(Author's notes: I apologize to my readers for not updating in half a year. If you have been reading TSoF or Blue Waltz, you would know that my writing production went way down due to my pregnancy. I gave birth to a healthy baby boy back in April. My priorities were on my other DT and DWD fanfictions, but I now feel up to picking this story back up. I hope that you, dear readers, are still with me and are ready to jump into quirky antics involving FBI Agent Fenton, body guard Drake Mallard, clueless Launchpad, crimeboss Jim "The Negaduck" Starling, and "fiance" Charity Loveatte. )

The Hit

Chapter 7

Fenton woke up with someone slapping his face. It wasn't a hard slap, merely a tapping on the cheek. But he had a whopper of a headache. Groggily, he tried to block the assaults but his arms were restrained. Opening his eyes and groaning, it took him a few seconds to realize he was tied up in a chair.

His eyes widened, all sleepiness gone, as he took in his surroundings. He was in a small, dark room with a single-bulb lamp over his head, a scene that seemed to be right out of a Hollywood gangster movie. But that wasn't what scared him the most. It was the bull that was breathing in his face.

"Good, you're awake," Taurus Bulba said, blowing another steaming breath at Fenton before moving away. "The boss hates to wait."

Despite his aching head and having difficulty remembering just how he ended up tied to a chair in a dark room, Fenton had no problems knowing who Bulba or his boss were. "Uh, I think there's been a little bit of a misunderstanding."

At least, he hoped that was true. If Bulba knew he was an FBI agent, there was little doubt that Fenton would be the newest face added to the Bureau's MIA list. And the worst thing was, since Fenton was going AWOL, nobody would know what had really happened to him.

"I think the biggest misunderstanding comes from the fact that you thought you could get away with breaking into Negaduck's estate to kill his fiancé," Bulba said with a chuckle.

Fenton's eyes bulged. Yes, it was a misunderstanding, but not the one he was hoping for. Time to bluff.

"Look, I'm just the chauffeur. It's my first day on the job, and I'll admit I was a bit curious and went where I wasn't supposed to, but I didn't see or do anything," Fenton said, his voice high with anxiety.

"Wandering around the house with a piece like this," Bulba said, pulling out Fenton's off-duty weapon. "Explain what you were planning on doing with this."

That's right, Fenton thought, his memories coming back. I pulled my weapon when I found Mallard had been drugged. And then…Wait, did I just get my butt kicked by Negaduck's fiancé?

Fenton was so involved in his thoughts and his last memories of Charity wiping the floor with him that he didn't respond to Bulba.

"If you're not going to talk, I might as well save myself some time and end this," Bulba said, leveling Fenton's own weapon, aiming at the duck's head.

"Wait! Is Negaduck in the business of sending a hit out on his fiancé and killing everyone who answers his ad?" Fenton shouted, saying the first thing that came to mind.

Bulba raised the barrel so it pointed to the ceiling. "Ah, so you do admit to being a hitman."

Relieved that death wasn't so imminent, Fenton bluffed the heck out of the situation. "Yes, I am. And I don't appreciate how I've been treated since I've been trying to do Negaduck a favor. You should tell that boss of yours that if he insists on tying up and interrogating every hitman he sees, he should learn to do his own dirty work."

Oh, if Agent Beaks could see him now, he would probably laugh himself silly. What was he trying to accomplish by acting tough around the second most dangerous man in St. Canard?

"The point of not doing my own dirty work is so that I'm not connected to the bodies," the most dangerous man in St. Canard said, stepping into the room. "Which was the point of hiring a hitman smart enough to know not to commit murder in my home."

Fenton gulped. "B-but that's what makes it the perfect plan. Who would ever suspect that Negaduck would be connected to any murder that happened in his own home? Eh?" He plastered the best "evil" smile he could on his face.

Negaduck considered this before nodding. "Alright, you have a point. Bulba, let him go."

"Are you sure, boss?" the bull asked. He still held Fenton's piece in his large hands. Despite the fact that his thick fingers couldn't possibly pull the trigger on the small handgun, he was still capable of using it to kill.

"The kid's right," Negaduck said, holding out his hand for the gun. "I can't be offing guys who are trying to off the person I want offed."

Fenton sighed at being referred to as a "kid." Even in the criminal element, he still couldn't get any respect.

Bulba broke the ropes restraining Fenton with a quick snap.

Massaging his arms to get the blood flowing again, Fenton readied himself for this to be a trick.

Negaduck shoved the gun into Fenton's chest and nodded to the door. "Get out of here. Amateurs like you shouldn't be playing around with the big boys."

Fenton nodded. "Yes, sir," he said as if Negaduck was his own father. He skedaddled while the skedaddling was good.

"And don't show your face here again," Negaduck shouted.

Bursting out of the door, it took Fenton a moment to realize he was no longer on Negaduck's property or even on the grounds. Instead, he was in the city, and not in a good part of it. Based off of the smokestacks in the distance and the sound of train whistles, he was somewhere on the west side.

Patting his pockets, he was glad to find his wallet and phone still there. It had been a really close call. If Bulba or Negaduck had gone through his wallet or broke into his phone, they would have found out he was FBI.

He felt unbelievably fortunate. He had escaped a face-to-face with the Negaduck, and came out with only a few ruffled feathers and a crack on his phone's screen. He was tempted to buy a few scratchers to see how long this luck would last.

He found a couple of street sighs before calling a taxi, and he had to promise a really big tip for a driver to travel to that neck of the woods. It also gave him the opportunity to figure out what he was going to do next. The most logical step would be to return to the hotel where Launchpad was laying low until Drake caught up with them.

Drake!

Fenton had forgotten. Before he was knocked out by Charity—those questions would have to wait—he had inspected Drake, who was passed out on the floor. He had been drugged! Was he okay? What had happened after he was knocked unconscious? And most importantly, who had drugged Drake?

Fenton had assumed it was another hitman…or the first one since both he and Launchpad weren't exactly hitmen but had both been mistaken for one. Did that mean that there was a real hitman in the mansion? Was Drake and Charity in danger?

He finger-slammed the dial button for Drake's number, urging for someone to pick up. After ringing a half-a dozen times, it went to voicemail.

"No, come on. Pick up," he shouted, calling again. It went to voicemail again.

What could he do? He couldn't very well show up back at Negaduck's mansion, demanding to see if Charity and Drake were okay? He couldn't have Launchpad check on them. Should he call the police and make an anonymous tip?

A thought popped into his head. Drake was under a drug, but if Charity was safe, she would answer her phone. Due to his photographic memory, he was able to recall her number that was in Negaduck's file from the time they had checked her phone records. He typed the number in and called.

Within seconds, her voice came through the speaker. "Hello?"

"Ah?" Fenton had been so anxious that the two were dead to have thought about what he was going to say. Thinking fast, Fenton put on the thick accent that his grandfather had when telling stories to his grandchildren. "Hello, our company is having a promotion that I'm sure you are interested in. May I know how many men are present and alive at your current location?"

"Is this a scam?" Charity asked skeptically.

"Absolutely not. Totally not a scam," Fenton said. "Now, to be eligible for our million dollar sweepstakes, I need to talk to the closest man to you, if you please."

"This is the weirdest scam I have ever heard," Charity said. "I'm going to hang up right now."

"Please, don't hang up," Fenton said. "Is everyone alive where you are?"

"I'm hanging up."

The phone call ended.

Fenton sighed. Not that he blamed her. But at least she didn't sound as if she had just had a life-or-death encounter. But that didn't discount that the actual assassin hadn't made their move just yet.

He didn't have much choice. He would have to go back to the mansion and warn them. In the meantime, he would keep texting Drake until he got an answer.


Charity sighed, having won level 98 in Candy Crush. Hurray. So exciting.

She straightened her spine, tilted her head back and forth to crack it a few times before looking at Drake's prone body in the hospital bed. The heart monitor beeped faithfully, and the duck remained motionless.

She sighed and started level 99.

It was physically painful for her to have to sit in the hospital room and wait, especially with all the information she was able to copy from Negaduck's computer saved on a USB drive in her purse and just waiting for her to take it back to Martha to decode and analyze. It had been exhilarating to finally get into Negaduck's inner sanctum. Unfortunately, Martha hadn't been able to hack into the computer even with Charity's help, but in the twenty minutes she was there, Charity had downloaded as many files as she could onto a USB drive she always had with her. It could mean that her time pretending to be Negaduck's fiancé was at an end.

And when Starling and Bulba finally told her that the mansion was safe and ushered her downstairs, she was ready to take off to Sunny and Martha's apartment to show them what she had stole. However, there was the matter of what to do with Drake.

Since Starling and Bulba had other matters to attend to, AKA the crazy duck with a gun who Charity laid flat with a couple of punches, her fiancé put her and Drake's care into the hands of one of the random henchmen that was at the crime lord's disposal, which meant that the three of them would take a trip to the hospital.

Starling insisted on it. He wanted to make sure the bodyguard he hired wasn't harmed lest insurance companies and lawyers became involved in the whole situation. Starling had mentioned insurance companies and lawyers as if they were the real bad guys here.

No matter how she protested, Charity was forced to go to the hospital with the instructions to be looked at herself considering the scare she had just gone through. Pouting, she relented, which is how she ended up sitting in a hospital room with Drake in bed and Starling's muscle outside, knowing full-well that her body guard was going to be right as rain because she was the one who drugged him.

"Delicious," her phone said when she engaged a power-up.

And speaking of delicious, she was getting hungry. Hospital food was her only option, and at that point, she wasn't going to be picky. Just when she was preparing to find a cafeteria or even a vending machine, there was a painful groan, and Drake sat up in bed slowly.

"Uh…what happened?" Drake asked, looking at the IV taped to his hand.

"You passed out," Charity said, sticking to her innocent story. "You were drugged by an assassin."

"An assassin?" Drake repeated slowly. "What assassin?"

"The chauffer," Charity said with a shrug. "Between him and Launchpad, I think Jim needs to do a better job with his background checks. Luckily, he was stopped before he hurt anyone. That is…except for you." She smiled at how convenient it was to pin drugging Drake on the assassin.

"The chauffer?" Drake shouted, leaping out of bed.

"Chill, Mallard," Charity said. "He's not going to hurt anyone else." Yes, Charity knew exactly what that meant. She didn't like the idea of Negaduck committing another murder, but to paraphrase the saying, those who live by the gun, die by the gun. She had a job to do, and nothing was going to stand in her way.

"Where's my phone?" Drake demanded, yanking the IV out of his hand, ignoring the blood dripping from the open wound.

"Whoa, wait just a minute. I have it here," Charity said. However, instead of grabbing his phone from her purse where she kept it, she grabbed some tissues from a box kept nearby and pressed it to Drake's hand. "I know you're in the hospital, but that doesn't mean you can bleed all over the place."

Drake took a deep breath, calming himself, before taking over putting pressure on the wound. "My phone?"

"Right here," Charity said, pulling it out. "It's been beeping non-stop for the past twenty minutes."

Drake took it and turned his back to the lovebird, his thumb moving rapidly across the screen. After a few seconds, the muscles in his body relaxed. "Thank goodness," he whispered.

"Is everything okay?" Charity asked, more curious than concerned. Drake was acting weirder than normal.

"Oh, it's my…mom," Drake said jerkily. He was obviously lying about something. "She was worried when I didn't respond to her text. I let her know I'm okay."

Charity shrugged. It wasn't her business.

Drake rummaged through one of the drawers, found a bandage, and put it on his hand. "Okay, let's go," he said.

"Don't you need a doctor to check you out before we leave?" Charity asked.

Drake grabbed his chart near the door and looked it over. "My vitals are good. No sign of complications. I'm good to discharge once conscious." He grabbed his suit jacket draped on a chair and put it on. He patted his shoulder. He paled. "I had a…gun. Where is it?"

"They wouldn't let us bring it in the hospital," Charity said. "Jim's goon—I mean, employee—locked it in the trunk."

Drake nodded.

Outside the room, Starling's goon was on level 145 of Candy Crush. At the sight of the pair, he snorted. "Finally. Let's get out of this dump."

At the nurse's station, the three were upheld as several staff members protested Drake being released so early, insisting on a doctor checking him out first. But Drake insisted on leaving and firmly said he didn't need a doctor. Apparently there was nothing the nurses could do, and let him go after signing a few papers.

At the car, the goon unlocked the trunk for Drake to retrieve his shoulder harness, which he merely hid under his coat for the moment.

"You two are gonna have to call a cab," the goon said, lighting a cigarette and opening the driver's door. "I've got some business to attend to, and I'm not playing chauffer for ya."

Charity was irritated by this, but was glad she wouldn't have to get back in the car. It stank so heavily of smoke that she had struggled to breathe. Not to mention, even Dopey Drake was much better companionship than the goon.

"Can you believe that guy?" Charity joked as the car zoomed away. "And you just got out of the hospital."

"Does this mean that I'm taking you home?" Drake asked with a raised eyebrow as they walked to the front of the hospital. Hailing a taxi there wouldn't be any problem.

Charity was tempted. After the day she had, she would love to have some alone time, but she needed to get the USB drive to Martha. And from experience, she couldn't sneak out later. The footman at her apartment complex was in Starling's pocket and would tattle on her. If she had known just how much of a control freak Negaduck was with his girlfriends, Charity wouldn't have volunteered for this role.

It would be best to meet up with Martha and Sunny to make the exchange.

Besides, she was hungry.

Coincidentally, Drake's stomach growled at that time.

"Sounds like we have other plans," Charity joked.

Drake responded by taking out those stupid sunglasses and putting them on. "Really? After I was just barely released from the hospital." It was the most cavalier thing he had ever said to her.

"I'll let you pick the restaurant," Charity offered, a peace-offering for spiking his drink. Thank goodness he didn't seem to remember that.

He nodded.


When Drake suggested a sports bar that he frequented, he didn't think Charity would go for it. She and her friends always went to restaurants that had fancy menus and served fancy, fruity drinks, and he doubted they hadn't had anything dipped in a deep-fat fryer ever. He was surprised that Charity agreed, calling her two tag-alongs to meet them.

Of course she would call her friends. It wasn't like her to go eat out with her body guard, which would have been the perfect time to tell her about how her fiancé wanted her dead and that an FBI agent—who had almost died—wanted to save her. But he would wait for the opportunity later when he would take her home. In the meantime, he was going to enjoy the best onion rings he had ever tasted.

While the girls slid into a booth and chatted over their menus, Drake sat at the bar that had a large mirror where he could watch Charity without having to turn around. After ordering his meal, he pulled out his phone and called Fenton. It was a relief to know he wasn't involved in the murder of an FBI agent, and he wanted some details about what happened at the mansion.

When Fenton picked up, he didn't even let Drake have a word in as he blathered about an assassin still in the mansion and how he had to pretend to be a hitman to convince Negaduck and Bulba to let him go. It was simply miraculous that they all weren't six feet under after what had happened that day.

"We're no longer there," Drake reassured Fenton. "They took me to the hospital, and now we're downtown at a restaurant, eating."

"Oh, good. You're both okay," Fenton said. "I'm heading back to the hotel to meet up with McQuack. I suggest you do the same. And I don't care what she says, bring Ms. Loveatte with you. I don't think we should take any chances with her. Even if she doesn't believe you, bring her." There was a pause on the phone. "You know what, why don't you tell me where you're eating, and I'll be your back-up. You might need it."

"I don't think any other assassins are going to find us here," Drake said as a waitress brought him his food. "We're not exactly in her usual haunts. Nobody would expect us to be here."

"I'm not talking about protection," Fenton said. "You might need help getting her to come with you. She's deceptively strong, and I'd say at least a black belt in one martial arts."

Drake burst out laughing, choking on the food he had in his mouth. He had never heard something so funny.

"I'm completely serious!"

"You must be mistaken," Drake said still chuckling.

"She knocked me out, and it wasn't by mistake. I don't think she's who she appears to be," Fenton said.

"Have you spent any time with her?" Drake asked. "She's a complete Barbie. She can't even walk ten steps without tripping over her stupid shoes."

"I'm telling you, she's only pretending to be like that," Fenton persisted.

"Okay, this joke isn't funny anymore," Drake said. "This is a girl who carries around a Louis Vaitton bag and spends her day looking at videos of baby animals while squealing or crying. Sometimes both. You must have hit yourself on something and imagined it."

But just as he was saying that, he recalled a memory of Charity forcing him to drink something. Was that real or just a dream?

"I'm just saying something is up with her," Fenton protested. "You should keep an eye on her."

"Okay. Okay," Drake placated. "Oh, I have to go. It's an emergency. She broke a nail." He hung up, shaking his head. This is what the FBI had to offer?

He was just picking up his char-broiled burger that was dripping with sauces when the bell to the sports bar rang to indicate another customer coming in. Out of habit, he glanced in the mirror to see who it was. He merely assessed the green feathered woman who came in with a quick glance, noting her sleek black dress, her purposeful walk and the way her hand sat in her purse. At first, he disregarded the woman before wondering what was a single woman with such a nice dress and purse doing in a sport's bar? Besides Charity and her friends.

She wasn't the bar's usual patron.

Her demeanor didn't show that she was meeting someone since her steps were deliberate. And why was her hand in her purse but she wasn't looking down as if she were searching for something?

He turned around when he realized the woman was walking toward Charity's table, pulling something out of her purse.

"Get down!" he shouted, seeing the gleam of metal from a revolver.