Guilt, worry and regret weren't emotions August Walker is used to feeling. But as he carried an incredibly light, unconscious female away from a growing puddle of blood, those three pesky emotions were the only things he felt. As he carried the victim into the make-shift office he saw before, he wondered how on earth he ever became an assassin.
He was so fucking stupid. So fucking idiotic.
What kind of CIA assassin doesn't spot a bomb wire? A dead one.
When August entered the office, he gently laid the girl down on the desk. The rise and fall of her chest and the sound of her ragged breaths lessened the self-deprecating emotions August was feeling. Just as he went to reach for his phone in his back pocket, he noticed several polaroids along the surface of the old desk, all on the walls of the room.
Taking a step towards the main bulletin board behind the desk, August got a closer look at the photos. Picking one up, he noticed a woman dressed in a short, form-fitting dress. She had lightly tanned skin, that his keen observation skills noticed, was covered in layers of some type of makeup in an attempt to hide a variety of bruises along her body. He assumed the makeup was supposed to make her look more desirable, but the red, puffy eyes and broken expression on her face ruined any chance for anyone to think she was consenting.
That particular expression and similar dress style was the only thing all pictures seemed to have in common. Women of all different ages, ethnicity, weight, hair colour, etc. were covering the walls, all seeming to stare straight at August, mocking him, blaming him for their unfortunate ends.
A slightly familiar face stuck out to August. It was a little hard to connect the bloody and dirty girl on the desk and the girl in the photograph, but it was the eyes. They had been seared into August's mind before he shot her would-be killer. He assumed the photo had been taken some time ago as she seemed to be closer to a healthy weight than she did now, her cheeks a little fuller, bones still hidden under a light layering of fat and muscle. But this was her.
Looking at this photo sent August into a contemplative state. How long had she been here? How long has it been she's eaten, slept, bathed? How long did it take to claw out all the hope of rescue from all these women?
The thought of rescue finally broke August out of his thoughts. Reaching back August, grabbed his satellite phone from the back pocket of his cargo pants. Calling into his superiors August curtly explained what occurred. Before the operator could demand more information, August cut them off saying " It doesn't fucking matter what happened right now. I needed a medical and extraction team here 15 minutes ago. Get it done."
End call. So much for getting back in Sloane's good books. But as August sat back in the dusty, desk chair he found he didn't care. As he watched the somewhat steady rise and fall of this tragic girl's chest he thought to himself, nothing Sloane lectures him about will be worse than what he thought of himself.