No where to run. How could this be happening? He knew he had calculated everything right, but something went completely wrong. As he hid in a vacant closet, he heard the sound of twenty, maybe thirty armed men running, searching, trying to find him.
A routine hit. It was perfectly calculated, with little room for variables. How could it have gone so wrong? Agent 47 felt the puncture of the single gun shot wound in his left shoulder. 47 waited. For death; for capture; for the unknown.
How could it have gone so terribly wrong? He ran the events over in his mind…
47 was driving. And driving fast. He loved his company car more than any other thing in the world, not just because it was a 2009 Passat, but because it was the one thing that connected him with the woman he loved.
Diana.
Technically, 47 had never really met Diana before. At least not in person. But Diana was the only woman who had ever treated 47 with any kindness, and for that 47 was grateful.
47 was created for one reason, and that is to kill. And so the car is just a weapon, only used when necessary for 47. The car allowed him to speak to Diana through a 2 way radio. Diana briefed 47 on all of his missions. He always enjoyed hearing her voice, and the sound of her bidding him luck when she was through with all the details.
This time, her instructions were quick and simple, and although 47 didn't like the instructions, it was his duty to complete the mission.
Yes, 47 loved his car. That's why he had great displeasure in driving into the Drug Lord's front-left bedroom window at 63 miles per hour at 11:47:51 p.m. The man was killed instantly.
Disgusted with the loss of his favorite car, 47 found strength in the fact that he would be compensated with a new car in the near future. 47 double checked under his car, and sure enough, there was the anonymous bad guy, underneath his left rear tire. He noticed that he may have also accidentally killed a hooker. Oh well…
The familiar sounds of police car sirens rang, as inevitably one of the nearby neighbors had heard the crash.
"Around 20 seconds" he said to himself. He had plenty of time to escape.
Suddenly, a sharp pain snagged his shoulder. "What the-!" he yelped, and turned to face what looked like dozens of crazed, angry, men, rushing through the new opening of the house. All of them had weapons.
Within a moment, 47 reached to whip his silverback guns out. However, his left arm did not move. It hung uselessly to his side.
This moment of hesitation was all the mobsters needed to rush on top of 47, and if they weren't all highly intoxicated from their heroin use, they may have well killed him. 47 used the strength of his right arm to grab his silverback and shoot sporadically into the mass of bad guys. Frantically, he backed away and escaped into the untarnished remains of the Drug Lord's giant house, with dozens of blood thirsty men at his heels.
He quickly escaped into a small closet to retrace his steps and come up with a plan.
***
She had worked at the Agency for a long time, but had never experienced anything like this. Diana was a trusting person. She always had been. But weird things started happening the last couple of days.
The computers had calculated an unusually high probability of there being a mobster meeting in that house that night. In those highly dangerous situations, someone more expendable was usually called-in the form of an anonymous tip to the local police station. However, sending a single agent to such dangerous territory meant certain death, and Diana knew it. However, she had to give the orders, or the agency director could easily dispose of her.
Diana loved 47, though she knew it could never work. Women aren't supposed love clones. She needed to help 47.
She left her post, fully aware that while she turned her back to her desk, she was also about to turn her back on the Agency-which meant certain death in itself.
