Xenia sat amid silence, watching the two men sit in a comatose state. This device held a bowl shape over each of their heads, connecting their minds in ways thought impossible. Of course, leave it to the tyrants to develop something like this.
One of the men was her direct superior. Surtr. He who wields his bright sword. He who will slay the Gods, and whose flames that he brought forth will engulf the Earth. Never before had Xenia met someone so willing to tame this corrupt world.
The other was a famous Egyptian psychiatrist, Abu Hayat—Hasani's friend. A Nobel Prize winner, the media liked to call him 'Father Life.' A moniker they'd retract if they knew how he cured his patients. But he earned his standing for a reason.
And, seeing them share a consciousness and talk with the weapon that was Agent 47, she was grateful that fate led her to Lars.
"I'm not gonna question whatever the fuck is happening there." The Russian entered the apartment, tossing a newspaper on the coffee table. Fedyenka pointed at the headline as if she couldn't see. "Mission success! Egypt will be under control, and Hasani is as ready as he can be." He glanced at Surtr. "You sure he's okay with this? Morcos sounded pretty loved."
"President Morcos was spending thousands on luxuries, eating out at fancy restaurants, and buying excessive things to decorate his home. That money could have gone to helping his people. He had it coming." The response was instant; uncaring. Xenia was already thinking about the next step.
Fedyenka grinned with crooked teeth. "Great. I've already gotten started on America. It's no wonder their own people call each other sheep—they eat up anything that pops on their phones! It's way too easy."
"Perfect timing, too. I just heard back from Senator Davis—he's in." Xenia was already dialing a number. Drystan would have to withhold Davis' files.
Not once in all of Xenia's life had she felt so satisfied—that she was affecting something. Not during her youth with Chitter, and not during her career in the CIA. Life was looking up for them.
A blank room, a moldy mattress, her bare feet slathered in baby oil, and a vagina oozing with semen. Her body was covered with a white, oversized T-shirt that fell across her thighs. Isabelle Pearce was having the nightmare again. What was new this time around was the pain. Despite her legs wobbling like jelly, she forced herself to stand. She'd wake up soon; she knew that. She just needed to replay the same old pattern.
Isabelle pushed open the door. It offered no resistance, showing her into a hallway only lit by a dim, blue light. Two people chatted at the end of the hall, their backs turned to her. "I don't get how Marko does it. If women took a shining me as much as they did him, I wouldn't even need to be here."
"That, my friend, is what we call the Ted Bundy effect. Deranged people just are more attractive."
"Yeah? We work in this shit hole, and we're still ugly sons of bitches."
He shrugged. "Or maybe it's all just the looks."
Isabelle kept shambling down what felt like an endless walk. Faint screams and cries pierced the walls, but there was a separate instance of... laughter?
Another pair of guards caught her by surprise. They just left an unmarked room, pulling their pants up, when they saw her. The two looked at each other and muttered something she couldn't understand. They walked past her.
Isabelle felt a lump form in her throat as they brushed her arm. It hurt every time she swallowed, and the slimy aftertaste of precum kept belching up.
After downing several more turns and halls, the doors stopped appearing. Isabelle found herself on what looked like an entire stage set. Placed on a half-circle platform was an old mansion's fireplace and the living room it warmed. The fire was fake; a television screen. Uncarved stone bricks made up the fireplace, with dusty mahogany bookshelves at its side. A couple of green chairs with a darker shade of floral design were placed in front of the fire. A wall kept the set contained to two-thirds of the semi-circle, with the rest of the space being completely barren.
Isabelle didn't remember this in her dream. But recognized the set as a revolving stage. Like a carousel, the different theaters would twist around the center nucleus. She thought it funny to recall her time as a theater student.
She found the corresponding control panel. And, upon pulling a switch, the platform rotated.
Isabelle took a step towards the gleaming crack of light, into the space—only to feel the dividing wall catch her back and push her toward the front wall. She yelped, feeling the wind brush past her as the space closed. Isabelle stumbled over her feet, landing half outside the rotating stage.
Cursing, she scrambled into a crawl. She latched onto something and pulled. Cold steel touched her leg when she pulled the rest of herself over. The rotating wall clamped against the stationary wall, ending with a grunt of the iron mechanisms.
Isabelle sighed in relief, though she remembered that 'dying' there might have let the dream end early...
The fireplace set piece that almost crushed Isabelle was pushed against another theater to make everything rotate. This one—a nearly identical version that was instead in total rot and disrepair—brought her into an entirely open area. The interior strangely reminded her of a Halloween mansion she'd go to as a child. Fake cobwebs took the corners, and the dreary, yet rustic decor reflected just enough of the green light to ward off complete darkness.
But the most boggling part was the rail cutting through the room—and the line of metal, chair-like carts escorting people along the ride.
"Help!" Isabelle cried, waving.
Heads turned, and eyes widened at her frantic pleas. But, after a few moments, they turned away. Some wowed at her; others pointed and laughed.
Isabelle felt her heart sink. This was not how the dream went. And she was supposed to have woken up by now.
The rotating stage started again. Lurching from the crack in the wall, a hand flew out and took her mouth. Isabelle tried to scream. More hands grabbed her body and limbs, overpowering the girl, and dragged her inside as the rotating set made her disappear.
Isabelle was thrown against the ground, tears running down her face. "Get your merchandise under control, Marko," a middle-aged woman said. "We're under enough pressure as it is."
"Please, Nanna. As if I would actually let her go again." Isabelle twitched at the voice. It belonged to the person who made her life a living hell. And she remembered. This was a nightmare—one that she was reliving.
Marko knelt to her, flashing his shiny grin that at one point assured her everything would be fine. "I missed you, Isabelle—nobody else out there did. Despite being all over TV and the news, nobody out there recognized you."
"Oh my god..." Isabelle curled up into a ball, turning her eyes away from the man. Her body and breath trembled as reality settled in.
Marko smiled at her despair, patting her head. "Let's get you back to your room. We can get you calmed down in no time." He motioned for his guards. "Vámonos!"
Isabelle was limp when they grabbed her. More than ever, she missed her home. "Oh my god..."
...
"Oh my god!" a woman cried. "You have to ride the Ferris wheel! The view there is incredible! You can see the whole park, all the massive rides, even the new one, just, oh!" She made a noise of pure excitement.
The sun beamed down for what would be a long day for many eager patrons. The woman Iris Quinn interviewed was only one of them, and the energy coagulated into an aura of joy that permeated through even the entrance gates.
"You heard it here, folks! This is Iris Quinn, reporting live at Zephyr World in Copenhagen! Or, as the slogan says, 'The Happiest Place On Earth.' As you can see behind me, people are flooding into the park, because today is the grand opening of two brand-new, highly anticipated rides! The first is the Haunted Mansion, which opened only a few hours ago!
"But what people are really anticipating today is the tallest roller coaster in Zephyr Park's history! The Thunderwing takes riders up an astonishing 110 meters before dropping them nearly the whole height! Zephyr Park's CEO, Idan Jorgensen, will be the first person to ride it, and after that, the ride will be available to the public. But already, I've been told that people have lined up for the past hours in anticipation! Fans of Zephyr Park have been—"
A somewhat familiar bald man stepped between her and the camera.
"Cut!" Iris unleashed a pent-up groan. She couldn't even say anything to the man, who instantly disappeared into the crowds. Instead, she turned to her camerawoman. "We're not meant for this kind of low-hanging fruit, Pam. Who the hell wants to hear about new amusement park rides, anyway...?"
Agent 47 entered the security check, putting his belongings into a box to be searched. He stepped through the metal detector. Finding nothing suspicious in his belongings, the security let him through with a polite "Enjoy your day."
"Welcome to Zephyr Park," Diana said. "Your targets are Idan Jorgensen, the company CEO; Nanna Skousen, his childhood friend; and Marko—no known last name—the person you meet when you wish to do business with Raul Mejías. And as it is, that is exactly what the Zephyr World executives are buying into.
"Idan has had a clean record as a businessman up until this point. Intel suggests that Nanna convinced him to harbor this side venture, with her phone records detailing constant interaction with Marko over the past few years. Currently, the backstage of their recently opened Haunted Mansion ride is host to Marko, his crew, and the 'merchandise' of human beings.
"Marko is one of Raul's closest lieutenants. He plays a role in all parts of the human trafficking system: the scouting, the luring, the shipping, and the selling. It seems he flew over in person for once, likely due to Isabelle Pearce, a woman who was rescued from the trafficking business years prior—only to have her protection slaughtered, and be kidnapped by the very same traffickers.
"The FBI, wanting to save face after Isabelle was kidnapped under their watch, has hired us to retrieve her and eliminate the perpetrators. Good luck, 47."
Location: Copenhagen, Denmark
Targets: The Front, The Spokesperson, The Merchant
VIP: Isabelle Pearce
Idan smiled for the picture, posed in the middle of a family of four in front of the park's mascot—a cartoon rendition of Alice in Wonderland's White Rabbit. It was his grandfather's idea: instead of running late for the King and Queen, the White Rabbit was eager to go to their amusement park.
Now, with the same plastered smile as the mascot (and a rebranding that tossed away any semblance of coherent theming for the sake of reaching a wider range of guests), Idan didn't blame the White Rabbit for running late. After the camera flashed a few times, his assistant moved the guests along and called, "Next!"
How he envied these patrons, able to stay and actually enjoy the rides. And out of every ride he had a chance to go on, it was the Thunderwing out of all of them.
The next person in line was what appeared to be a bald tourist. He sported a pair of sunglasses and a plain white T-shirt and shorts. The guest looked Idan up and down—jolly white beard, potbelly, and all. Idan was used to it; the first thing that likely came to the tourist's mind was Santa. That was the case with everyone.
"Hello, sir!" Idan greeted amicably, offering a hand. "How are you this fine day?"
Agent 47 shook. "That is Idan Jorgensen," his earpiece said. "Chairman of Zephyr Park, he owns several locations across the U.S., Japan, and his home of Denmark. Recently, however, the business has fallen into tough times. Other amusement parks are beating out Zephyr Park, and they've had to close two of their five locations within the past few months."
"I'm doing well," 47 said. "I'm very eager to ride the Thunderwing. What time will you open it?"
"3:00, my friend. An hour and a half from now." 47 stood beside him for the picture, and Idan showed his pearly whites. "Once I get off the ride, it'll be open for everyone!"
"And you'll be sitting in the front?"
Idan raised a brow at that. "No, actually." He glanced around, then leaned toward 47's ear. "Don't tell anyone, but I don't like roller coasters. They terrify me, so I sit in the back where it's safer." He smiled again, and the photo shoot was done. The assistant called for the next person in line.
Leaving the promotional set, Agent 47 took in the sights. Although he was flanked on all ends by the masses, the park made itself a constant presence. Its rides rose high above anything else, acting as beacons. The two most notable ones were the Ferris wheel and the to-be-opened Thunderwing.
But the first thing 47 wanted to check out was the Haunted Mansion. Unfolding the map pamphlet handed out by the staff, he pinpointed it around the southeast of the Ferris wheel.
47 passed a sectioned-off area of lowland grassy meadows. Construction workers wandered around deactivated vehicles, equipment, and building materials. Another ride was already in the works, albeit in the very early stages of structure.
"So, what do you think happened to Everett Emery?" a passerby asked his friend.
"The crew is definitely behind it. That detective they worked with looked pretty shifty in what little footage they had, and their stories don't add up! I mean, ghastly moaning? A skull apparition? All the cameras happening to glitch out that night? It's an open and shut case!"
"What about their motives? None of them really hated Everett; they even defended the Caldwell episode when it aired."
"Well... I don't know, but it makes more sense than demonic possession."
They walked out of earshot. He passed several other rides, including one spot with outdoor tables and many snack booths. 47 kept an ear out, though many other conversations had nothing of value. Soon the idle conversations became more relevant to the destination.
"I'm genuinely impressed. The screaming effects sound so lifelike!" a lady said.
"I bet they had to murder the person in the sound booth for that!" her partner joked.
A little more distance and the dark-colored roof of the Haunted Mansion showed itself first. Rounding another attraction, 47 was introduced to the gothic exterior doused in black shades. Of more notable concern was the line leading from its doors, across the garden walkway, and extending to where he stood.
Fortunately, his Agency-funded trip even provided the park's Fast Pass.
The first half of the attraction had everyone be led through a theatrical introduction, complete with lighting effects, optical illusions in paintings and busts, and a dramatic announcer calling himself their "Host." When a flash of lightning turned a painting of an old woman into a decaying corpse, a young couple shrieked and huddled instinctively behind the unmoved Agent 47. A door would open, letting the guests into the next room.
The second portion had them board a set of carriages, which took the guests through the rest of the haunted set. It was more of the same ghost props and tricks, enhanced by lighting and sound effects. What caught 47's attention, though, was when the carriages stopped beside an innocent fireplace with two green chairs in front of it. Something fizzled out, and the lights were killed. The riders murmured amongst themselves until everything lit up a dim green. The fireplace stage had become vandalized with ghosts and their writings, the word "REDRUM" scribbled over everything and each other.
Once the ride ended, everybody left with smiles on their faces.
But off to the side of the exit was a path. It was cordoned off with a barricade and a sign of the White Rabbit, explicitly telling the guests not to enter.
As they all left, 47 promptly hopped over. Going around a turn, the haunted mansion's interior quickly disappeared, leaving a blank hallway. Around another bend, he just caught the flicker of a yellow vest.
Using the darkness, 47 kept low to the ground. There was an entrance backstage, guarded by two amusement park security—although they appeared more grizzled and frowning than the usual guards. The men in the yellow vests showed them a slip of paper; their invitation. They were let in, and 47 had to leave.
The next stop was the Ferris wheel. He arrived to find a much more tolerable line than the Haunted Mansion, but there was no point in wasting time. 47 used the Fast Pass, getting to the front where he met the ride operator.
The operator was a scrawny man who looked like one of your typical wage slaves braving the relentless waves of patrons. His brows shifted a little when Agent 47 approached him. In a low voice, 47 said, "No man is so tall that he need never stretch."
The operator smiled. "And none so small that he need never stoop." This was the change he was waiting for. "It's an honor to meet the legend himself."
"Where is it?"
"The red pod, sir. Under the seat." As he said that, the pod in question was coming in for its occupant's departure. The operator let 47 through. "Enjoy your ride."
Soon enough, the Ferris wheel started. Once he was halfway up, 47 felt under the seat cushion. He felt his finger run over a tap, and it clicked open. Inside the seat was a briefcase. He only needed to peek inside to be satisfied; it was a silenced sniper rifle, untouched and ready to be assembled.
Satisfied, he returned everything to as it was. At the top, he kept his eye on the Thunderwing. The roller coaster would take its riders 110 meters up in one singular hill before a rapid drop. But at the valley where the track steadily flattened out, he noted the structures mimicking clouds with cartoon lightning hanging around. One of the lightning bolts in particular reflected the sunlight and left 47 squinting. It was larger than the others and hung directly over the track.
The Ferris wheel completed its lap, and 47 departed. "Have it ready by 3:00," he said to the operator.
...
"Have you watched any Tsardine videos, lately?" One of the Thunderwing's engineers just finished their final checkup on the ride and was ready to enjoy a snack with their friend.
"I took a small peek at his thumbnails, but... his content has really gone downhill. I miss the days when he just played video games and screamed at the camera, not this 'manly alpha pride' shit."
He laughed. "So I take it you know about the human trafficking speculations being raised against him?"
The friend shook his head. "Doesn't help that Tsardine is also in Texas, where all those mystery disappearances have been happening."
"Excuse me?" The third voice came from behind the two. It was another engineer, judging by his outfit. "Idan wants another inspection of the Thunderwing, this time to gauge how people might react on the ride.
"But... we just finished our inspection. Everything is up to code."
"And he wants another one." 47 noted their apprehension. "I'll be the one riding. You just need to work the booth for a little while."
The first engineer sighed. "Fine. Whatever." It would only take 10 or so minutes. Then he could enjoy some food.
Agent 47 sat at the back of the train. It started slow, but the speed ramp-up was extremely clear. The coaster took him through several tight turns and steep slopes—a taste of what was to come.
After dropping down a steep fall, it ramped into the 110-meter ride, providing enough speed to make the wait just quick enough for the would-be riders to brace. 47 looked around, spotting the Haunted Mansion in the corner of his eye. From up there, he saw multiple semi-trucks parked in the workers' lot next to the attraction.
The carts teetered back and forth at the tip. And, edging forward, the train fell. Torrents of wind fighting against his body, he counted the seconds. He felt the tracks even out, following the mental map he crafted from the Ferris wheel. It was over in an instant—the speed took him through a dozen following twists and turns, before leading him back to the start.
The ride ended, and 47 had to get used to the low speeds.
"So? We all set?" the engineer asked.
47 stretched his shoulders, focusing on his breath. Turning to him, he said, "I need to go through it a few more times."
...
Agent 47 found himself in the snack area and sat at a shaded table. "You seem to be enjoying this mission," Diana mused. But she knew he only thought about the task ahead, apparent by his fixed gaze on the man at the stall. "That is Marko, Raul's foreign diplomat and contract negotiator, with a side hustle of supplying the business. He has earned his place as Raul's right-hand man."
As it was, he just ordered a churro for the woman who sat beside him, shooting a wink at her as it arrived. He licked his lips of ice cream in an indicative manner. She blushed, taken in by his smile. His clean fit of a maroon suit, combed hair, and thin mustache didn't help.
But his hopes were dashed when the woman's apparent boyfriend angrily dragged her away. Still, he sent a little wave her way.
Taking his ice cream cup, Marko left the stall and retrieved his phone with his free hand. He dialed a number, and after a few beeps, the other end picked up. "Rein!" Marko was the first to speak. "You should expect a gift coming in from Denmark within the week. Raul's going to love this!" His voice fell hushed. "It's Isabelle Pearce. She hasn't changed much since I was last with her."
With Marko and Idan out in the open, the third target was likely with the 'merchandise.' Marko was still chatting when 47 left.
The hitman arrived at the Haunted Mansion yet again. He used his Fast Pass, getting into a ride as fast as the operators allowed.
He waited through the first phase, donning a blank stare compared to the more enthused guests. Before long, they were in the carriages, strolling along the rest of the mansion.
They were at the fireplace again. The lights fizzled out, encasing the guests in darkness.
Agent 47 left his cart.
When the lights came on, the fireplace set was swapped. One of the carriages was empty.
47 hugged the rotating wall as it brought him backstage. The sounds of the attraction muffled behind him, the wall clicking shut. He was now engulfed in darkness. The only source of light came from down a hall.
Approaching it, he hugged the corner just as footsteps made themselves known. A pair of the same grizzled security guards waved their flashlights around. It was only for a brief second; nothing ever came in through the rotating wall.
Waiting an extra minute to be safe, 47 moved. Around the bend was a series of doors on each side. Muffled screams and cries bled through each one, all similar to the Haunted Mansion's 'sound effects.'
One door was slightly ajar, and he could hear a repeated plapping inside. Agent 47 quietly moved through the door. A patron was indeed on the mattress with an unconscious girl to keep him company. He did not notice the extra guest.
Thrown in a dirty pile were the man's clothes, and his invitation beside it. 47 took the yellow vest and the paper, pulling the former over himself before leaving.
It was just in time, too, as the patrol turned up. One glance at the vest, and they practically ignored him.
Further down the corridor, a woman's voice echoed faintly. It was older; raspy from an old smoking habit. "Whatever you do, don't hurt them too badly. Nobody buys damaged goods." 47 peeked around the corner, looking into a crudely made lounge. The speaker, whose steel wool hair was pulled back in a bun, and face akin to an overworked teacher, addressed more customers—mostly old and middle-aged men.
"That is Nanna Skousen. Idan was her friend back in high school but cut off contact once she got hooked on cocaine after a romantic fling with a man suspected to be Marko. Idan recently got back in touch, though, and she offered him a way out of his troubles."
"We just got a box of aphrodisiacs," Nanna added. "You only get one vial. Any more, you gotta buy."
With incoming customers, 47 set to work. He had to find Isabelle's room on the off chance one of these guests wanted to have her. A task that he initially thought needed a door-to-door search, until he spotted the dried stains of body fluids on the floor. It was a trail of breadcrumbs.
47 entered a room. Sprawled on a mattress, an IV drip plying her veins with drugs, and feet splattered with baby oil, he walked over for Diana to get a closer look. "That is Isabelle Pearce... She's alive, but it would be an understatement to say she's not in good shape."
A patron opened the door.
"Sorry. This one's taken," 47 said.
He nodded politely, taking his leave.
47 knelt to her head, at which she slowly looked at him. She tried to speak, but her lips barely moved. She could at least wiggle her toes. Agent 47 walked to the foot of the mattress. The bottle of baby oil was beside it, half empty and staining the bedding around her feet.
He knew how to kill Marko.
47 left the room, deciding where to go next when the world fell deathly silent. The door slammed shut behind him, making the hitman raise his arms out defensively. But as he turned, there was only a wall.
Agent tapped his earpiece. But instead of Diana's voice, it was his. "Be not afraid, Agent 47."
The Angel had been appearing to him more often. He couldn't make heads or tails with it. 47 believed in God; he prayed whenever given the chance. But the Angel was an anomaly, trapping him between reason and faith. This was the first time it intruded someplace other than his dreams.
Agent 47 ran down the hall, and a door appeared before his eyes. Opening it, he was taken back in time.
They were in the asylum; the Angel liked coming back to this place. He was walking down another corridor, laden with the corpses of his brothers—killed by his hand. Ort-Meyer was a few rooms behind him at this point, having met the same fate.
But at the end stood the Angel, arms by his side; welcoming. "This path is not your future," he said softly. "You don't have to obey the rich and powerful. You are not their tool."
Agent 47 shook his head. Somehow, it was different hearing this supposed Angel call him a 'tool.' "I'm not meant for any other life."
As he remembered his garden job at Gontranno, reality warped around him to match his thoughts. The church built itself around him, and 47 was caught in the sunlight. He glanced down, and he donned the old gardener's uniform.
The Angel stood amid a patch of flowers. "The only reason you came back is because the rich and power-hungry could not let you go. But I see a future without those sinful souls. In that future, you will finally get to rest. You will have the life you always deserved."
47 stared blankly at him. It was imaginative. Stuffed with ideals. Perfect. "But in the end, it's only a fantasy," he said. "There will always be people like them. And there will always be people like us."
Neither of their faces changed, kept to a default scowl. Their staredown was interrupted by a familiar voice. "Agent 47."
"Diana's calling," the Angel said. "We'll speak again, soon..."
"Agent 47!"
The hitman opened his eyes. He was still outside Isabelle's room. He still wore the yellow vest and his casual fit underneath. Taking one short breath, he simply answered, "I'm fine."
Behind her monitor, Diana furrowed her brows. "If you say so..." 47 had frozen after leaving Isabelle, standing in utter silence for a good few minutes. She gauged a response a dozen times, only succeeding by the end of his trance. Myung's face came to mind—Diana made a mental note to prod her agent for details when they had the time.
Agent 47 returned to the rotating stage where he found Nanna. She pressed the button, and the mechanisms awakened. She stepped inside the space, only to immediately backpedal as the set squished the emptiness. "Fuck me. I keep forgetting..." she muttered.
She stepped onto the fireplace set this time, letting it take her away from backstage.
47 went out through the proper entrance, grabbing an aphrodisiac on his way out.
Agent 47 returned to the construction area at the meadows. The workers were still on break—and inattentive to the barrier. But 47 decided against hopping it, thanks to the endless hordes of guests and the distant security. At the side, an area less densely populated, was a temporary storage space walled off by plywood sheets. He stepped inside, ducking under some yellow tape.
It housed some construction equipment and materials, which conveniently crafted a way up against the wall dividing it from the construction site. He scaled a tool rack, then onto a tractor's roof. He grabbed the ledge of the wall, pulling himself up and over.
47 landed in a shaded patch of overgrown grass that hid him. Using the environment as his cover, he sneaked around the idle workers until he found what he was looking for.
The item in question was growing beside a wooden pole: autumn crocus. A plant responsible for the deaths of many foragers who mistook it for wild garlic. He dug up its corm, chopping it off and into slices for keeping. He retreated swiftly through the way he came.
"I'm glad to see this thing finally get built," a young man said to his friend. "It seemed impossible, especially with all the money problems."
"Money problems?" She stared at the roller coaster. "That doesn't line up with 'building their tallest roller coaster yet.' Are these financial issues a recent thing?"
He shook his head. "The business was declining for the past few years. My father talked about it every dinner—it was a stressful time. This park is his grandfather's legacy, and its fate was in his hands." His smile sank, reminiscing for a moment. "It got really bad after mom left. Dad was thin as a bone when we had to bring him to therapy."
She put a hand around him, offering her support. "But by the look of it, it seems he's alright now?"
He lit back up. "You got that right! It was a goddamn miracle. He told us he found a business partner willing to fund the coaster, no strings attached."
"Does that have to do with Nanna skulking around here?"
"Nanna? Dad's druggie friend from his school days? He cut her off all those years ago—what do you mean?"
"Oh... I could've sworn I saw her. Looked exactly like her mugshot."
His brows furrowed. He never admitted it to anyone, but he thought his father was being strangely vague when it came to the park's miracle rescuers. "I'll ask Dad later. Today's his big day, after all..."
At the snack area, a booth worker just grounded the beans for his next cup of coffee when the lights went out. Cursing under his breath, he flicked some knobs and switches to make sure that it was, indeed, the circuit breaker again. It was.
He couldn't wait to get a new booth. Or at least to work one of the carts. It never ceased to amaze him that Zephyr Park management could afford a new roller coaster, but not fix one of the booth's problems over the past decade. The worker left his apron, heading around the back to fix the problem.
Agent 47 would drag his stripped, unconscious body into the nearby ditch.
Power returned, and so did the booth worker. The ice cream machines buzzed to life. 47 tossed the corm slices into the coffee grinder, working the substance into a fine powder. He flipped the apron over the counter, landing outside and just out of his sight.
The bait was set, and all he had to do now was wait. Wait, and play the part of serving customers. And to thank the kind passersby for retrieving his apron, only for 47 to flip it over the counter again.
Eventually, he spotted his catch as Marko lapped back around. He wandered around the snack area, subtly gawking at girls in passing. Unfortunately, most of them came with family or friends. He had no doubt some of them would have made easy cash otherwise.
While lost in thought, his eyes drifted to the ice cream booth where that woman's white-knight boyfriend from earlier swooped her away. The worker had clumsily lost his apron, judging by the way he searched the booth—and the fact it was crumpled underneath the counter. Without a second thought, Marko approached.
"I believe you're looking for this?" He handed the apron over with his usual smile.
The worker paused, staring in what must have been disbelief. "Thank you so much," he said, though his gaze lingered on Marko's face. "I remember you. You were here not too long ago, correct?"
Marko's grin widened. "One strawberry sundae special, with added chocolate-dipped strawberries on top," he repeated the order. "Again, please."
"Tell you what." The worker set to work, skillfully adding each layer of the dessert into a plastic cup. "As thanks for helping me, you can have this one for free."
Marko blinked. "You serious?"
"Very," he said, pouring a vial over the top of the sundae.
"Well, I won't say no!" Marko laughed, snapping away the cup. "Really, you Danes are too kind. Not all people deserve such hospitality."
"True. In their case, I'd spike their food."
He laughed harder at that, scooping the delectable ice cream into his mouth as he left.
Today was a great day. The brat, Isabelle, had her comeuppance, and he got to have fun with her again. His time here doubled as a rare vacation day, which he filled through the various rides offered. This was much better than working in the office.
His breath quickened, and it felt abruptly hot. He felt awfully energetic—in need of some movement. Marko tugged at his collar, silently panting. Isabelle's slim, oily feet came to mind. He licked his lips.
His member went erect. Fortunately, the perfect outlet was a short walk away.
Agent 47 ditched the booth's outfit for his casual clothing. He donned the yellow vest again, flashing his invitation to the guards. Once inside, he made a beeline for Isabelle's room. She hadn't moved from the mattress.
47 folded a newspaper into a funnel, dumping the powder into the baby oil bottle. Screwing the cap on, he shook until the white flakes dispersed like a bath bomb. He dimmed the lights, making it just bright enough for the appealing atmosphere, but dark enough that Marko likely wouldn't notice the change in the baby oil.
Content, he shut the door behind him.
He passed an excited Marko down the hall, who went straight for Isabelle's room.
"When you were still in America, did you ever go to Zephyr Park?" Marko slammed the door behind him. "I have to say, my favorite ride is the waterfall one, where they make your raft just drop at the end. We could have fun in this place, Isabelle. If only you'd loosen up."
Isabelle could barely move her lips, now. Using all the strength available, she mouthed one phrase. Marko waited patiently, reading her lips, only to frown at the result. 'Go to hell.'
He stripped his pants first, unbuttoning his shirt as he sat beside her feet. Marko grabbed the baby oil, pouring the liquid over them.
Licking his lips, he went in. He started with the big toe, taking it slowly into his mouth, and caressing it with his tongue. Marko moaned, letting go with a 'pop.' A trail of saliva stretched between the foot and his lips. He swallowed.
Isabelle tried to cry.
Marko continued along the other toes, getting more ravenous each time. He explored her foot so far that he almost choked himself. He began grazing her soft skin with his teeth when he grabbed her other foot.
He shakily poured more oil onto it, breath heavy. He leaned in. Isabelle shut her eyes tight, bracing for the nausea.
But Marko let go. He stumbled around with a fit of coughs. Through her hazy vision, she saw him hammering his chest with a look laden with confusion.
He lurched over with the most violent retching she ever heard. Then came the splash of liquid: a sickly yellow bile that pooled in the room with a tremendous stink. Marko charged through the door, crashing on the ground.
Footsteps ran over. She made out several figures surrounding Marko, shouting things in Spanish. Marko hurled again. He scratched against the floor, water forming in his eyes. Gas escaped his bottom, which soon became brown stains running down his pants. A shade of crimson accompanied the diarrhea.
The staff was frantic now, yelling orders and running down the halls. But nobody knew what to do. Marko made a sharp gasp as half his body went limp. His vision blurred—from whatever ailed him or his terrified tears, he didn't know.
"Make it..." Marko begged between a bout of vomit. "Make the pain stop...!"
His eyes rolled over, and his body convulsed. The shaking took him face down into his pool of vomit.
Isabelle fell asleep with dreams about home.
From the lounge, Agent 47 flipped through a newspaper. "Confirmed kill on Marko. Two targets remaining." At that, he rose.
Nanna Skousen was the first to arrive, and the sight was not pretty. But she blanched for a different reason. "What the hell happened?!" she yelled at one guard. "Why is Marko dead?" Anyone else. Anyone else!
"I don't know," he answered, not sure what else to say. A minute ago, he was as healthy as a man could be.
Nanna unleashed a series of swears under her breath. She pulled her hair until her scalp stung. Making matters worse, another pair of footsteps flew in.
Idan heard what happened. He also knew how instrumental Marko was for the money and this entire side business. But it was Nanna who posed everything to him; she had to know what to do. He looked at her with desperate hope. But with a horrified look, she said, "What do we do now?"
Idan burst. "I don't know! You're the one who brought me into this! I thought you had everything handled!" He buried his face, feeling every sick emotion from the past years coagulate in his stomach. "We can't lose this deal. I can't let the family legacy crash and burn!"
Nanna opened her mouth to speak, but for a few seconds, there was only a deafening silence. "Okay... we can fix this," she finally said, though her sickly pale complexion betrayed her words.
Idan chose to believe her. He didn't have any other choice. A ringing phone interrupted their moment, and he scrambled the device out of his pocket. He winced at his assistant's number. "Lort. It's time for the Thunderwing to open..."
Nanna shook her head. "Go. We'll figure this out when you're done. I will deal with Marko's people. Just because he's dead... it doesn't mean the end of everything."
They exchanged a slight nod, and Idan took a small stumble as he turned to leave. When he disappeared around the corner, Nanna fell to her bottom. She hugged her knees, prolonging an exhale as she dug her nails into her thighs. God, I need a pick-me-up.
The guards wrapped up Marko's body and dragged him away, leaving a trail of vomit and diarrhea. One of them phoned Raul, explaining the situation.
She imagined he'd want to talk to her, but she really didn't feel like it. Nanna forced herself up, shambling down the other end of the corridor. At the fireplace set, she hit the button, activating its rotating gears.
This was supposed to be quick and easy cash. That was Marko's very words when he introduced her to this world. What gave him the right to just... drop dead? Would Raul even let her stay after this? Would Idan? She couldn't spend the rest of her life in prison!
Nanna stepped into the empty space, though stopped with a click of her tongue. "Lort."
She turned around. A silhouette was behind her. His foot caught her stomach, shoving the woman. Nanna's elbows caught the brunt of her fall, making her wince as they pulsed. "What the f—?"
The wall began to move, its gears picking up in speed. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Nanna blundered over her legs, barely grabbing the edge of the divider. One of her feet extended backward just feeling the cold steel of the wall as she pushed herself up.
She hit Agent 47's shoe. The walls clamped against her foot. Then her leg. Her waist. Her stomach.
A blood-curdling scream speared the entire mansion. The upcoming riders fell silent—the ones at the front swore they saw a hand waving frantically from the set. The scripted darkness fell over them before they had a closer look.
The screaming stopped abruptly. Something cracked and crunched. There was a pop like that of a balloon full of liquid.
The lights came back on. The fireplace hadn't changed. The hand was indeed there; it wasn't moving anymore. It was the guests' turn to scream.
"Target down. Nanna Skousen is taken care of. One more to go." Outside, the ride operators radioed to each other with anxious looks. They closed off the front, and a group of them traveled inside to investigate.
But as of now, only the riders knew what happened. The lively air hadn't died down near the Thunderwing, where crowds, reporters, and Idan's son clambered the entrance.
Idan Jorgensen greeted the operator. The apprehension at the start of the day had only increased tenfold; he thought he might throw up as soon as he nestled in the backmost cart. The lap bar locked him in place, and his assistant said, "Have a nice ride."
Idan gave her a strained smile. "Thanks."
His son was waiting for him at the exit. Maybe he could give him a hug—that always cheered him up.
The carts lunged forward, and Idan braced for what was to come.
3:00. The Ferris wheel worker just looked up from his watch to see Agent 47 arrive. He opened the door to the red pod, closing it behind the hitman. He went to his booth, and the wheel started turning.
Unpacking the briefcase, 47 calmly went about assembling the sniper rifle. He kept a side eye on the Thunderwing and the cart traveling up and down, tracking its progress. The wheel took him halfway up its height. He screwed the silencer on and fed the rifle its ammunition.
The train was chugging up the 110-meter hill, now. Idan was only a burry figure from this distance. The red pod hit the top at the same time as the cart. It teetered over the tip, and 47 rested the barrel on the pod's door.
Then it went. The Thunderwing shot down at ramping speeds. Agent 47 counted down the seconds.
Three.
Two.
One.
He squeezed the trigger.
The prop thunderbolt at the bottom detached. It was made of simple plastic, carriable by those with just enough muscle definition. It made it onto the Thunderwing as a last-minute bit of decoration—the designers felt the falling action was a bit too empty. The thunderbolt tied together the feeling of "racing through a storm" quite well.
The thunderbolt clipped the cart as it shot past. A collective gasp escaped the crowd at the foot of the attraction. The camera crews were following the cart all the way—they saw the prop fall and bounce off the cart, but nothing else. As it began its forced slow into the end, the amusement park felt unusually silent.
For a split second, there was relief, as Idan's potbelly and entire torso made it back. But there was nothing in place for his head, where only his lower jaw remained, missing a few teeth. Idan's exposed and lacerated tongue twitched, and when the ride finally stopped, the blood had a chance to run down his neck.
His son was the first to scream.
Pocketing the bullet shell, Agent 47 thanked the ride operator and left with the briefcase. "Idan Jorgensen is dead. Mission complete; now to retrieve Isabelle Pearce."
He was already on his way back to the Haunted Mansion.
It was fully cordoned off, now, with staff and security guards keeping everyone away until emergency services arrived. Backstage, the traffickers hastily cleared out what they could and dragged their 'merchandise' by their arms. A man named Alano took charge—he was Marko's bookkeeper forced into his role, and he wished nothing more than for his superior to be alive and well.
"Just take everything and stuff them in the trucks!" he yelled.
"Which one does our merchandise go in?" one guard asked, holding the unconscious Isabelle.
"Any of them! It's all going to Venezuela, anyway! Just go!"
The guard shrugged and dragged her out with the rest of the cargo. In the staff parking lot, they were following Alano's advice and just throwing things into any of the dozen semi-trucks. Fortunately, there was a consensus for them to leave at least one truck reserved for the people. That's where he left Isabelle.
As he went back to get more stuff, he spotted someone entering the driver's seat. He figured they were starting up the vehicle for a head start. The guard disappeared back into the mansion.
Meanwhile, Agent 47 flipped a switch, closing the trailer box. Putting the truck into reverse, he screeched the tires and pulled the vehicle out of the parking lot. Passing guards jumped out of the way as he sped off.
Diana sent him a location on his phone. He'd leave the truck at a warehouse rented out by the ICA. Their people would handle things from there.
By the time Isabelle woke up, her dream had ended with a nice conclusion, and there was no nightmare to drag her away from it.
DISASTER AT ZEPHYR PARK
Two—including the CEO—killed in tragic accidents at Zephyr Park!
A day at the Zephyr amusement park ended in disaster with two fatal accidents happening at their two newest rides at nearly the same time. One of the losses is the Zephyr Park CEO, Idan Jorgensen. The other is a drug addict with a criminal background identified as Nanna Skousen. As if this terrible coincidence couldn't get any more bizarre, the two victims were known to be friends in high school.
Nanna Skousen was found crushed between a rotating stage mechanism in the Haunted Mansion. It occurred during a portion of the ride where the guests their carts would stop. The lights would go out, and a normal fireplace would rotate and replace the set with a vandalized, haunted version. The mechanism was recycled from the location's old attraction and was not fully revitalized as a means of saving money.
Zephyr Park has seen increasing financial struggles over the years, having closed two of their five locations as a result of competing amusement parks. The company just finished constructing the tallest roller coaster in its history, the Thunderwing, to bring back an audience. However, with the CEO dying on the very first day of its opening, their future seems bleak.
Idan Jorgensen was scheduled to ride the Thunderwing as a way to promote the ride. Once he was off, the roller coaster would open to the public. He was killed when a prop at the bottom of its 110-meter drop came loose, falling and decapitating Idan as the cart shot through.
Analysts have said that if Idan sat anywhere but the back, he would have survived without injury...
FBI RESCUES MISSING ISABELLE PEARCE FROM HUMAN TRAFFICKERS—AGAIN
The FBI has confirmed to news sources that Isabelle Pearce—a human sex traffic survivor who openly spoke out about her experiences—was rescued. According to them, the trafficking organization sought revenge against Isabelle and tried abducting her again, even willing to take on federal agents to do so.
They describe setting up a sting operation in Denmark, where they caught and killed her traffickers in self-defense. They rescued not only Isabelle but around 20 women who were part of the trade.
While Isabelle has not made any public appearances, photos of the FBI with her have been released...
STRIFE IN EGYPT ESCALATES; VIOLENCE AGAINST THE WEALTHY PROMOTED BY NEW REGENT
Political turmoil in Egypt has rapidly increased in the days following President Morcos' assassination. A new ideology has gripped the nation, with citizens sharing screenshots of far-left media engulfing social outlets by storm. Footage has been recorded of riots taking to the streets, joined by local police and hundreds of others.
Unexpectedly taking power is a man named Hasani Abdel Ini-herit, ushered in by Morcos' son despite having no political affiliation whatsoever. Sources claim that Hasani was a carpet seller beforehand.
Hasani's first action was to make a nationwide speech, condemning "the rich" who he claims are responsible for the murder of President Morcos. This supports the leaked conversations between the influential families that seemingly implicate them in his death. His next action, though, has gained notoriety and controversy.
Hasani encouraged the people to take their power into their own hands, and exact justice how they see fit—effectively promoting vigilante justice. Egypt's Supreme Constitutional Court barely had time to react to Hasani's ascension to power when he made his declaration. The Senate is equally apprehensive.
The effect of Hasani's words is already making itself known. Recent footage has emerged of civilians storming the private residence of the millionaire Haddad family. The local security is seen standing aside, letting hundreds of angry rioters inside. The cameraman heads upstairs, where the head of the Haddads, Mustafa Haddad, is clubbed to death by several people.
The camera swings to the side, revealing his wife and two young children lying on the floor, also dead...
Aiden Reeves and his friends had their eyes glued to the TV, flipping through channels. A cricket game with the lowest-quality camera. A documentary filming life on the STS Andromeda space station. An advertisement for Zephyr Park's upcoming Thunderwing roller coaster, which clearly hadn't heard the news, yet.
The flight from London to New York City was exhausting because of the wait. Any order other than to wait again would have been perfect. Instead, they were stuck in an apartment room that looked as if it could collapse at any moment. The police station was right across from them.
Some of them fiddled with their Russia-imported weaponry, cleaning the still-new guns for the umpteenth time. "Jones! Get us a beer!" Aiden shouted. If they were going to be stuck here, they might as well lose their minds to alcohol.
Jones' grunt was immediately overshadowed, though, when the TV cut to static. Everybody stopped what they were doing, huddling around the device.
But they didn't need the TV to watch. All of their phones buzzed with the AMBER Alert. But instead of a message about a nearby abduction, it opened their MuchTalk apps and played the same static. And, as one of them bothered to peek out the window, the digital billboards down the street suffered the same fate.
"Come on, Sandra." Americans recognized the firm voice of President Rogers. "The First Lady is still in Japan, talking with those slit-eyes. The nation can wait without me for at least one night."
A seductive chuckle. "I feel bad for your wife." Justice Sandra Blanc. "No wonder she refused to hold your hand in front of the cameras."
Moans followed suit. They lasted a few seconds until a digitally edited voice cut them off. "I believe President Rogers' exact words were, 'I did not have sexual relations with that woman.' That is a statement he told in front of millions. His beloved citizens. His voters."
In the static, a face appeared. It was bald and bearded. His pupils were a burning orange and yellow, the only parts of the screen that weren't black and white. "I am Surtr," he began. "He who wields his bright sword. He who will slay the Gods, and whose flames that he brought forth will engulf the Earth."
Aiden heard his voice boom across the streets. Even if by some slim chance someone didn't own a mobile phone, they'd have heard him all the same. "I can give a speech about corruption. I can talk about the many misdeeds done by your politicians and wealthy elite. But I don't need to tell you what you already know."
The static fell away. Replacing it was a government file titled Free Bird and its entire text. "The only thing that has kept you from crossing them was their claims that they protect us. Is this their idea of protection? Letting nuclear codes fall into Russian hands, with the only saving grace being the singular reasonable soul in their government?!"
It changed back to Surtr, who shook his head. "We need better. We can do better." The screen changed again, showing a blank page on MuchTalk. A second later, a list of information appeared on it. "Across online forums, my associate will upload the names, locations, and the crimes of the guilty. Don't let these hypocritical politicians and billionaires tell you what is wrong and right. Anyone has the power to change the world. It's time you realize your strength that these corrupt powers have suppressed."
Aiden finished his beer, shooting from the squeaky couch. "That's our cue, boys! If we do good enough, Madelyn promised to let us handle the bigger, funner stuff! Now let's get to work!"
The gangsters let out a collective cheer, strapping on their plastic masks and donning their guns. One of them smashed the window, unlatching one of the heavier crates left on the ground. He let out a declining whistle at the beauty inside: a shiny RPG-7.
He aimed at the police station—and fired. The building erupted into a mountain of flames, sending debris across the street.