"The Russians are on their way. Instead of watching these people walk around snapping pictures of everything, you should get ready."
Hung around the railing, Aurora grinned. "Good morning to you, too, Brie. I didn't see you at breakfast. Where were you?" she asked with a drawl.
"I was busy mapping out the museum and setting up patrols, lookouts, guards, the usual." Brielle leaned beside her—her ever-hopeful expression unchanged. It never failed to baffle the pilot how she kept a straight face through it all. "You're not having any second thoughts, I hope?"
"Stop that," Aurora whispered. Slowly, her eyes met Brielle's. "Truthfully... I thought returning to my home would be the thing to set me off; to tell me that I'm not ready, that I shouldn't do this. I saw my mom, my old friends... But here I am." She broke eye contact with a chuckle. "We'll be done here and in the air, before we know it."
"If everything goes according to plan—and most of the time it doesn't. I would know."
"We need to get you to loosen up one of these days."
"We also need you to stop letting your emotions get in the way of the procedure. It's because you keep thinking about the future that you don't plan for the present, even for a critical moment such as now."
"As if you'd let me arrange your crew?" She waved her partner off. Aurora heard her loud and clear, but frankly, she felt it all unnecessary. They were way ahead of the feds, and practically in the clear; she could afford to let her imagination run loose. "You're not wrong. I was just thinking about the warmth I'd bask in when we fly into the sunrise."
"What you'd feel is the cold air conditioning."
"Hey, let me dream!"
Brielle pointed to the museum entrance. "Unfortunately, we don't have the privilege right now." A group of six entered, each of them looking less than thrilled about their apparent vacation. "Go get ready. We treat it like any other transaction."
With a light huff, she pushed herself from the railing. Aurora's gaze lingered on her partner, though, caught by the serious expression stuck to her. Smiling, she laid a hand on her shoulder. "It'll be over before you know it." She departed just as quickly.
"Aurora?" The voice stopped her in her tracks. "Stay safe."
In the end, Brielle couldn't tell her about the bad feeling she got. When she disappeared, she spoke into her earpiece. "Brielle to Couriers, we're in play. Secure all entryways and keep the cargo on the move, out."
At once, there came a shift in movement among everyone on the second floor, from construction workers to security staff—like a well-oiled machine. Now, all she could do is wait. "We'll make it to the skies, Aurora. I promised..."
Another guest entered after the group. The bald man unhooded himself, letting powdery snow flutter to the ground. He set his gaze upon the remaining figure and her burning red scarf until she disappeared, too.
"Welcome to Barrow, Alaska. Your targets are rogue CIA operative Aurora Nauyak and notorious smuggler Brielle Adler, two people engrossed in a deal with the price of millions of lives. They have ensconced themselves in the local museum, believing they are beyond anyone's reach.
"The Director of Russia's FSB, Fedyenka Levitsky, has authorized a clandestine transaction with the targets. Their purchase: a set of nuclear codes to arm the US' repertoire around the country. Needless to say, stopping this transaction is the most pressing concern.
"Aurora, an Alaskan Native, was once Thomas Cross' lead engineer. She applied to the CIA with her extensive knowledge, where she became known for her compulsive need to outshine everyone else. Her treachery is a recent affair. It is believed she got a hold of the four codes following the raid on Justice Sandra Blanc's estate. Though not yet disclosed to the public, they found and confiscated said codes from the premises—all of which are now in her hands.
"Intel suggests this was facilitated by Aurora's now partner in crime, Brielle Adler. An ex-military pilot notorious in the criminal underworld for her talent of smuggling anything across any border, her specialty not only made her top priority on the CIA's wanted list but for all the wrong reasons. When they finally caught her and her crew, Brielle was made to carry out orders on the government's behalf. This enabled several clandestine missions of their own—with Aurora as their liaison.
"It's unclear when the pair began their true partnership, but together they've hatched a devious plan. By selling the nuclear codes, the CIA will have their attention turned away from them; especially if the codes were to be used maliciously. And through the clouds of ash and destruction, they will fly past the lens of their employers and disappear, leaving ruins in their wake.
"The client, a deputy of Russia's Duma, fears the worst and wants to stop the trade dead in its tracks. Be advised, they explicitly mention not to harm any of the Russian operatives. Eliminate the targets and retrieve the nuclear codes.
"Good luck, 47."
Location: Barrow, Alaska
Targets: The Smuggler, The Defector
After being admitted by the receptionist, the group of six could finally take in the still air. They walked towards a hall.
The bald man behind them took one of the pamphlets, containing a map of the place. On the cover was the newly opened Inuit exhibit, pictured with a wax fisherman model.
"You're too wary, Sacha." At the front of the group, a man with graying hair put his hand around her shoulder. "This is a simple trade. We get in, talk payment, and get out."
"And you trust this woman?" she spat. "She's CIA."
He let out a 'humph' of a smirk. "That's why you're here. Traitors know traitors."
Sacha hung her head.
"He's right," Doroteya spoke in a matter-of-factly manner. "But we have nothing to worry about, anyway. You remember what the chief said."
Sacha scoffed at her. Doroteya would lick the Chief's boots if he asked her to...
Another voice interjected. "It's never bad to stay on your toes and think. Fyodor does that last part plenty."
An older member of the squad perked up at the mention, adjusting his glasses. He opened his mouth to speak, but someone beat him to it.
"Please, Anya, when has his philosophical jargon ever helped us?" The last member, Dimitri, said.
"It was my meaningless jargon that got you on the team."
Dimitri smirked. "Touché."
The group stopped at a staircase where a security guard stood in the way. Odysseus spoke first. "We're here for the renovations."
The guard gazed over each of them until satisfied, giving a slight nod. He stood aside, giving way to a woman awaiting at the top.
"That is Aurora Nauyak. Former space engineer turned CIA agent, turned traitor. To be enabler of an entire country's destruction."
47 watched as they ascended, and as the icy blue color of Aurora's jacket hid behind the FSB.
"Sorry, sir, visitors aren't allowed upstairs today. We're undergoing renovations."
Sacha glanced back to see a bald man being turned away.
47 wandered the ground floor, eyeing the magnificent fossil displays and replicas of old relics. One such fossil, an allosaur, was posed in such a way that its head rose near the second floor's walkways. A handful of visitors surrounded the model in awe.
While their gaze found the many sights and displays, 47's drifted to a red fire alarm on the wall.
A piercing beep tore through the building. The tourists all spun or shrunk away from the initial shock. The noise repeated—someone pointed out flashing white lights.
Museum staff came around, masking their frantic demeanor with calm as they said for guests to leave. Seeing curators take the fire extinguishers out of their casings on the wall, they didn't need much convincing.
As the guests dispersed, 47 stepped onto the allosaur's pedestal. He grabbed its leg, clambering into its ribcage. Using the steel frames as support, the hitman pulled himself on top of the fossil. Crouching, he crept up its neck and the snout.
He jumped—his hands caught the walkway edge as his side took the brunt of the impact.
47 pulled himself up, seeing distant security and staff run around in search of the non-existent fire. The hitman ran aside, into a room marked as the offices.
Desks upon desks greeted him, filling out the entire space. He was not alone.
A security guard stood watch in the center of the hall, hand to his earpiece. "False alarm. Captain, Aurora, no fire has been reported, over."
Another guard walked in. "The staff downstairs say some kid probably pulled the fire alarm as a prank."
The first man sighed. "It's always the kids. Then again, that might just be the most exciting thing that'll happen during this deal."
"Yeah? What makes you say that?"
"I've been with this flock for almost a decade, now. Brielle picked me up when I was just hired muscle under Salvador Clemente. When you've seen just about everything mankind can get up to, you start to see the patterns and whatnot and believe me, we're safe out here, especially with all the work the Captain and the CIA girl did to cover their tracks."
"True, that... But, wait, you were with Salvador?"
"Aye, during a drug transport; didn't know what I wanted in life until I met her. She has an eye for people like us: people unsatisfied with their lives."
"Huh. We might've met at some point. I used to work under Raul Mejías."
"Raul—Jesus Christ, kid! Are you alright? You look fine for someone who's spent time in that hell of a manor."
He sighed. "Don't push it... On the flip side, I have an appreciation for all the little things in life. Honestly, I'm eager to see where else we go later on."
"I already have a deal with some new contacts and ones with familiar faces. Once we're free of the feds' grip, it's open skies again." A third person entered, donning a scarf of crimson red.
47's earpiece came alive. "That is Brielle Adler, the notorious smuggler who paved the roads used by many underground networks today. It was she who brought Aurora into this diabolical plan and pushed for this transaction."
The second crewman chuckled. "All thanks to that girl you've grown cushy on, hm?"
"Please refrain from unnecessary comments." Brielle huffed. "Sorry I'm late, the fire alarm had me wary." She looked to the other. "Gerry?"
"Package Charlie is secure. I left it in the archives."
She nodded. "Roy." Brielle held out something akin to a white credit card. "Meet with Bowhead in the safe zone and stay there with Package Delta. You're up when the transaction is confirmed."
He took the card. "Roger that, Captain."
Satisfied, Brielle turned to leave first. "You're both dismissed. And, newbie, try not to be so carefree, even if it feels like an easy. That can get us killed."
"Roger," Gerry said. The Captain and Roy took their leave.
He stepped after them but fell short at one of the desks. An old trinket caught his eye; one that wouldn't be noticed among the other artifacts if it were to go missing. Why not make a quick buck, he thought? Would be possible if he was conscious for it.
And, as a pair of arms ambushed from behind, such a possibility became impossible.
47 took his clothes and earpiece, dragging the crewman towards a crate of packaged relics. He laid Gerry inside.
The hitman exited the offices, back in the open area of the museum. He found himself at the railing where his targets watched over, and, taking the same vantage point, he noted the dozens of fake employees roaming the floor. It was effectively under military-like control, albeit perfectly normal to a normal visitor.
Behind him, a wall of windows slanted outward, into the snowing scenery.
On the other side of the floor, he saw the labeled room of the archives: his next stop.
There, two curators talked at a counter, looking over some artifacts.
"Yeah, our security let them through no problem, like they asked. And get this, all six of them sounded Russian."
"Oh, shit... This really is a sting operation. Why Barrow?"
"My guess is that Aurora baited them here. Don't ask me why."
"It's gotta be. Y'know, I almost didn't recognize her when came to the manager with the badge. I'm glad to see she's doing good with her life after school."
Behind them were several shelves, packed with drawers.
47 approached the two. "Excuse me. Did you see a security guard go through the shelves?"
The curators stopped what they were doing, looking at each other briefly. "No..." the closest one said.
"He asked you to keep quiet, correct?" The first man bit his lip. "He was not one of us. We believe he dropped off something dangerous." Their eyes widened. "Do you recall which shelf he went to?"
The curator promptly led 47 to the shelf. Pulling it out, the hitman moved piece after piece around.
He found it. "That's the first code retrieved," Diana said.
47 looked to the curator. "Thank you. You may go."
He nodded, turning to take his leave—until an arm wrapped around his neck, bringing him to the ground.
47 dragged the body into a closet at the end of the shelving hall. He swapped the guard uniform for the curator.
His friend didn't bat an eye as the hitman left.
...
Aurora led the Russians across walkways and past exhibits of history, each step bringing them closer to creating more. "It's nice to finally put a face to the name. Everyone in the CIA still has no idea who you or your buddy Janus is."
"Janus is a traitor," Odysseus said flatly. "I have no connection to him."
Aurora chuckled. "Someone holds a grudge. All the good someone does for their country doesn't matter the moment they turn their backs to care about themselves."
Odysseus huffed quietly. He looked to the newest member of the squad, Sacha, and pat her back—a nudge forward. She exhaled. "For someone who worked her whole life to get in the feds' grace, you were certainly eager to get in touch with us. Isn't this change of heart a bit sudden?"
Aurora slowed to a stop. "To me, it wasn't sudden." Her gaze drifted upward. "Bound by service. That was the fate awaiting me and Brie for the rest of our lives. Even though we were on opposite ends of the spectrum, we were trapped. The only way we're getting free is by cutting our shackles. It took me a while to realize that."
"And destroying the hand that dealt the card," Fyodor interjected. "There's more to it, yes?"
Aurora smirked. "I get it. You don't trust me."
Odysseus clicked his tongue. "We're not—"
"No, no, I understand. Anyone would be wary, it's natural, and I'm not exactly a shining star in anyone's eyes." She continued leading them around. "So while we're on that topic, let me make this clear: what I want before anything else is amnesty."
"The feds will instantly know we helped," Sacha spat. "You might be harmless in the Chief's eyes, but—"
"I don't think you need to worry so much. I covered our tracks; the CIA will need a few days to figure it out, and by then if your boss does what he said he'd do, they'll be too busy focusing on the mushroom clouds over their country. Besides... Brielle's crew will need a new place to stock up for their work. Consider it my payment to them."
She recognized Aurora's look—knew exactly what it was. The feeling of realizing how trapped you were, only to have a God from the machine pull you into a new hope. Going literally nuclear wouldn't have been her first choice, but this other factor Fyodor picked up on... Brielle came to mind.
Sacha almost let go of her doubts. But in the corner of her eye, she saw him. It was the same bald stranger, right around the corner of a wall, expression as stern as Odysseus'. Just as quickly as she saw him, he disappeared behind it.
"Sacha?" Anya called.
"Yeah, I'm coming."
...
"I never thought I'd see the day where that CIA gal is at the Captain's beck and call. And she's willing to throw the whole world away for her."
"I don't blame her. There's something liberating about living in the skies, and besides, America's full of snobs. Wouldn't hurt to give them a taste of misfortune."
"And what about the millions who won't live through this 'misfortune'?"
"You're right. Now the afterlife is gonna be filled with whiney bastards."
The two laughed.
"May I go in?" The guards finally saw the person before them, a bald curator dragging a dolly behind him.
"What for?"
"I'm taking the wax model out for cleaning."
After an affirmative 'hmph' and an exchanged nod between the guards, 47 was let through. One of them followed behind, keeping an eye on the hitman.
Going further in, he passed by the many centuries-old artifacts and pieces on display.
He entered a part with a set designed into the wall. Meant to simulate an Arctic environment, it included a tupiq tent and a wax model of a fisherman, dressed in a replica of their clothing and gripping a harpoon, sitting in an umiak boat.
Roy stood in the middle of the room, scrolling through his phone—ignorant of the others.
47 set to work, pulling the dolly onto the set where he pulled the figure out of its boat. It was a heavy model, and hard to grip through its clothing. So when 47 accidentally hit the dolly, sending it rolling off, Roy didn't anticipate it.
The dolly rammed Roy's feet, throwing him onto the tool in an awkward position in a buckling cacophony of clangs and yells. The curator and the other guard hurried to him.
47 stopped the dolly, reaching down for Roy. "Sorry," was all he said; not much solace for the crewman.
"How the hell did you get hired...?" Regardless, he accepted 47's help.
The other guard sighed. "Just get the model and get out."
He obliged, re-placing the statue and taking his leave—with more than just the wax man.
47 gripped Roy's card tight in hand as he proceeded to the storage room. "That's the second code secured. The last two should be on each of your targets."
Speak of the devil...
"I'll get that for you." A woman, donning an icy blue puffer jacket, took to the doors. "That statue due for cleaning?"
47 wheeled it inside. "Yes. An opportunity presented itself."
Aurora chuckled. "I'm sorry about the guards, then. But... something tells me they weren't of much concern to you." She sat on the nearby counter, watching him work.
"It's not my job to ask questions." 47 rolled the dolly against a space at the wall.
She stared at him with a casual grin; as though she had known the man just long enough. "I like you. Straight to the point, or a workaholic, or both. You look like you probably don't give a damn what other people want or expect out of you..."
"Does it really matter, what they want?" He removed the wax figure's clothing, folding them gently. "Everyone dies in the end. I don't concern myself with much else."
That got a laugh out of her. "That's one way to look at it, alright! I wish the younger me shared the same views, but I'm just not that type of person. I never did believe in backing down from a challenge."
"That, I know all too well."
There, he left the wax figure, taking the display items to be kept in the archives, she presumed. Aurora followed him out the door, leaning against the frame as he walked beyond earshot.
"All clear. You can come in, now."
Around the corner, the Russians emerged. Sacha eyed the bald man as he disappeared around a turn. "Who was that?"
"Just one of the curators. We had a nice chat." They followed her into the room, leaving the door shut behind them. Aurora motioned for the squad to sit. "Now then..." she pulled one of the codes out from her pocket, "who's ready for the exciting process of negotiations?"
While the squad got comfortable for the discussion ahead, Sacha could not rid her thoughts of the bald stranger...
47, under the excuse of leaving the items with the rest of the display, returned to the exhibit. He left the clothes and a modern version of an Inuit harpoon—pulled from a second trip to the archives—in the umiak.
Back in the storage room, however, right before negotiations began, news had circulated through the earpiece. News that made the lively Aurora blanche. "What... did you say?"
"Gerry's missing, and so is Package Charlie. He's not answering the comms, either."
"Has anyone seen him?" Brielle asked.
"Could it be that he got cold feet and ran off?"
"I wouldn't have brought him aboard if he was susceptible to cold feet... Keep searching. If he doesn't turn up, we're initiating Protocol Deadstick."
"Ms. Nauyak?" Odysseus' voice—though the same monotonous as always—held a different weight this time. "Is everything fine?"
Aurora forced a smile. "I'm sorry, but I need to discuss something with my partner. I hope you won't mind an extra minute of waiting!"
Hurriedly, she burst out of the room and swerved to the side. Sacha watched her move, but it was something else that caught her eye.
Through the swinging door, he was there again. Donning sunglasses and an earpiece, the bald man made eye contact with her. In the next swing of the door, he vanished.
"Sacha?" Anya said.
"Something's off... I'll be right back."
Before her squad could intervene, Sacha ran out. Aurora stood at the window, speaking to her earpiece. But the stranger...
"Getting into position..." There. He just set foot into the offices.
Sacha followed.
The moment she entered, she saw him. At the end of the room, he was configuring a silenced pistol. He hadn't noticed her come in.
She ducked behind a desk, sneaking around the side—out of sight.
Then the cold steel of a barrel pressed against the back of the stranger's head. Sacha's demand was clear: "Tell me what you're planning, or you won't live to see another day."
She motioned to the nearby desk, where he promptly left the gun. He raised his hands slowly in the air. "I don't know what you are talking about—"
She pressed harder against his skull, sandwiching it between the wall. "I know you're CIA! I saw you out of the corner of my eye, followed, and heard you every step of the way." Sacha smirked. "You didn't notice a thing."
His expression did not change. Still, he spoke. "Aurora never had the codes." Sacha bit her tongue. "We planned to implant her as a double agent—bring down Fedyenka from within Russia for a better alternative."
That's why she wanted amnesty...
"Aurora is in place," he said. Sacha felt her adrenaline kick in. "You're too late."
"Bastards!" She released the man from the grip of cold metal and gunpowder. A loud hit followed the action—the butt of the gun meeting his head. He fell to the floor.
The rookie bolted out of the room, finger on the trigger.
Once she left, the office door opened again. The bald man walked out, a fist between himself and the earpiece's mic.
"This is Gerry..." A silence fell over the comms. Muffled, weak voice. Intervening static.
Brielle switched gears. "Gerry, talk to me. What happened?"
"The Russians... There are more of them... They attacked me... and took my code..."
"Bastards..." She had a hunch something was wrong. "All Couriers, we are initiating Protocol Deadstick, I repeat, we are initiating Protocol Deadstick."
"This is Roy. Package Delta is missing, too. I had it with me, then I didn't... I don't know when I lost it..."
Brielle grit her teeth, reciting a mantra to soothe the anger and stress from boiling over. "Aurora, you need to get out."
"That can't be! We just came to an agreement on several matters, and they were keen on their word!" Aurora knew her conjectures were baseless. She knew she had no way of telling a Russian agent's integrity. But she trusted her gut. "Maybe this is the work of a third party! How do we know if that voice is really G—"
"Get out of there, now!"
The world slowed to a snail's pace as Sacha re-entered. Her squad was there, too, having just stepped out of the storage room. Before she knew it, she aimed her pistol up at the liaison.
She shot three times. Each bullet hit its mark. Aurora fell against the slanted window. It shattered against her weight, lettings gusts of snow and wind inside. A clearing was left where she once was.
"Sacha!" Odysseus was the first to react. "Stand down!"
The squad was upon her, now. She took a breath. "This is all a setup! CIA wanted to infiltrate us and was using her as their mole. There were no nuclear codes, to begin with, she must have shown us a fake!"
All around them, movement started at once. Each of the Russians kept their hands on their holster. "Back to the storage room!" was the order, and they obliged.
They locked the door behind them, remaining silent as torrents of footsteps ran outside.
But laying in a pile of reddening snow, Aurora knew her time was up with each blood-choked cough. She reached a frail hand up the falling snow-toward the skies.
"Aurora! Do you read me!" Brielle's stern tone came through her earpiece, just barely. It fell out beside her during the fall. She mustered a smile: it took her death for at least a hint of compassion to come through Brie's voice.
A figure approached. She tilted her head to see his face: the bald curator.
Any idea she'd be helped was quashed as he ransacked her pockets. The pieces fell into place once he retrieved the code.
Aurora only laughed a slow, dry laugh. "I should've listened to you, Brie..."
"Confirmed kill on Aurora Nauyak," Diana said. 47 ran to a support beam, climbing it until near the window where he leaped back into the fray. Amid the fleeing chaos, he set his sights on the Inuit exhibit.
"Aurora! Can you hear me?" another faint voice came. Two pairs of footsteps made their way around the walls, inching closer and closer to her.
They stopped for a moment, then resumed into a sprint. "Aurora!" The two crewmen knelt beside her.
One of them checked for a pulse. He shook his head at the other.
He tapped his earpiece. "She's gone."
"Copy that." Combing the Inuit exhibit, the Courier went from room to room. It infuriated him. How they could traverse the skies and make it through thick and thin, yet one bad deal made it all feel worthless.
He knew he wasn't alone if the Captain's silence was anything to go off of.
The most he could do was his job. And as he looked over the last room and the fisherman model sat in its umiak, he was satisfied.
"Area secure, over."
Finally, Brielle spoke, tone as stoic as normal. "Copy that. All Couriers, move to Bowhead, over. The Russians have locked themselves in the storage room, but still take caution."
She noticed her hands shook; she crossed her arms. The two guards left the exhibition to greet Brielle at the doors, retaking their position as guards at the entrance. She brushed past them wordlessly.
Pistols at the ready, each crewmember converged on the exhibition. They piled into the room one by one, and despite the growing number, the dead silence never faltered.
The Captain gripped her sleeves tighter and tighter. It shouldn't have been so tiring to bear a deadpan look, but yet... This isn't the first time. Sometimes, the client wants to cover up their transaction by silencing us, or they don't want to pay the fee for their order. That is likely the case here... It has to be...
Her earpiece scratched to life with news. "The Russians have fled the building. We're in the clear."
What? "How many were there?"
"Only the six people Aurora met with. There's nobody but us on this floor, and the normal staff ran away from the gunfire."
Everyone was on the same channel, and so holstered their weapons in relief.
Brielle remained unconvinced. Fedyenka was a scrupulous man, he wouldn't have his men retreat without the last code. Was it even a coordinated attack?
Gerry.
"Attention everyone!" Brielle assumed a stern expression. "I want you all to sweep the building, top to bottom. Find Gerry. And although the Russians have fled, stay sharp. Don't hesitate to pull your weapon if you have to. Authorities will be here soon, now go!"
The crew dispersed into a clatter of footsteps, all funneling out of the exhibit. One last person trailed behind them.
"Roy, come talk to me when you're done with your sector."
"Yes, Captain." And he followed them out.
Now she was alone. Alone with only her thoughts to keep her company-intrusive thoughts. It replayed over and over again. The gunfire. Aurora falling through the window...
Her hands shook; they grabbed each other's sleeves to try and stop the shaking.
Now is not the time for this... Hold it in... Hold it—
Brielle snapped out of her thought at a peculiar sound. The harpoon fell from the statue's grip and clattered onto the floor.
One of her crew fiddled around with it, she figured.
She made her way over to the display, leaning the harpoon back in the statue's open hand. The Captain remained there, now focused on the wax figure-stuck in plaster for all time.
"I've flown across the world more times than I can count—away from that damned Admiral. Yet, we're still the same... trapped and trounced by the whims of others. Trent. CIA. FSB. Freedom is always just out of reach... "
But she knew it wasn't impossible. Aurora taught her that. That optimistic girl, breaking her life's mold. "I suppose I can take comfort in that I can fight back."
Brielle chuckled to herself. "What am I doing, talking to a statue..." She turned around, ready to leave. "I'll make it through. Aurora would want that."
Freezing steel plunged into the back of her neck. Blood spurted up her throat, escaping in choked gurgles. What... is happening...?
Someone grabbed her scarf, using it to pull the shocked Brielle. Her feet gave way, and she fell over, saved from impact by the scarf holding her up. Chest heaving and scrambling, she saw him: the fisherman statue, alive.
Agent 47 threw the bloodied harpoon into the umiak. He pulled her into the display—she kicked and squirmed as her scarf soaked in blood; her vision blurred with each failed breath.
He brought her inside the tupiq. Beside her was a neatly folded suit. The fisherman left her there, taking the suit.
Brielle's mind finally settled, and she smiled; for she and Aurora were finally free.
Her body convulsed—then fell limp.
"That's Brielle's wings clipped," Diana said. "The last code should be on her person."
47 promptly rummaged through her pockets, retrieving the code between his fingers.
"All objectives complete. Both targets are dead, and the nuclear codes are in safe hands. Expertly done, 47, now find an exit."
After changing into the curator outfit (worn over his suit), the hitman walked away. He left the exhibition hall, past the two Couriers stationed at the exit.
47 made his way to the window where Aurora fell, and he jumped, disappearing into the snowy city of Barrow.
"Captain?" Roy entered the exhibit, to his surprise finding nobody there. He tapped his earpiece. "Captain?"
No response.
His gut wrenched. He noticed the statue was gone—it was gone for a long time.
So why was it there during... "No..."
Roy scanned around the exhibit. The tupiq. He darted after it, just in time to see a trickling stream of red spill out.
FSB DIRECTOR RESIGNS AFTER 17 YEARS OF SERVICE
Director since FSB's founding in 1995 steps down.
In a shocking turn of events, one of Russia's most outspoken politicians, FSB director Fedyenka Levitsky, announced his sudden resignation in what is to be his final speech. He mentions that "he has more to look forward to in life," and that he was "done leading for a long time."
The abruptness and vagueness of the act have led many to theorize if President Orlov had a hand to play. The two have had a known fierce rivalry for years in terms of politics and beliefs. Fedyenka publicly condemns and criticizes American affairs and is known as a staunch nationalist. President Orlov, conversely, has proven to be the most diplomatic and welcoming of foreign aid and influence.
However, this does not appear to be the end of his political career. Fedyenka is showing signs of settling into Russia's Federation Council, and his record of shameless criticisms makes it hard to believe for some that he is retiring permanently. What impact he may have on Russian politics, however, remains to be seen...
SUPREME JUSTICE SANDRA BLANC FACES IMPEACHMENT
In a shocking turn of events, four nuclear codes were discovered to have been held at Judge Blanc's estate in California. The Gold Codes are only provided to the President of the United States.
What once started as a case of corruption has evolved into a potential case of treason.
The codes were all retrieved by the CIA without incident and are back in the safety of their hands. As for Sandra Blanc, her future is dim. There is a bigger call for her impeachment than ever, and even her party's most devoted members have turned their backs.
It is unclear how she got a hold of the codes, and no more information has been disclosed. Justice Blanc has not made any statement following the raid on her estate.
If the case goes through, this will mark the first impeachment of a Supreme Justice in the history of America...
THE ARTISAN" SERIAL KILLER MYSTERY NOW SOLVED
The notorious serial killer "The Artisan" has been officially identified as Declan O'Brien. Born in Tralee, Ireland, Declan lived an isolated life with his mother and half-sister. He was known to be a quiet boy, not socializing, and was even reported to be on bad terms with his mother. It is known that he was close with Maeve O'Brien, the half-sister, but she commit suicide following years of bullying and harassment.
It is believed that his friend and to-be wife, Keyla, is responsible for the harassment.
Declan was there to witness her death (a gruesome display, as she jumped from Gallagher Castle and landed on a bordering boulder) and changed completely after the fact. Witnesses from the time say he sheltered himself, and only Keyla was able to visit and speak with him. A few years after that, the two married and moved away. The Artisan killings began shortly after.
Psychologist Abu Hayat believes the sight of Maeve's twisted body left a profound impact on Declan, and inspired his methods of killing. Comparing pictures of his victims to Maeve's corpse, they share striking similarities in terms of body manipulation and shaping.
This discovery came to light following Declan and Keyla O'Brien's recent death, where it is believed they succumbed to a double suicide pact in the same place where Maeve O'Brien died many years ago. Before his death, Declan uploaded a photo of a polaroid to his social media, which is believed to be a final confession.
Following the couple's death, an investigation of the O'Brien household uncovered key evidence from the murder weapons to never seen before photographs of the known victims...
Moscow, Russia
Fedyenka threw the newspaper from the porch into the snow, already dialing a number. "Odysseus? It's me, I hope you realize what good you lot did me. They say it was my fault the trade went to shit."
As he unlocked his door, a letter on the ground made itself apparent—one that he stepped over. "An agent? Then Sacha's lying. CIA had no idea where Aurora was, and the fact is, you fucked up! We knew she was legitimate!"
He grabbed the letter. "You all are my best assets, and this is your only screwup in the entirety of your service, so I'm feeling generous today."
Fedyenka threw the letter onto a pile of papers in his office, then headed for bed. "This is about security for our future, but they just don't see it, yet! If this is how they reward loyalty and caution, then all hope for Russia is lost. President Orlov doesn't know what he's doing. Gather the others, Sacha, too, we're going—"
"Jarring, to see my letter so hastily thrown in with the rest of the junk mail." Fedyenka froze—her voice, a suave sound of Czech accent, came from the corner. "I promise, the message is in your best interest."
He lunged for his bed, for the pillow.
But there was a clatter coming from where the woman sat. To Fedyenka's horror, his pistol was in her hands. Was.
The magazine fell. Then the slide. Then the barrel. Trigger mechanism. Frame. On the floor like spilled marbles.
The blonde woman with shoulder-length hair sat calmly. "Please. Read the message."