Chapter 3: Rocky Relations
Ella:
Something hits me in the side of my head. Then again, but this time, it hits my right eye. I open up my left eye which isn't currently throbbing. "What the hell was that?" I demand. A young child with short red hair wearing a tuxedo is throwing rocks at my head. The little boy shrugs. My mind races for a second, before I recognize him as Luca, the six-year-old son of Fabio Brandenberger, the Swiss arms dealer I've been spying on.
I take in the scene. I am handcuffed to the leg of a cold metal bench in the back of a moving truck, which I am currently lying down on. My head throbs, partly because of the stones that Luca had hurled at it, and partly because I'd been drugged. I've been drugged unconscious dozens of times, but the morning after still feels every bit as horrible. I am wearing the same black jeans and T-shirt from the night before with one major difference: now, they were covered in blood. I'm not positive, but I have a pretty good guess as to who it belongs to after tasting the blood crusted on my chin and upper lip. Across from me is Luca Brandenberger, the little shit who was hurling rocks at my head. The back of the truck is lit only by a flashlight, which Luca had placed next to him, before deciding it would be more fun to throw it at my teeth. Creepy, sadistic child, I think to myself, He's just like his father.
Luca's Father. Memories come rushing back to me. I was undercover with James, my older brother, as investors in Fabio Brandenberger's highly illegal arms trade. Fabio is a part of a terrorist organization, called Onyx, which specializes in the illegal transportation of many wonderful things, from drugs, to weapons, to poisons, to counterfeit money, to people. Basically, Onyx formed in the remnants of Scorpia and is a one-stop shop for the transport and purchase of anything illegal.
Anyways, James and I were staying at Brandenberger's estate, gathering intel on his business, pretending to be investors. This ended abruptly when I was identified by one of Brandenberger's guards, and our cover was blown. James was able to escape, but I was knocked out and thrown into the back of this truck. Realization quickly dawned on me. In all my glory, I had completely forgotten where we were going. A phrase that I use much more often than any 18-year-old should surfaced in my brain. How did I get myself into this mess?
My dad had practically dragged me into the office of Joe Byrne. I did not want to go. He forced me into a chair next to him, across from a faintly amused Joe Byrne.
"Good morning Agent Cornell," the spymaster greeted my father, "Agent Ella, long time, no see. It's been since-"
"Senegal," I growled, not wanting to relive that shitstorm. I felt a little bit bad for yelling at Byrne, as the man is practically my grandfather. However, his role in my life–sending me out on downright suicidal missions–was really pissing me off.
"Right," he cleared his throat, "Anyways since you're leaving us at the end of July, permanently, I have one more mission for you. It's nothing too difficult, you and Agent James will be together the whole time."
"Wow. Family bonding. Isn't that just delightful?" I mumbled.
"You teenagers and your sarcasm," Byrne chuckled, "Anyways, you've heard of Onyx, the international terrorist group. You went on a mission last year trying to stop the transportation of nerve gas into Cambodia—"
"Trying? I kicked ass. The civilians weren't poisoned, and no one even found out my cover," I smirked, lifting up my feet and resting them on top of Byrne's desk. My dad glared at me, but I ignored him, focusing on the man whose desk my feet were on. "So," I yawned, "What do you want?"
"Well," Byrne said, his face getting stone-cold serious, "I want you and Agent James to investigate a Swiss man named Fabio Brandenberger. He specializes in the transportation of illegal weapons. Everything from ghost guns to nuclear bombs. He has strong ties to Onyx, and we have received intel that he is shipping illegal, military-grade weapons to the Middle East. I want you to investigate him, under the aliases of investors in his 'business,' and see if you can give me a time and place. Don't worry, it will be a simple job for you, Agent Ella." Byrne assured me.
How many times have I heard that one before? "Oh, Ella, it's just a simple job," "Ella, it's hardly worth your talent and skill set." "It won't be hard, just a simple security detail."
"No," I said, obstinately. There is no way I'm willingly putting myself between the Middle East and a giant bomb.
"Ella," my father pleaded, "Honey, this is the last thing I will ever ask you to do. Just one more mission before you leave this life behind forever?"
"No," I repeated, standing my ground. This just sounds like a trap if I've ever heard one, and believe me, I have.
"Ella, we had a deal," my father growled, "If you want to go to Oxford in July, you have to go on missions until you leave."
"I'm an adult now, all that 'listen to your father' crap isn't going to work. Besides, it was a verbal agreement, there was nothing written down or legally binding." I knew what I promised my dad, but I was so over the CIA and my own family manipulating me that I couldn't give less of a shit.
"Ella, you're the best agent of your siblings, by far," my dad said, expecting flattery to work, "It breaks my heart that you are the only one who hates this life." Has he met Lilia? "This is bigger than your grudge against the CIA, or even me. We have a ton of enemies in the Middle East. Your best friend lives in the Middle East. This is for America, Ella, don't be selfish—"
"You're telling me not to be selfish!?" I exploded, "Remind me who dragged their 5-year-old daughter on her first mission with them to a war zone? Remind me who sent their 10-year-old daughter on her first solo mission to a child sex slavery ring? I have put up with your manipulation and forced-missions for years, Dad. When I say no, it's not selfish, it's self-preservation, which is a skill you taught me."
My father lowered his voice. "But...Ella...what about the greater good?" He asked, legitimately astonished as to why I was turning down his and Byrne's "offer."
"What exactly is the greater good?" I asked, keeping my voice level, "And why do I have to cater to it all the damn time?"
My dad groaned, exasperated, putting his head in his hands and his elbows on Byrne's desk, right next to my outstretched legs. "Because, Ella," he began, using more emotion than I've ever seen him portray, "You have such a talent for field work like this. Your siblings are competent, I guess, but you….you are amazing. You take after me in that way, and I can't stand to see a talent like yours go to waste because of your damn stubbornness. Please, Ella, just this last mission, I promise. This is important to me."
My heart swelled up with pride. My father was among the best the CIA has ever had, and for him to compliment me like that? I know, it sounds super hypocritical of me to be proud of skills that I wish to leave behind forever, but my father is not an emotional person, and he's never so much as said "Good job, Ella," to me before. After years of impossible training, before today, all I ever got was a nod or an "acceptable." It's weird, but I respected my dad more than anyone. The man was a legend in fieldwork, and he says that I take after him.
I tried not to let tears fall down my face and break my emotionless barrier, but I couldn't help myself. I swing my legs off of Byrne's desk and stand up to hug my dad. "Thank you," I say, putting more meaning into those two words than I thought was possible.
"So, you'll do it?" Byrne asked, lifting an eyebrow. I nod, and Byrne hands me a file to study. "Thank you, Agent Ella."
I dismissed myself, closing Byrne's office door behind me. I heard Byrne's voice again, so I lingered on the other side, trying to listen in. I lay on my stomach on the floor, my left ear between the bottom of the door and the carpet below.
"..you really meant...about Ella's skills?"
My dad chuckled. "Emotional manipulation," Motherfucker! I fell for the oldest trick in the book. Flattery. Damn, my desire for praise. If I'm that foolish in the field, I deserve to be blown up by a Swiss bomb. I-
My internal ranting was cut off when my dad started speaking again. His voice lowered, but I could still hear most of it. "Honestly…she's the best...siblings...can't compare to her sheer talent...field work...breaks my heart...she hates this life...Ella...so goddamn good at her job." The warm and fuzzy feeling returns. I was glad to have my dad's praise. It gave me a newfound sense of confidence and a will to go on this mission…
...which is something I still have now.
Back to the present, Fabio Brandenberger has a bomb. And I'm not talking about a couple pounds of plastic explosives. He had an atomic bomb, and he was selling it to a radical terrorist group in Iraq, who was planning to blow up the entire nation of Israel.
Because that guard recognized me from my other mission against Onyx in Cambodia, he told Brandenberger my true identity, and to put it bluntly, I'm screwed. He said I'm a dirty American spy, and that spies who are caught get handcuffed to atomic bombs, so I'm really looking forward to being fucking vaporized.
I have no idea how to get out of this. I could probably pick the lock on my handcuffs with pieces of the flashlight, but Brandenberger's bratty son, Luca, is watching me like a hawk. I think about the gadgets that I came with, hoping, praying, that this wasn't a lost cause.
On my right hand is my silver ring that I have worn forever. It is a bunch of small flowers connected into a circle, and it's really pretty. However, it has another function which, in this situation, is even more beautiful. When you swipe left along the surface of the ring, the outer flower coating turns into a diamond-edged blade that covers about half of the ring's surface. When you swipe right on the surface, the blade goes away, turning back into a ring. The best part is that it's fingerprint-sensitive, and my ring has never been confiscated, as no one realizes its true function.
I swipe left, cutting the handcuff off of my right hand. Luca notices this, but before he can say anything, I knock him out, with a swift kick to the side of the head. I'm not too keen on the idea of knocking out a six-year-old, no matter how much of a sadist he is. However, this is life or death for not only me, not only my best friend, but for all of Israel and many other neighboring countries.
Using my belt, I strap Luca to the metal bench I once laid down on. I feel for this kid, and I don't want him to get hurt in the next stage of my plan. Gripping Luca's flashlight between my teeth, I get to work.
Unfortunately, all of my other gadgets are stripped away, so I am forced into my most dangerous idea of escape. Swiping left on my ring, I cut a human-sized hole into the back door of the moving van. The wind is rushing all around me, and I am ripped out of the truck and into the darkness.
AN: Cliffhanger!