Thank you guys for the reviews! I hope you enjoy this chapter!
There are a few grammatical errors, and I'm sorry for that. I'm trying to catch them.
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The room was clouded with a thin haze of smoke and fog, the air reeking of sweat and sex. Bodies grinding against one another, moans of ecstasy, hands snaking up and under dresses. It was hot and dirty, reminding her of the one mission she worked in Ireland. To be more specific, it was labeled as an acid house party, which was just another name for a rave. The only reason she'd been there was to get information on a drug smuggler with an agent held hostage. Her job was to retrieve and terminate, a task she wasn't too fond of.
Killing was just part of her career, though, and when management called with the job, no one questioned it or denied. Burn notices would have been issued, government protection dropped. Friends and families would suddenly become targets, and agents more often than not had thousands of enemies. Her list was no exception to that. Enemies, enemies of enemies, former agents, and families of those agents, agencies she pissed off, other agents doing their jobs, "co-workers" and the list went on. However, that particular mission wasn't one she would have turned down due to the blood on her hands. It was just the close proximity.
Agents don't have telltale signs of being agents. They're taught to blend. With an alias, it's never a given that someone wouldn't catch on or that she wouldn't have a target on her back. Paranoia was easy to set in when she dealt with mafia and crowded places. If anyone saw her, if anyone pulled a gun, the bloodshed would have been great, blood splattered everywhere. Through the grinding, touching, and mixed movements of body motion, it was easy to miss key information.
That was what created rule 1, the golden rule.
Rule 1: Even your best friend can be your enemy. Don't trust easily, but don't look paranoid. Let hyper vigilance lead the way and beware of the Greek bearing gifts, even if you are Greek. You'll end up with a knife in your back, or at your throat, whichever they managed to get to first.
That moment was no exception. All of those people had been upper class with body guards, no doubt. Perhaps not in the mix of their dancing or enjoyment, but scattered around to ensure safety. All but the writer she'd been watching out for. Cocky, egotistical, and moronic, what his father told her about him was very true. He was stubborn and more than convinced he would survive. He's also a playboy, she noted in disgusted, watching as the man danced with two women, both blondes.
She sighed, waving for the bartender to get her something to drink. There were two rules to keep in mind as an agent undercover. Especially if a case beckoned them from hiding.
Rule 3a: When undercover, blend in and belong.
Rule 3b: If noticed undercover, be the only thing noticed or abort the mission.
She, in this case, just belonged. Her body leaning on the bar top, half turned on the stool. A dress that was tight fitted, but covered her chest and clung to her thighs mid-way. Guys lost interest in women who were covered. Though, she still managed to seem important. She was just withdrawn.
Drink in hand, she took a few sips, trying to look as if she'd been absentmindedly thinking as she scoped out any signs of the men who had wanted to kill her client. Once again, the signs proved to be non-verbal cues. Ranging from small gestures such as tapping on a glass twice to a hand scraping through hair, she waited for any signals that combined to make chit-chat.
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His eyes hadn't intentionally landed on her for the eighteenth time in a row, but she seemed so familiar. Maybe he bought her drink once before? Or slept with her? He hadn't known. The last few days had fogged his mind, but the brunette with her back to him seemed so interesting suddenly.
As he departed the two women, making his way to the bar, he realized who it was. Russia. He wished he didn't have to call her that, but "lady that stabbed him in the chest and saved his life" seemed a bit eccentric. He wasn't even sure how to feel when he saw her again, the idea that she'd tried to murder him running through his mind. After all, how many people had anti-virus for foreign toxins on hand? Was that even legal? Probably not, he decided.
His hand unintentionally rubbed against his chest at the thought, a slightly shaky breath pushing passed his lips. The police had said it was an attack on him, that he was the only one who had been served with whatever it had been. Anger, fear, and overall happiness flooded him. A thank you and a few questions sparking through his mind, he leaned next to her.
"Bartender, I could use something strong," he played off coolly, glancing at her and turning back to the man in front of him for effect. Then, he took another glance, pretending to be taken by surprise. "You!" He exclaimed, sliding onto the sit next to her.
He'd spent hours looking over the guest list, desperately seeking answers and finding none as to who she was. So, he figured she had a good explanation as to why she broke into his party and just so happened to have the medication she needed. As he waited for a response, he was taken to meet her hazel eyes, the green protruding through the brown. They were so much pretty when he wasn't dying and desperately gasping for air.
"Hello," she forced out, doing her best not have any traces of her Russian accent. It was hard not to curl her tongue or greet him in some other form or fashion. The barrier between foreign languages and English had been hard to adjust to, but once she had, they were harder to shake.
He extended his hand. "Richard Castle, famous author that you saved, but you already know that," he shrugged.
Part of her nearly acted on instinct, her thumb and index finger itching to reach out and pinch his hand, thumb pressing against the middle of his palm while her pointer finger applied pressure to the delicate bones of his hand, settling somewhere between his against the center. It might not have broken the bones, but it gave her an advantage of twisting his wrist and pinning him.
She didn't reach out to shake his hand, deciding against it. He could tell there was some sort of restrain to her movement, something she didn't want to do, but his move possibly offended her. To anyone else, they would have shrugged and thought it was part of her persona. "Don't I get your name at least?" He asked, pouting to get his way.
"Katrina," she murmured, sipping her drinking and looking forward as opposed to looking at him. "I think you have me confused with someone else."
English had been harder on pronunciation, but she managed to get through the sentence without giving too much detail about where she'd been. Setting her glass down, she let her finger rim the cup. Perhaps she could flirt her way out of conversation. Though, flirtation was a powerful force in undercover operations. It never ended well, but it often got the job done for women in her line of work. One glance, a bat of the lash, a small smile, it never hurt that much. Well, not until after, when the emotional debris would settle and leave her wounded. She'd chalked it up to that just being life, the way things had to be. She was a risk, love was a risk, and having emotional connections were just as risky. So, she avoided all real feelings and emotions, playing her role without hesitation.
That brought on the next three rules:
Rule 17: When playing your alias, stick to it. Don't hesitate, don't blink. It gives observational assholes a sign that you're not who you say you are.
Rule 26: Shake what your mama gave you. Anything is a weapon, especially looks. Use them.
Rule 2: Getting caught in a romance and actually caring wasn't an option when there were men who wanted you hurt and dead.
"How did you know that I was going to get poisoned?" He quickly cut to the chase.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she murmured.
He frowned, blue eyes staring at her with question. "I think you do and I'm sure the police would love it if I called and said one of their key witnesses was here," he murmured, pulling his phone out.
This time, there was no hesitation as she reached out, snatching his phone and dropping it into her drink. It was probably bugged the federal government and those who wanted him dead. "Mr. Castle," she started, noting how his eyes just stared at the glass. Had there not been a small signal sent across the room, she wouldn't have taken her eyes off of his shocked expression.
Her eyes flicked up, focusing on the men. One stood by the door, the other across the room near the bathroom. Signing discretely, using more slang hand terms than anything, she tried to decipher them. Sliding off of her chair, her hand gently resting against the space between his shoulders blades, she managed to make out a few letters and gestures. B-_-M-B. Bomb. Even if she shouldn't have implied it, she realized she wouldn't have had much time to do anything else. When the man started to move his hand in motion of the 'wax on, wax off,' guy, she furrowed her brows.
His jaw was slack as he stared, but when her hand rested against his back, his mind was gone. Sparks shot through him, anger dissipating. What had she done to him? He was never so intrigued by a woman before, but this time? This person… she was something new, something different. His head turned, ready to make some sexual comment, but she seemed to be lost, concentrating.
"Stay put," she ordered, the thought suddenly dawning her. She was quick to disappear among the group of people, but she felt it shouldn't have surprised her when he followed. Trying to shake him off in the group, she got to the fire escape and shoved the door open, bells and alarms ringing as the sprinklers turned on and sprits the raving group into a frenzy.
Her hand quickly grabbed a chain that had been used to lock the door when there weren't people in there. Stepping out, her ridiculously elevated heels clicking against the pavement, she tied the chain on the bars of the double door and took off for the parking lot to scout for the red Ferrari he drove.
The thing about car bombs? There were only a few ways to do it without it being noticeable. Tampering with the gas tank and piping or sliding a plastic device in the right place towards where the engine was. Sure, there were other ways, but none that some low class hit-man had time for, and she was sure that whoever had planted the car bomb, providing it was car bomb for him, wasn't one of the higher ups. Who even signaled code in public when they could possibly be getting watched?
Taking a deep breath and getting down on her knees, rolling onto her back, she managed to get under the car and checked the gas tank and piping to make sure they hadn't been tampered with. Delicate fingers made their way around the bottom of the car, trying to make sure all was in place and sounded before she scooted, turning around her so she was positioned at the front of the car.
Looking up between a small gap, she sighed and tried moving her hand between the metal pieces. Footsteps neared as drenched guests climbed into their car and decided she only had a few minutes before he'd join them, giving up on looking for her. Damn it, she couldn't get her hand up far enough.
"I promise, mother, everything's fine," she heard, body tensing. So, her timing was off. He was closer than she thought. "There wasn't a fire…. The woman from a few nights ago was here and set them off….. I know, but I want anwers," he protested.
The tips of her fingers just grazed the plastic, but when she curled her index finger in, she soon realized her bracelet was caught and something sharp had started to dig into her skin. So, maybe these guys did know what they were doing. Partly, anyway. A well placed knife or pin made a person thing and choose between what they'd rather go through.
"I'll be home in twenty minutes," she heard him insist, the car door opening and shutting.
Her heart hammered in her chest, adrenaline running high. Back pressed against the ground, tiny pebbles and rocks pressing against her neck, the pavement harsh against her head as she re-positioned herself to get a better grip, she closed her eyes to focus. Teeth pressing into her cheek to keep any cries of frustration from escaping her lips. It was going to hurt like hell, but she had no other choice.
The jingling of keys rattled above, his hands trying to find the right one before he dropped them. "Mother," he groaned. "I'm soaked and cold. Can we please have this conversation after I get home?"
Two men watched from the building, their eyes falling on the expensive vehicle and man inside. His hands grasping the keys off of the floor, he picked up his keys and found the right one again. Sliding it into the ignitions, they waited for an explosion that never came. As he backed out of his spot, tossing his phone carelessly to the passenger seat, he was taking off towards his home.
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Harsh breath, a tight chest, and the trickle of blood down her arm, she laid there for a minute. Bracelet caught and clanging around under his car, she figured it was better than a bomb. As she raised her once pale, delicate flesh to address the cut, she couldn't help but look at the device. Taped to it was a phone, and not one wired to set the bomb off. No. It was there to make a call, but to who and why?
Who the hell-?
As if her thoughts were heard, the cellphone rang, 'UNKNOWN' lighting up against it. As she tugged it off, she flipped the screen open and accepted the call. The normal person would have asked who it was or answered with their name, but she stayed silent. It had been something she learned long ago and a rule she made for herself.
Rule 21: If you're the intended target of any call or operation, let them talk and come to you.
"Agent," a male voice greeted lowly. "You seem to have a problem interfering with my work and it's really started to bother me."
"You're trying to murder my client and that's really starting to bother me," she replied.
He hummed as if thinking something over. "You're playing a dangerous game, and next time, you'll leave with more than just a little cut," he finally stated and then there was silence as the line went dead.