out of the woods until you reach the edge of them, and even then you still have to keep your guard up. You must always keep your senses alert. That was one of the main rules in the CIA. Made sense. And if one of your senses happened to desert you, the other ones had better make up for it, 'else, you're screwed.
Another sound, a few more shots. Oooh, right through the head, definitely. Ahhh, there was another one . . . these fuckers just didn't know when to quit, did they? Oh well. Their loss. Just point the gun, make sure your aim is right, and pull the trigger. Then, you listen for the person to scream in agony as the bullet pierces their skin, shoot them again, wait for the sound that tells you their body has hit the ground, then shoot them one more time, just to make sure they're dead . . .
"Sands!"
Oh, come on . . . not now . . . a few were still alive.
"Sands!"
Tearing off her blindfold, Lynné Sands whipped around to face her boss, i. e., an agent who was higher up than her, therefore making him her 'superior,' which basically told him to feel free and order her around. Fuck that. This guy may be higher up on the food chain than her, but he had a boss too, and fortunately, THAT particular boss was head of the CIA and he almost never had a problem with the way Lynné did her job. Almost.
"What?!" she demanded, giving him a fierce glare. The man was nervous, and he just managed to hide it.
"I think you got 'em, Lynné," he told her, motioning to the cardboard figures whose torsos were now sporting several holes. Suddenly, a new target shot up out of nowhere. Lynné, not even looking to see if her aim was right, fired. The cutout fell to the ground, a bullet hole going through its head. Lynné saw her so-called boss shift uneasily and she smirked.
"What is so important that you felt the need to interrupt my fun, Latch?"
"You've got a new assignment," he answered promptly. Lynné's eyebrows arched.
"Really," she said coolly. "Where, pray tell?"
"Ah, well . . ." There was that uncomfortable shift again. Lynné felt herself sigh mentally. While she always enjoyed her gift of unraveling even the strongest people, it sometimes toyed with her patience. Her outward appearance merely showed unlimited patience; that didn't make it true.
"Laaaatch," she said, using her light sing-song voice. "Where am I going to? Don't make me start singing."
He cleared his throat, buying for time. Clearly, he knew Lynné wasn't going to like her new destination.
"Well," he began, "it seems that the drug problem down south is getting a little out of hand –"
"Meaning sooner or later it'll be taken over by some drug lord," finished Lynné. "There're just two questions I'd like you to answer for me, think you can handle that, sweetie?" she asked in a falsely kind voice.
Latch's eyebrows contracted as he scowled at her.
"Yes," he grunted.
"Good." She grinned. "Now, question one begins as thus: Who is this soon-to-be-all-powerful drug lord?"
"A man by the name of Armando Barillo, ring a bell?"
"Nothing's a'ringing, Latch, except that that name sounds Spanish," Lynné replied cheerfully. "On to my next question. Where exactly is this drug lord gaining his power?"
'Though I think I might have just answered my own question.'
Latch cleared his throat again before answering, "Cullican, Mexico."
It didn't take very long for his words to sink in, however, Lynné remained silent for a moment. Mexico? Mexico?? She didn't even speak Spanish, for Christ's sake! What the hell were these bastards thinking assigning her to Mexico? Soon, Lynné became lost in her own thoughts, blocking out everything else. She was so deep in concentration, that Latch didn't want to interrupt her with the other part of her mission.
"Uh, Lynné?" he asked cautiously.
"What?" she snapped.
"That's not all I was supposed to tell you."
"Well, Latch, I hate to sound pushy," said Lynné, turning her back to him and raising her gun, "but I have a few more cardboard cutouts to 'decorate,' so if you don't mind . . . get on with it, or fuck off."
"You're getting a partner."
Lynné didn't respond, instead she remained frozen with her gun pointed at one of the cardboard figures she had been using as target practice. The things were supposed to spring out at you unexpectedly and you were supposed to shoot at them. Simple enough. Only thing was, you were blindfolded the entire time.
Sighing, she turned back to her 'boss.'
". . . .could be worse," she said reasonably. "After all, it's not like they're gonna stick me with a rookie or anything."
At these words, Latch preformed his nervous shift again.
"Uhh, yeah . . . about that . . ."
- - -
'Partner . . . PARTNER!?' she thought wildly. What did those bastards take her for? Lynné Sands was not something to be taken lightly, and the CIA knew this.
Which is, more than likely, why you're ass is being sent of to -- the voice snickered with mirth -- Mexico??
Lynné stormed through the office, paying no mind to how anyone reacted to her sudden fury. Passing through the sliding doors of the entranceway, she strode out to the CIA's parking lot, intend of finding her car and making it back to her apartment without having to . . . take out her anger . . . on some unsuspecting person.
They were idiots. They were all complete morons and she had taken them for just that the moment she had set foot into the headquarters of the CIA. But this was a bit much, even for them. They were fools to think that they could send some rookie officer out to some goddamn town in Mexico and hope that they would both make it back alive. Now, if it had been a more experience person they were asking her to accompany, things might turn out differently. The worst her 'partner' would have come back to the States with was a missing foot or shattered nerves at the least. But at least they would have come back. This fuckmook rookie, a newcomer to the biz, would eat away at her self-control. Most of these bastards either thought they were always right for some reason, pushed others around, or kissed ass. For the most part, rookies usually had all three of these qualities rolled into one. And even on the off chance that this person wasn't a stereotypical rookie, she still would not be able to cope with them. It just wasn't her. She never seemed to get along with most people. She could read them; they couldn't read her. Best to just keep things separate, and let everyone be.
Just as she had reached her small, silver Corvette, a tentative voice stopped her.
"Miss Sands?"
Oh God . . . not one of these little pricks who never called her anything but 'miss' of 'ma'am.' No way. If a person decided to call her that out of respect, okay, but she could not handle it if this guy was going to call her 'miss' all the time, not if they were supposed to go all the way to freaking Mexico together.
Turning around slowly, exasperatedly, Lynné Sands said calmly:
"The one. The only."
The young man before her grinned, relieved.
"My name is Liam Fusco, I'm sure Agent Latch told you already, but I'm your partner for the mission in Cullican . . ."
And he immediately plunged into their mission and how he hoped they would get along well since that was one of the main things about having a partner. But Lynné wasn't interested in this; it was all old news to her. After he had made certain that she wasn't going to shoot him, Latch had told Lynné everything she needed to know about her assignment and partner. Speaking of partner . . . he wasn't too bad. Not in looks, anyway. He was tall and slim with nice facial features. He had friendly blue eyes that made him seem anything but dangerous, unlike her, but she didn't like hair. Its dirty blonde color was okay, but the rest of it was too short. She would have to do something about that.
- - -
That was nearly four years ago . . .
Lynné lowered the book she was reading and looked across the living room at Liam, who sat in front of his laptop, typing away. He had indeed let his hair grow; it just brushed his shoulders now, though he hardly ever let it out of a loose ponytail. She had even goaded him into growing a small moustache and goatee to go with his hair. Now Lynné studied her partner intently. Yeah, an improvement had definitely been made. But he still liked to spend much of his time in the evenings on that damn computer. She sighed impatiently and resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
"I'll be done in a second," he told her, his eyes never leaving the screen. "This is –"
"Say important, and I'll break your fingers. And you can't very well play Solitaire like that, now can you?"
"For your information," Liam began, using a statement Lynné thought only girls used, "I'm not playing Solitaire."
She raised an eyebrow. "Then what are you doing, pray tell?"
"Talking to my brother," he answered distractedly, going back to his typing.
"That the one who's a doctor?" she asked. Liam had five brothers.
"Yeah, Adam."
"What field's he in again?" she wanted to know as she began to dive into her book again.
"Well, he's a surgeon," replied Liam uncertainly, who had never been to medical school like his partner. "Actually, he was telling me about this new thing he's been working on."
"Mmm," was all she said, then, "How's it coming?"
"Well, it's worked in all the animals they've tested it on so far."
Liam tossed an uneasy glance her way. Lynné had always hated animal testing, which was strange seeing how she never even flinched when she killed a person, whether she had to or simply on her own free will. That was the main reason Sands had rigged that bullfight he had gone to; he had only taken out bets to throw people off.
"Mmm," Lynné said again, once again engrossed in her book. Suddenly, she looked up.
"What's he experimenting with, anyway?"
- - -
Mwahahaha . . . . I'll just leave it at that, being the evil person that I am. Hey, I have got Sands as a head-voice, after all. And I know Lyn's up there somewhere, as well. What did you expect?
'Where am I Going to?' is a song from the musical 'Evita.' I'm just borrowing it for this story cuz Lyn's the little show tune fan in my head. I think she gets it from me, actually. 9.6;