Love Thee; Love Thy Bullet (Closed for Shy)

His head hurt like hell.

This was the first of many realizations that would hit him over the few minutes that it took his brain to start working through the drug-induced haze he’d been kept in for who knew how long. It felt like he’d just gotten out of a slow-crank vice grip, after having been locked in it for days. In the midst of the throbbing head, however, he had his second realization. He couldn’t move. The man looked down, struggling to focus on the source of difficulty, only to barely be able to establish that his hands and feet were bound to a wooden chair. He looked back up and sighed heavily.

Damnit...

His eyes were still having a hard time focusing, to mirror the effects of the drugs on his brain. He felt sluggish, weak, and even if he could move, had a notion that his limbs would feel like lead. But the good news was that it seemed to be starting to wear off. It was then that the man noticed that it was rather drafty, and he looked down once again. This was when he had his third realization. He was clad only in boxers. At least his captor had left him with some dignity, even if not much. A second sigh of frustration left his heavy lips.

As his vision began to return to some semblance of normalcy, he started to study his surroundings. Small, dark room. Lone bulb hanging by a wire overhead, burning only bright enough to illuminate part of the small room; though staring at it hurt his overtly sensitive eyes. A single closed door was in front of him, but as far as he could tell by craning his neck, there were no windows or other doors. One way in, one way out. He set to work, clumsy fingers searching for knots, trying to figure them out while he had the time. Who knew how long that time would last. As his fingers grasped in vain at the ropes, he struggled to focus on how he’d gotten in this place, through the hazy, partial memories. His training wouldn’t allow him to give up.

Sam remembered very little about the past length of time, however long or short it had been. Since the moment of a sharp pain in his shoulder while trailing a lead, and looking down to find a dart sticking out, the images that followed were sporadic and didn’t offer much in the way of clues. A smaller figure dressed in black, a windowless vehicle, dragging feet... none seemed to be willing to expand within his mind, or offer any sort of clues as to his current whereabouts. Even if he could get these knots undone, there was no telling just how far he could get. And wandering the streets in boxers while half-drugged was not his idea of a good time.

Surprisingly, his mind was starting to clear, as more of his training began to kick in. His first task was to get free. Unfortunately, his captor probably had a pretty good idea of just how much sedative had been used, and how long it should last, so would probably be arriving within moments. He could only assume it was for the information he’d recently obtained. But he wouldn’t say a word about it, no matter what.

As he waited, still working on the bindings, Sam searched his memory even further. Locked within were the images and scenes he had tried to push aside, tried to darken out, but now he needed them. His very life hang in the balance. So, it was with a pang of remorse that he allowed them to come fully to the surface once again. They weren’t all needed, only some. He began to sift through them methodically, brushing past the ones that were too painful, the ones that didn’t help, and focusing on at a time on the ones that directly related to his current situation. A file had been revealed. A file that threatened the lives of himself and others had surfaced and been dangled in the open, only to disappear once again. And he was one of the people out to get it, no matter the cost.

No matter the cost.

The words repeated in his head for several moments, as he knew exactly what the cost had been. And that was the part that caused pain. But he was a professional. He would never allow his emotions to get in the way of his job, or his life. In his line of work, emotions were the stumbling block that caused so many to fail. Separate your life and your work, distance yourself, it was the basics of any work in his field.

It was amazing how quickly his job had gone from professional to personal, all for one lousy little scrap of information. Information that he didn’t have just yet. All he had was the next clue. But it was far too important that he keep his mouth shut on such matters. Let his captor think he knew nothing. Let that realization stew. He would be getting out of this, and there would be hell to pay. Sam Lincoln was not one to take this sort of thing lightly, even given the nature of this particular job.

Even knowing exactly who his captor was...

And knowing what she could do.

“Eloisa...what’s the status?”

There were only two souls that walked the earth that knew her name. A thorn from her past; and the man simply known as Sir. He was a man of few words. He commanded and she obeyed. That was the extent of the relationship. She had only ever known him by his voice. Well; his voice and the extravagant pay cheques she received for her loyalty and services. It was a voice that demanded obedience while subtly forcing fear into the most discerning of individuals. Perhaps that was why she respected him.

“We have him. He’s secure. We’re simply waiting for consciousness before we move to the next phase...”

“I don’t like problems. He is a problem...”

Delicate fingers massaged her forehead, her brow furrowed as the reality of the situation dawned upon her. A ‘problem’ Sir called it. The word ‘problem’ holding the possibility that the situation was fixable. She knew otherwise. It was information or death. That was how her game worked; always had and always would. But never in her lifetime would she prepare herself to kill one of her own. Least of all him. Unlike most in her field, she worked by a code; an ethical killer-for-hire. Who would have thought? Perhaps that was why she was one of the best and respected as such.

“Yes, Sir. “

There was silence; the soft shuffling of movement from the other end of the call before the deep rumble of his voice crackled through the receiver.

“You will follow through. I have no hesitation to dispose of you as I would any other agent if you fail.”

Agent? She had always found the hypocrisy of the term he chose to call his killers amusing. This time, however, his meaning was clear. Fail and she would die. Get the information, and she stood a chance of seeing another sunrise.

“Yes, Sir...”

The phone line went dead. She knew the routine. Flicking the phone over, fingers popped off the battery, slipping the simcard free. The deceptive strength of her fingers forced the flimsy microchip to bend, breaking in half with minimal effort. With a small flick of her wrist the pieces were disposed, settling upon the dirt of which she stood. She was now going ghost. She’d call in when there was news...if there was any.

Her eyes scanned the location; rusted corrugated metal barely supported the remaining frames of abandoned warehouses. Smashed glass windows, broken-in doors, discarded cars which wouldn’t even seem suitable for rodents to find shelter in. It was a genuine graveyard of rust and crap. Even the air seemed to carry the stench. She hated the site. It wasn’t her style. It was isolated, which gave it promise. But it was messy, predictable, filthy...which made her uncomfortable. And she needed to be comfortable. Especially now. Her head dipped, fingers once again massaging her forehead as she made plans to seriously hurt the individual responsible for picking this site.

Footsteps registered in her mind as they came closer from behind her. She didn’t move.

“Mistress Elle...”

“Hmmm?” It was all she offered the nervous lackey that tensed in her presence. She could feel his fear; it radiated from him in waves so powerful it was almost tangible. The slight tremble to his voice amused her. She smiled at that. The poor thing wouldn’t last a day in the field if he was on his own.

“It is time.” He barely managed to gulp out the words.

With that she spun on her heels; blonde hair swirling about the frame of her innocent-featured face as her eyes fell upon the poor thing. She took her time taking him in; her cold aqua eyes drawing slowly down his frame. He was a scrawny looking thing; but he seemed to pack well in the nether department, as evident from the bulge that sat none-too discretely against his upper thigh. With an impressed nod her eyes found his before stepping closer. His fawn-like eyes widened; he looked more like a deer caught in headlights than a member of her team. It was rather pathetic, and she let her eyes show her distaste.

“Toughen up...” It was all she offered before she paced passed him, dropping the disassembled phone in his waiting palms on her way. Despite the command, the threat of the words she didn’t voice hung in the air. She had no patience for such things. The task ahead would be taxing enough. She didn’t need weak personnel to distract her.

She made her way into the small room, the remainder of her team briskly standing to attention; their poker cards quickly forgotten upon the flimsy table on which they played. They were selected by Sir, and for a distinct purpose. Three of the five men were tall, brutish, bulky masses of muscles. The two Scandinavian twins were experts in weaponry. The other, who strangely enough reminded her of Rocky Balboa, was fluent in martial arts. They also served their purpose of the labour intensive tasks whilst giving her something pretty to look at. The fourth was the driver; lean, short, an Irish accent so thick she barely understood a word he said. But he was the best driver in the business, and all he had to do was listen to her orders. As long as his ears were clean, there wasn’t ever a problem. The fourth and last was the rookie that followed behind her like a needy puppy. Young, easy to manipulate, far smarter than he looked; technical support. He was good, there was never any doubt about that. But he irritated her. And he was replaceable.

With a nod of her head they all took their places once again; the card game instantly resuming with a rustle of the deck. She scanned the remainder of the room. A steel desk sat to the side of the dimly lit room. A small bag, laptops and a surveillance monitor took place on its surface, a rather flimsy looking chair nestled beneath. No windows or lights aside from the naked flickering fluorescent bulb above the poker game. Again it looked sloppy. She didn’t like it. With a dissatisfied grumble she flicked the monitor on, the screen buzzing and flickering before the image appeared.

A man. Alone. Unconscious. Bound to a chair. Almost naked.

Him...

The damned thorn from her past.

Aqua eyes studied her hostage; her gaze cold, unyielding and otherwise emotionless. The flickering of the monitor did little to distract her attention. She was a huntress; her prey located, captured and now sitting powerless and unconscious only a room away. From the angle of the footage the lackey hid the small camera next to the light directly above where he was tied in the cell a room away. The light was dim, but the angle allowed her to see every movement he made; including his hands. This pleased her. Despite her distaste of the current location, it was a seamless operation; clean, precise, quick...easy. And that was her style; the one her current reputation as ‘one of the best’ sat proudly on. Mistress Elle; Death’s Whisper.

It was one of two reasons why she was assigned this particular task...him. The importance of this entire operation was at stake; not only her employer’s life, but also her own. Anyone lesser in ability would have fucked it up in a heartbeat. Why? Because the man known as Samuel Lincoln was that good. And she knew.

Which lead to the second reason that she was assigned to him. It was easy to work out a person’s behaviour and ultimately catch them. Any low grade rookie with a week of surveillance could have worked that out. But Samuel was different. He was one of the best...he was like her. That thought caused her heart to lurch, her body shifting uncomfortably as she inwardly cursed the past. She could still feel Fates’ relentless bitchslap as it continued to sting her metaphorical cheek. The truth was that she knew him passed an intimacy that left her uncomfortable. Why? Because for all her knowledge of how he worked; his thought patterns, his weaknesses, strengths, interests, passions, deeper soul-searing secrets of lovers...he also knew the same of her. And that was dangerous.

A glance at her watch and her brow furrowed in concern. He hadn’t moved. Not even a damn twitch. She calculated the dosage of the tranquilizer perfectly; her own unique formula of a sedative and a paralytic compound. He should have been awake by now, but his limbs would remain useless. But he wasn’t. He remained limp; head flopped low onto his chest as the ropes did their work to keep the rest of him upright. Concern quickly turned to worry, which lead to her second guessing herself. Had she put too much drug into dart? Perhaps his head hit the pavement too hard? Or worse. With each tick of her watch her worry grew...

Tick

Tick

Tick...

Finally her hostage’s head moved slightly. To an untrained eye it could have been mistaken for a jump on the TV monitor; but she knew better. Again his head rocked, his eyes flicking open. Relief rocked through her heart, setting her thoughts back a moment. Relief; she didn’t expect that in the slightest. For the briefest of moments she focused on that emotion. She was relieved her dosage was correct. Relieved that he was unharmed. Relieved that he wasn’t dead...

Fuck...

She didn’t need the torrent of emotions from the past hitting her now. It was the last fucking thing she needed. She had a job to do. She needed composure and strength. Any sign of weakness and he’d jump on it, manipulate it, then beat her to death with it. He was too fast for her mentally to allow this crap to take hold now. Her eyes closed; fists tensed, knuckles turning white as she willed the emotions to fade. One deep breath, then another. With the next breath she was out the door; the wooden chair in one hand, the small black bag in the other, her mind determined, focused, sharp. She would beat him. There was no other option.

With a kick of her steel-capped doc marten boot, the door to his cell swung open violently; the solid thud echoing in the small room, causing him to jump in his restraints. She stood in the doorway for a few moments, a part of her mind thoroughly enjoying the visual feast of the vulnerable position he was currently in. Another part lingered with anxiety born of seeing him again. It had been three years since they last seen each other. Well, no; that wasn’t entirely accurate. She had been tracking him for two days now. He, however, hadn’t seen her for three years.

She had changed a lot in that time. While she had always been petite and lithe, the years had moulded her into an athletic assassin. She was stronger, faster, leaner; the black jeans and black singlet she wore hugging to her new frame. The starkest of changes was her hair. As he would remember, it flowed in light-golden waves to cascade down the curve of her back. Now it was cropped; styled around her angelic-featured face. If she were to admit, the drastic change of hair was revenge against him. She knew how he loved it long. So the first thing she did was destroy it. On a practical note, the new length was easier to handle for her line of work. For the briefest of seconds her anxiety grew as she wondered if he’d approve of her new image.

No; she couldn’t afford to slip into that train of thought now. Instead she pushed that to the side not giving it a chance to grow and latched onto the last part of her mind; business. She was here to do a job. Come heaven or hell she would get what she came for. With several determined steps, she settled the chair directly behind his. Far enough way so that if he suddenly gained an adrenalin-fueled strength, she was out of direct range for a direct blow. But also close enough for her to pounce if the need called for. She could also monitor him from his position; keep her eyes on the mischief of his hands. An added bonus was that she was free from his hawk-like gaze; just in case of any momentary slips of composure.

Placing the small black bag on the floor; she settled into the chair; a lean denim covered thigh crossing over the other, arms folded distantly upon her chest. Then she waited; letting the silence morph until it was deafening.

The game had begun.

“Get the fuck out of there!”

The screamed words were nearly cut off completely by the deafening and almost blinding explosion that followed directly on their heals. Sergeant Samuel Lincoln watched in horror as the building in which half of his team had entered vaporized under the force of the blast. Only after the briefest moments of shock did his training kick in and he dropped his head to the ground in order to have the Kevlar helmet offer protection against incoming debris and shrapnel. All that came was a hail of dirt and small rocks, until he finally lifted his head slowly. Green eyes burned brightly against the face that was dirty and smudged, but he had no choice but to push aside the pain and move on, else they would all be meeting the same fate. There would be time for honoring later. Survival. That was his concern.

Lincoln scrambled to a knee from his prone position and leaned heavily against the shell of an old beater of a car. The vehicle had been stripped clean of anything detachable long ago, by the looks of it, and now simply provided cover and concealment for what remained of the American team. He cradled his rifle in the crook of his arm and reached up to depress the com switch on his earpiece. “Oscar 3 foxtrot, this is echo 4 lima! Holed up half a block north of rendezvous point, under heavy fire, please advise!”

Only static came through.

His head rolled with thoughts, amplified by the ringing and dullness of the outside world to his ears. It was a logical effect of the proximity blast just experienced. His brain knew this, catalogued it as fact, but his body was still unnerved by the sensation. Everything seemed to slow at once, and he could feel his heartbeat pounding against his chest as he labored for breath. The shock was hitting him now. Shock of the blast, shock of the situation, shock of losing his friends; his brothers in arms. The day was going all to hell.

Finally, Sam shook his head violently, almost in an involuntary shiver. He needed the focus. It was no easy task to force his body down from the illogical shock and combat high, but he managed to clear his mind enough to decide on a course of action. The man looked to his grime-covered team and made a circling motion with his right hand. It was time to get the hell out of there.

“Let’s go,” he yelled, hoping he was heard over the small arms fire and the possible damaged eardrums of the men around him. “We’re canking the whole damn thing!”

He motioned to the first, a pair of fingers pointing directly at him, then flinging towards the nearest structure. The man nodded with his eyes glazed over, indication he understood. Lincoln grabbed a canister from his flak jacket and yelled out as he pulled the pin and lobbed it over the car. “Smoke!”

As soon as the smoke had billowed enough to conceal, the men pealed off one by one, all trained professionals, all acting almost purely under said training by now. The events had worn heavily on them, and it was pure adrenaline that even allowed them to move. To Sam, nothing was more important than getting them out of here alive, but in the back of his mind, he knew the consequences of the day, should he live to see them. Demotion, at the very least. Discharge at its worst. But none of that mattered, even though it hovered as a lingering thought. He saw no other options. The mission had to be abandoned, the rest of his team had to be saved. The loss of his men would not prove favorable in his case.

He cursed at himself mentally. His case? His stomach turned in nausea at the thought of only considering his lost brothers as detrimental to his case. It was a cold and calculating side of himself that he never did like, and always tried to repress. But it was this side that would serve him most in the future.

The group lined up along the wall of the building after their arrival. The lead man covered ground level front, rifle at the ready, while the others all trained their sights on other avenues of threat. Urban combat was never high in survival chance. But he was going to make sure they made it. The plan would be to move through the buildings until they could get out of the hot zone, then assess and try to reestablish contact with their command. Lincoln patted the shoulder of the lead man, indicating they were ready to move in. As they rushed one after another, the scene was a perfect picture of trained combat specialists. Every square inch of the dank room was scanned and cleared. But the next room would prove to be the dire one. As they entered, Sam only too late recognized the whistling sound of an incoming explosive weapon. Mortar or RPG, most likely. It didn’t matter. The resulting explosion followed before there was any further warning or chance to escape.


Sam had been too lost in his own memories, obviously. Or the drugs had hindered his reaction to the distant sound of a door being kicked in. For whatever reason, his brain didn’t fully register it, akin to the way a half-asleep mind doesn’t register an alarm immediately. But the distinct sound of a metal chair dropping heavily on the solid ground directly behind him did register, and shocked him back into awareness, causing him to jump slightly. A mental curse rolled in his head as he willed his heart to calm down. It was the drugs that had over-sensitized his hearing, that was all. Or at least, this was the line that brought him a small bit of comfort. Whatever the case, his hands froze and stopped picking at their bindings at once.

The interrogation was about to begin.

More sounds registered in his ears as he kept his head forward and down. Footsteps, a shuffle, and the sound of a body settling into the chair were easy to pick out. But his ears weren’t the only thing that were registering at the moment. His nose was working quite well, and without even looking, he knew exactly who was behind him. She had obviously not chosen a new scent as her favored selection. Three years...

He was in danger of allowing the memories that smell brought on overwhelm him. After all, memories were the most keenly tied to smells more than any other sense. But he wouldn’t allow that. He couldn’t afford to. His green eyes closed as he focused on maintaining his calm, his coldness, his calculation. They would be the only things that had a chance of keeping himself alive.

A random thought did poke its way through, as the silence engulfed them both. Sam nearly chuckled as he realized he must look a sheer mess. Who knew how long he’d been unconscious, how unkempt his short hair had gotten, how unruly his stubble had become. He could feel some of it on his face already, but couldn’t tell to what extent it had grown. The man wondered vaguely what she would think of him in this state. A small sigh, nearly imperceptible if one wasn’t looking for it. At least I’m in decent enough shape.

That much was true. For a man in his early thirties, his body would make a twenty year-old jealous. He wasn’t big by any stretch, but he was toned and neatly sculpted. Every inch of his form betrayed a lifestyle of strict diet and exercise, as well as plenty of activity. The only blemish to his body was a faint scar on the front of his left shoulder; evidence of an old bullet wound. The granter of that wound sat behind him that very moment.

Finally, he cracked a smile and decided to break the silence. Without turning his head or making any other movement, he spoke. His voice was hinted with a teasing humor that only she would truly appreciate. It was a tone he reserved for Eloisa, though he hadn’t used it in over three years. Using it now, he knew she would be able to hear and practically see his smile in her mind. It was the only card he really had.

“Hi honey. Did I forget an anniversary?”

It was strange to be in his presence after so long. Most of the time apart was spent in excessive amounts of anger at his actions...at him in general; both violent and lethal daydreams satisfying her need for revenge. Despite this, though Eloisa would never admit to herself, she missed him in a part of her psyche she refused to acknowledge. It was the nights that were the hardest. Such a small thing in the grand scheme of it all; but it was the silence of the empty home; the bed cold next to where she slept; the peace that came with having her husband safe beside her. It took all their time apart for her to get used to his absence. Hell, she still wasn’t 100% accustomed to it; her unconscious mind still leaving his side of the bed free in hopes he would return.

Such thoughts Eloisa deliberately locked into a part of her mind that would forever remain closed, if she had her way. Anger was easier for her to deal with, to understand. Anger explained it all; Sam fucked up, so she hated him. Easy. If she were ever to be honest with herself, she messed up too. But her denied anger towards herself manifested in other ways; her work swiftly becoming her entire life. Every thought, every action, every hour of every day was devoted to her work. Work seemed to satisfy her anger the best. Killing criminals, wrong-doers, and general arseholes was a sure way to satisfy her anger-demon. But being in his presence again...the box she always fought to keep locked tight was suddenly open. She wasn’t prepared for it to open. Hell – she didn’t want it open. If there was ever a time she needed the damn box closed, it was now.

She remained silent; her eyes intent on the back of his body as her senses locked onto him. Her ears caught a sigh; soft, husky with exhaustion...yet laced with a hint of laughter. Then he spoke. Despite her best efforts, the corners of her lips twitched into a faint smile. The tone of his playful banter swam through her mind, pulling memories from the darkest parts of her mind. She had always loved his voice; it was one of the first things that drew her to him. Like most men in her field, he was all business. And his voice reflected the coldness and professionalism that he carried. That gained her respect. Before she knew him away from the field, she presumed that was the only side to the man that was Samuel Lincoln.

She was wrong. There was something about the way his voice changed when in her presence. It shifted, only subtly; the soft bounce of humour that carelessly floated from his lips, while only a slight change, it transformed his entire face...his very demeanour. The emerald flecks to his eyes twinkled, his lips curling into the boyish grin that left her inwardly weak...the smile that eventually won her heart. She could hear it in his voice now; and despite her position, she could see the smile she had missed so deeply. Even now, despite the circumstances, the tone filled her heart with fondness as the memories flashed within her mind. Laughter; unique to only them. She had spent so much time filled with anger, her heart had forgotten the laughter; it seemed to sigh at hearing his voice once again.

The twitch upon Eloisa’s lips quickly morphed into a snarl; one directed at herself for allowing such memories to affect her so deeply. He was clever...the conniving bastard that he was...using such a tactic to get to her. The anger that had momentarily dwindled swiftly engulfed within her. Was she furious that he actually used such a dirty trick against her, or the fact that it did affect her? She wasn’t sure.

Her jaw tensed tightly, a slight shift of her body and her fingers rummaged through the small bag at her side. She knew what she was looking for; delicate fingers quickly finding the handle and pulling the small blade into her lap. She studied it for a moment; the reflection of light upon the blade glinting in perfection as she spun the small utility knife in her grasp. A gift; from a wife to her husband. An anniversary blade laced with her practical nature. It was a beautiful weapon; the angles and curves pleasing to any eye. But it was the purpose of protection that she gave such a gift. Yet he never received it. They fell apart before she had the chance to present it to him.

Her eyes fell upon the inscription etched into the slick carbon stainless steel handle...

Till death do us part October 20 2008.

In their line of work, such a statement was a reality faced with each assignment. Hence her need to inscribe it permanently into the flesh of the blade. It was a promise of her heart to him, all those years ago, to stand by his side without faltering. Oh how wrong she would be. Yet the words stung with new meaning now as the reality of the situation hit her again. Death was a possibility; his death at her hands. Again her heart lurched, this time so painfully it pulled a near silent gasp from her lips. Inwardly she swore; the self anger rising to violent levels.

With speed born of pain, she lunged forward, delicate fingers capturing a handful of his hair. A violent tug and his head snapped backwards; his eyes burning into the dim light above them. The only relief from its blazing intensity to his over-sensitive eyes was the shadow her own form gave as she loomed above him.

“You’ve missed a few, actually. But don’t fear...we will make up for it now...” Her voice hissed from her lips in a seductive, dangerous purr; the blade tip finding its place at the base of his throat. Her eyes burned into him with the new found anger as she watched his every movement; the quickening of his pulse as it pushed his heart to pound against his ribcage, the slightest tremble of the muscles of his throat as the blade caressed upon delicate skin, the way his jaw tensed tightly as he fought to maintain his composure. She saw it all; every twitch, every bead of sweat, every pulse, and every emotion that passed through his gaze.

She breathed deeply; an act to calm her own nerves. Yet the action inevitably allowed his scent to waft through her; more memories crashing into her mind. A shower, artificial rain pouring around her as she crumbled upon the tiled floor. His arms cradled her, protected her as her mind and body slipped into shock. Blood; so much blood. Though she was clean she could still see it everywhere.

Inwardly she screamed to herself, violently forcing the intense memory aside. Not now, God help me. It shouldn't be this hard. She was a professional, God damnit. This was business. Desperately she latched onto her anger, the tip of the blade piercing to puncture his delicate flesh at the base of his throat. Blood spilled from the minute puncture wound; swelling around the tip of the blade before trickling down the side of his neck. A piece of her heart broke at the sight; the blade bought to protect him now used against him. But it was a necessary action. An action served as a warning. Yet it wasn’t a warning to him, more so to herself. By any means necessary she would get what she needed from him. She would follow through if it came to it. She would...she would...

Her lips found the intimate place upon his ear; supple lips caressing the lobe in a seductive tease. She knew how it drove him crazy...knew the memories such an act would force upon him. He wouldn’t play fair and neither would she.

“Tell me what you know.” The whispered demand hung in the air, her fist tightening in his air as the blade caressed higher up his throat.

There was a part of him that screamed to look at her. There was a part of him the yearned to see he face again. But Sam knew exactly what would happen if he looked. His desire to wrap her in his arms and caress her lovingly would win out in this moment. So, he didn't yet. While his ears registered the sounds of her digging through a bag and removing an item, his eyes drifted closed, and he concentrated on controlling any lingering emotions. Fear was no longer hard to ignore, when one was in his line of work for as long as he. But heartache? Love? They could break the strongest of men. His brain was still trying to brush away the remnants of the drug-induced state as it focused on one fact.

She is the enemy. She is my enemy. She will kill me. I must...

But the thought was interrupted with the coming of the sudden grip of his short hair, the wrenching back of his head, and finding himself staring up at her face. Something sharp against his throat, and while his body knew what it was and fought to preserve itself, his mind was far too busy trying desperately to clear the upside-down image of her face. His jaw set for a moment as he stared through squinted green eyes up at her. Eloisa. Wife. Lover. Soulmate. Enemy.

He noted a slight crack in her demeanor, if it only lasted a fraction of a moment. Maybe the sudden twinge of pain and sorrow in her eye had been a product of his fuzzy mind playing tricks on him. Why would she still care about him? The point digging into his neck broke skin, which was only realized by the shift in pain and the slight trickle he felt down his neck. She meant business. Why couldn't he focus? Why did he still have the desire to hold her, kiss her, and make all of their problems melt away with a magical wave of his hand.

But it never worked like that.

She is the enemy. She is my enemy. She will kill me. I... must...

Her head slipped from view, and there was a slight moment of confusion. But it quickly passed when he felt the contact of her lips to his ear, heard her sultry whisper. Fuck. She knew the right buttons to push, even after all this time. But then, he remembered things about her, as well. Things he would have been able to use to turn the momentum back his own way. If his hands weren't bound, that was. At the moment, however, he was completely powerless to stop her game, or even play along, for that matter. He was forced to simply endure.

Maybe he should just tell her. Maybe he should be the man he'd always wanted to be. Give up his own life to protect hers. An image of her face cradled in his shoulder flashed through his brain. He could almost feel her skin under fingertips as they brushed her bare stomach. His eyes drifted shut. Memories of a life he could never have again. It was just one of countless intimate moments they shared, and would never see again. Because of her...

She is my enemy. I must.

Green orbs remained hidden behind closed lids, but something in him snapped back to training. His mind shoved aside the confusing emotions, the memories that plagued, and the fleeting ideas of chivalry and love. This was bigger than either of them, and he knew that all to well. His heart slowed from the relentless pounding in his chest, as he drew a slow breath to calm himself. This was always his practice before he took a life. Distance. Control. These were what allowed him to thrive in a world that often wanted him dead. These were his only soulmates now.

"Oh, Eloise... hands bound, whispering in my ear... I seem to remember it being more fun the other way around. Are we trying something new tonight?"

The tone in his voice had returned. It was his only weapon right now, and acted more as a shield than anything else. He was deliberately dodging the question, of course she would see that. But he rather hoped that she would at least be distracted slightly by any thoughts his words had been intending to trigger. There were more than enough memories to draw from, after all.

"Tell you what. How about we switch, and I play the dominant one again?"

Even though his eyes were closed, his face held the mock playful smirk perfectly. He had to at least pretend to have some sort of control over his situation. After all, being tied up and dressed only in boxers with a former lover that knew his deepest and darkest secrets, and happened to want him dead... well, there wasn't much to be had in the way of control there. The mental games were all he could even offer as resistance. Even so, the mantra continued in his mind, as if he was trying to force himself to believe just that. That she was going to kill him, if he didn't kill her first.

Fingers subtly worked at bindings, as he calmed himself for what was about to come.

I must. I must.

I... can't.

The silence was deafening. But Eloisa waited for his reply; her hand tugging further upon his hair to bare his throat completely to her. The blade finally slipped to rest at his jaw, digging gently into skin to serve more as a warning of pain than real intent. He was no use to her dead. They both knew that. She had hoped the drugs would have inhibited his trained reactions, increasing the likelihood that he would slip, give her something to play on, something to manipulate in her favour. But it hadn’t.

Her eyes continued to observe his every movement; his eyes closed tight, his breathing relaxing, his heart settling. His chest rose as he inhaled deeply; his features softening when he finally exhaled. She knew that breath all too well. He was centering himself; bringing the cold distance of his personality to the surface. He was like her, a being of habit, and this was the start of his death ritual. She had seen it before. Many times, in fact. Hell, he was the one who taught her how do find that emotional, mental numbness and clarity.

"Oh, Eloise... hands bound, whispering in my ear... I seem to remember it being more fun the other way around. Are we trying something new tonight?"

He was dodging; throwing a distraction of the past into her mind. Images flashed; her form bound, blindfolded, on her knees, body arching in the heights of pleasure. His form behind her; possessive hands, both tender and demanding, pulling each new pleasure with loving wicked intent. She could feel the bliss now just from the memory, her body shivering as the intense memories crashed upon her.

Damnit.

Her eyes closed, her forehead falling to rest upon his shoulder. The realisation hit her hard. She still loved him. Her body tensed as she rode that realisation to its peak. Her heart had always done what it wanted despite her mind’s logical debates. It was how she fell in love with him in the first place. One doesn’t fall in love in this line of work. The risks were always too high. Death was too common. Death meant heartache. Which in turned corrupted your abilities to continue your job. Which then lead to your own death. Far too risky. Yet it happened. She fell kicking and screaming into his love, and her heart never regretted it. She thought she had passed this. Her anger was so strong, so she thought love no longer existed for her husband...Sam Lincoln.

She was wrong.

"Tell you what. How about we switch, and I play the dominant one again?"

Another blow; the memories intensifying. The images now moving too fast for her to comprehend visually; just emotionally. Flesh glistening with sweat, gasps, moans, whispered heart-felt pleas. Screams of ecstasy, his arms crushing around her; holding her, cradling her, completing her.

Damnit, damnit, damnit...

The last thought almost killed her then and there. He completed her. The bastard fucking completed her. Without him she was empty; a lifeless shell of a woman who no longer truly lived. He was her soulmate, her other half, her everything. No matter the distance, the anger, the fact a part of her wished him dead...it didn’t change the emotionally shattering fact that he still remained to be her everything.

Her eyes opened and fell upon his hands. They continued to work at the bindings, subtle but enough for her to recognise his intent. She smiled softly against his skin. The need to kiss him in this moment was strong. But not simply a kiss. The need to throw herself into his arms, feel that emptiness his absence created filled once again. She needed his strength, his tenderness, his soul...she needed all of him to embrace her own empty shell...to make everything alright again. But she couldn’t. This was too important.

She rose, arms finally leaving his body. She watched him a few moments as he continued to work on the ropes; her mind retreating to her own training. She needed a new tactic. This one wasn’t working. The drugs were not strong enough to inhibit his training. She went back to the basic facts. Firstly men could handle pain. Especially a man trained to handle pain. So physical torture would be both pointless and messy. And she really did hate mess. She avoided torture at all costs. Usually the techniques in her routine would bring the captured to a whimpering mess of pleas and pathetic sobs. Her routine was simple enough; capture, weaken, psychological threats, physical threats, and if the need came for it...actual torture. She was a woman of habit, of routine. She had mastered it over the years to the point that her reputation now was enough to frighten most into submission. But that was where the problem lay...the second fact.

He knew her routine. He knew her every process. The first two she had completed. He was captured and the drugs had weakened him. Not to the point that she would have preferred, but enough to know he couldn’t get out of this warehouse alive. The third step was causing her more distress than was workable. For the first time in her entire career she needed to change her routine. Abandon it completely. She thought for a moment; what wouldn’t he expect? What would throw him completely off guard? Regular methods of emotional coldness, physical torture, mind games...they wouldn’t work on him; he was trained too well. He would expect it of her.

Then it hit her. She knew what to do. She would be herself; open, completely open. No hiding behind a cold facade in a feeble attempt to break his will. She would be bare to him now. He was the only being in the world who ever saw her in such a vulnerable exposure of her soul. She breathed deeply again, this time to calm nerves. This approach frightened her. It was risky, very risky. He may not react; remain cold and distant while she let her own facade fall to a place of vulnerability. But it was the only thing with a chance of reaching him on a level she needed to find. She needed to find the man that was her husband, not the assassin before her now.

His hands still worked on the ropes; he was making progress. She decided to let it go. If he broke free, so be it. She wouldn’t contain him; he deserved better of her. Instead she crouched to the small black bag; hands rummaging until she found what she was looking for. Then she stood, four smooth, delicate, measured steps and she stood before him; a bottle of chilled water in hand, the blade now abandoned on her chair for now. She moved forward, a small step, to stand between his open knees. He still wasn’t looking at her. A delicate finger settled under his chin, pulling his gaze up to her own. But unlike before, her gaze was no longer cold. It was restless; sea-green orbs thrashing like the open ocean during a storm. She let her every emotion radiate from within; her hatred, her anger, her despair, her need of revenge to see him suffer...her love. She let the last emotion sting her gaze; her eyes becoming watery before a blink brought her back to a calmer state. Her features remained soft; almost sad. Her brow furrowed slightly as she gazed upon her own husband trapped by her own hand. Her blonde hair fell to frame her face, hiding an eye before she tucked it behind an ear. Another deep breath was needed to calm her nerves...so she did; letting it hiss softly as her mind calmed slightly.

A rise of an eyebrow and she lifted the bottle of water to his lips. She didn’t speak, the gesture would be enough for him to realise what she wanted of him. He would be thirsty. The wife within her couldn’t bare the knowledge. So she would fix it. Once his lips opened, she poured the chilled water gingerly into his open mouth; her movements carefully measured to not overload his capacity and drown him in her kind intention.

A memory flashed before her minds-eye at the sight; him below her, her finger guiding his chin, the openness she was currently embracing. But instead of the raging sea within her gaze; in the memory she was happy, blissfully so. Her eyes glistened in such an emotional state. He was down on bent knee, a diamond ring twinkling within a small black box. There were no words; her acceptance of his proposal signed with a passionate kiss.

The need to kiss him again grew stronger. But she held back. Her attention once again falling to him. Her assessment was correct; he managed to empty the bottle in a few quick gulps. She smiled; a real smile. A slight nod of her head and she retreated back to her chair; disposing of the bottle and picking up the blade once more.

His hands had finally stopped working on the ropes. She wasn’t sure if it was because he had given up momentarily or if the sight of her openness affected him. It mattered little in this moment. She was about to take the risk that would put her life in his hands. A slight shift and the blade fell swiftly to the ropes, slicing with little hesitation. His skin was unharmed, the ropes falling to the floor in a forgotten heap. She placed the blade in his right palm; his preferred hand. He would have the gift she bought for him those years ago. He could attack her. He probably would. But she was honest with herself in this moment. She would rather die at the hands of her husband than one of Sir’s lackeys.

There was a chance he would see it for the risky gesture that it was; one of offering a fair fight. He deserved better than to die tied, trapped, at a huge disadvantage. Her heart pounded in her chest, her breathing purposely deep to try and control herself. But she waited. She would fight if she needed. Her body prepared to dodge a blow that was more than likely coming. But for now all she could do was wait.

His words had apparently had an affect on her.

As she rested her head against his shoulder, his heart had nearly broken. But he couldn’t afford to stop. It was vitally important he didn’t. After all, she was good, just as good as he was. He knew that she was just as adept at playacting with an emotional mask as he; just as he figured he was the only person in the world who had scene her completely without it. But she was cunning, and there was a very good possibility that she was simply toying with him to get the desired information.

When she slipped away, he had to fight to keep from leaning towards her again, even if just a little. Sam sat stock still while he waited for her next move. What was she planning? She would know that torture and fear of death wouldn’t work on him, just like it wouldn’t on her. So, what tricks did she have up her sleeve. The man could think of a few rather nasty psychological games that could potentially crack his resolve. Green eyes darted back and forth, though his head remained straight forward and unmoving, as he wondered if she would choose those routes. Eloise didn’t obtain her codename for trifle reasons. She was a dangerous opponent, more so than he had ever dealt with. And he still loved her.

When the bottle of water appeared and reached his lips, he drank from it greedily. He didn’t really care anymore if it was drugged or clean, as his mind was already far too hazy, and she would probably gain the information she sought regardless. It tasted cool and refreshing, and he could almost feel his strength returning slowly with every heavy gulp of the cold liquid. His green orbs studied her as he drank, considering her gesture for what he hoped it to be. Then, the bottle was pulled away. He was about to thank her, but remained silent.

Fingers stopped working on the bindings. It was rapidly dawning on him that his efforts were fairly pointless. He could probably escape the ropes, but then what? Could he harm her?

There was silence. Then the unthinkable happened.

He stiffened slightly as he felt her presence close in from behind, and recognized a slashing movement. Only when he felt the ropes fall away with no pain accompanied, did he relax with his brow furrowed in confusion. The easily recognizable feel of handle was placed in his right hand, and he brought both arms forward. Blood rushed through his shoulders and began to tingle in his fingers, but he barely noticed. Muscles nearly screamed for stretching after the motion, but he didn’t care. He was busy staring at the blade and running the pad of his index finger over the inscription.

Till death do us part October 2008...

His lips opened to murmur silently the words that he could see and feel, as the realization of what this blade was hit him like a ton of bricks. Memories flooded his mind freely. Memories that he thought he had effectively locked away. Nights of passion, moans, heated flesh, being inside of her... Days of blowing off work to stay in each other’s arms, lazily stroking, kissing, tenderness, love... Images, some clear, some hazy, some nearly overpowering. His eyes screwed shut, and he leaned forward to rest elbows against his knees, the gift cradled in his hands. His mind raced, while tears threatened to fall down his cheeks, through the stubble on his face, and drop to the uncaring ground below. Finally, he sighed, resigned to his newest decision. The words were even, masking the emotional turmoil which currently rocked him.

“Zürich. Hotel zum Storchen. Client by the name of Zegfried, checked in till the 30th.”

The information was simple, and she would know what to do with it. Sam knew it was probably a bad idea to give her the information that he would have no choice but to follow as well, but he couldn’t let her leave empty-handed. Knowing her employer, if it was the same man, she wouldn’t survive failure. A life for a life. He sat still for another moment, still not looking up to see her reaction. It didn’t matter. She could technically kill him, now that she had what she had come for. He was fully away of this. His green orbs finally opened, though half-lidded, and he stared silently at the floor for another few minutes.

“Go..” his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t promise what will happen when next we meet, and I know we will. But for now...” He licked his dry lips and sighed once again. “Get out of here. And Eloise? I’m sorry about your men...”

This was all Sam Lincoln would say. She would know what that meant. In order for her to escape with her life and be able to provide a convincing story to her boss as to why her husband was still alive, it had to look like he escaped, and she barely made it out with her life and the information. Which meant blood had to be shed. Her minions would not be walking away from this place tonight. He sincerely hoped she wasn’t attached to any of them.

Eyes closed once again, tightened grip upon the knife, for nearly a minute as he mentally prepared himself. Finally, he stood, cold, calculating, murderous eyes opened narrowly and staring at the door to his cell.

Time seemed to slow to near painful speeds; each tick of her watch slowing to the point where it became a dull, heavy thud on her conscious mind. She watched his every movement like a hawk; her lithe body tense and ready for battle as her mind ran through the possible scenarios that could occur. A psychological attack was a possibility. He had already started the mental manipulations, and she was already weakened because of them. He would know this, surely he would. He was too observant not to. And he would use it as a stepping stone to bring her down completely. He could also physically attack; that was the highest possibility. After all, she did just put a weapon on his hands. She studied; eyes watching the muscles of his back and shoulders as he leaned forward, looking for any subtle twitches that would imply his sudden attack.

But none came.

“Zürich. Hotel zum Storchen. Client by the name of Zegfried, checked in till the 30th.”

His words flowed smoothly through the silence, leaving her slightly in shock. Eloisa hadn’t expected the information to come so easily. Easily? Well, that was an understatement...and a drastic one at that. The emotional rollercoaster ride was enough to bring her to the edge of her sanity. Hell, being in his presence again was enough to bring her to such a point. She leaned forward, almost mimicking his position as she studied him further. Why had he given up the information so quickly? Surely he was prepared to go further to keep it away from her. Even she knew this slip would cause him more difficulty to gain the ultimate information. So why? Why put his own life at risk? The reason eluded her.

The tone of his voice didn’t go unnoticed, and she questioned the sudden coldness before her professionalism took hold of her being. Business, this was business, and she had retrieved the information she needed. Switzerland. A plane would be needed. She had one at her disposal; a private jet with personnel that allowed her to skip through customs with minimal attention. That would be the first thing to organise. The rest she would figure out later. For now, it was time for phase three. The first two were now complete; capture and retrieve the information. The last was simple; he was a problem...a problem she was paid to dispose of. He was of no further use to her. He had served his purpose, and future interactions would prove to be pointless and painful.

‘A problem,’ Sir had called him. How little did he know...

A series of quick, seamless movements and the click of the safety switch of her 9mm pistol broke the silence; the coolness of the barrel pushing to the back of his head as she stood behind him. Aqua eyes now reflected the soul of a killer; the killer she was forced to become. This was the easy part. No effort necessary. Just point and shoot. The lackeys would do the rest. So what was the problem? Why was he still breathing? Why, with her professionalism and hatred, was this so fucking hard? It was easy to latch onto the hatred and anger she felt for him; each memory that passed through her mind ignited the flames until it was all she felt.

‘He is a problem. He will kill you if you don’t do it now. He is not your husband. He is the enemy...’ The mantra rang in her mind; the barrel pushing further into his skull, forcing his head further forward and into his chest as her hatred grew stronger.

‘HE is the enemy!’

Her finger twitched upon the trigger as her cold eyes fell down the lines of his neck, passing over the bare stretch of his shoulders to rest upon the scar that adorned his otherwise perfect skin. She remembered that scar. She would always remember that scar. The memory would always haunt her. Always. And now it crashed upon her like a tidal wave; destined to leave her torn apart and vulnerable in its wake.

Italy; though the place didn’t matter. Neither did the date, nor the target. It was her first kill, and her first assignment with him; Sam Lincoln. He was experienced. He was calm. He was collected. He knew exactly what he was doing. She? She was the lackey. She was nothing but a bundle of nerves and emotional chaos. She was nothing but a liability. She knew that then. She knew that now. And it all happened so fast; even in hindsight she questioned the validity of her own memory.

Gunfire rang around her; her form huddled under the safety of a large wooden table in an attempt to hide from the crossfire. She had run out of ammo; a rookie mistake. So she waited anxiously for a break before she could change position and get out of the direct line of fire. Then there was silence; the gunfire ceased with no sound of movement from any living soul. She made a split second decision, her body finally slipping from under her protective table. Yet instead of running for cover, she paused in complete shock. She would never prepare herself for what she saw.

Bodies lay lifeless around her. Blood; so much blood. Never in her life had she seen such a massacre. Those men? They were sons, brothers, husbands...families left behind to morn, grieve and question God for taking their loved ones away. As she stared down at the lifeless gaze of a casualty she knew that it wasn’t right. They were paid for one kill; and that bastard still breathed. Movement finally registered in her shocked mind; her arm lifting her gun unconsciously and firing. Two shots were fired into crossfire across the room. The first shot, Sam’s shot, sliced cleanly through the air, missing her right shoulder to embed itself precisely in the target’s heart that stood behind her. Her bullet? It lodged cleanly into Sam’s left shoulder. At the time she had no clue who she shot at. One could blame it on her shock or her lack of experience. But it mattered little. What mattered was that she shot one of her own. One who had just saved her life from her own targeted kill.

She still carried that guilt. And it hadn’t faded despite the years that had passed. And here she was again; that same gun pointing to the back of her saviours’ head. Her hand trembled as the emotions grew stronger; hatred, anger, guilt...so much guilt.

‘He is the enemy!’ Her own voice grew stronger in her mind; the voice of her professionalism. She would do what had to be done.

‘He will kill you!’ Her voice grew louder, her finger pressing gently against the trigger...

‘He is your husband...’

With a frustrated gasp her hand fell; the gun hanging loose by her side as she finally succumbed to the emotional distress. She couldn’t. She simply couldn’t. She couldn’t kill him. She still loved him. Her head hung low, a tear finally falling down her porcelain cheek to the cool concrete as she finally came to accept it.

“Go...”

Her head rose at the sound of his voice. His tone was cold, direct, no room for discussion...the subtle authority pulling at her true nature. Instantly she complied with no further thought; her vulnerable state of mind forcing her to slip back into the ways they used to live...a life she would never have again. Footsteps carried her passed him; her body hesitating in the doorway as his voice touched her again.

“I can’t promise what will happen when next we meet, and I know we will. But for now...get out of here. And Eloisa? I’m sorry about your men...”

She didn’t turn, didn’t move. She simple paused while the meaning of his words registered in her mind. Next time they met, it would be messy. She knew this. But she cared little for it at this moment. She was too beaten emotionally to care. She was heartbroken; her heart simply destroyed. She needed his strength, his protective arms...damnit, she needed him again. But hanging onto that dream wouldn’t allow her to heal. She needed to heal, to get passed it...to find focus for the next target.

A nod was all she offered him of her understanding before she finally walked away. She would see him again, and she made the inner decision to be better prepared emotionally for it. The door closed behind her with a deafening click; the echo of her boots ringing in her mind as she made her way back to the surveillance room. A plan formed; one born of the need to help Sam get out alive...to give him at least a chance. She wouldn’t allow him to die at the hands of some low-grade minions. His best chance was to get the pack in two separate groups. And she would provide.

“Listen up...” Despite the emotional turmoil she was currently experiencing, her cold killer facade swiftly took over. All heads quickly rose from their various distractions and focused upon her like a pack of obedient little puppies. Eyes scanning over the pack, she silently decided that she needed to break up the twins. They worked too well together. While Sam was better, they would weaken his already fragile physical state.

“Blondie...” Both men looked to the other, then back at her. She hadn’t bothered to learn names. To be frank, she didn’t care for such formalities. That and she simply didn’t respect them enough to bother. With a shake of her head and a crook of her finger, she beckoned the largest of the twins to stand before her. He towered over her, a part of her brain sizing him up to determine if he was too big of a man for Sam to take down.

“I want a complete surveillance report of the area within the hour. Whoever picked this shit of a site will have serious consequences to face...” She smirked as all the colour from his face seemed to drain from his body. Then he was gone; a rifle in hand for any unexpected disturbances. How little did he know what was about to take place...

No matter. It was beyond her current concerns.

“You...” A delicate finger pointed to the last twin, and he quickly approached to tower over her in the same way his brother just had.

“You’re in the cell.” He seemed to know what she meant, and took a large step to pass her.

“If I hear any bullshit, there will be consequences...”

Her threat hung in the air with a violent sting, his body pausing in the doorway before he replied over his shoulder. “Yes Ma’am.” Then he was gone too.

All that remained was the last bulk of Balboa muscle, the driver and tech support. Another decision was made. Sam should be able to handle the three at once. Two were useless as fighters...even more useless with a weapon. And while Balboa had strength and knew his way around a weapon, he was slow. Sam was quick, lithe and flexible. He’d take the muscle-man down with minimal effort. Now she had to get the hell out of there before all hell broke loose.

“I’ll be back in an hour.” It was all she gave them. They needn’t know more. They wouldn’t ask either. A violent glare to test her authority, and all heads lowered in silent submission. Another satisfied nod and she turned, eyes falling on the monitor that still showed her husband sitting on the chair. Tech support seemed to be negligent; too focused upon the laptop instead of the going-ons within the cell. A subtle flick of her wrist and she turned the monitor off. They wouldn’t see what was coming.

One last look at the future casualties, and she sighed to herself. More casualties. Her conscious wouldn’t be clear, but her life would be spared. Then she was gone; thighs clenched tightly around her 1956 Harley as she rode away from the corrugated graveyard. Her mind was set, focused and finally clear...

Switzerland.

Silence filled the small room; clung to the walls and stuffed the already cramped space with an almost unbearable blanket. In the long moments after the door had clicked shut, Sam stood as straight as possible given his physically weakened state. The drugs still held their slowing effects on his muscles, and even without moving, he felt as if his arms had weights attached to them. The man breathed deeply and evenly, as if trying to will the effects of the anesthetic out of his body. Unfortunately, it didn't work like that.

Whatever the trained assassin would encounter outside that door, he would have to be prepared for it. Eloise hadn't been quite so kind as to inform him of her forces, of which he assumed would be a handful. He hoped she hadn't brought anyone truly gifted in the art of fighting. He wasn't quite sure how he could hold up against someone in top condition with his current circumstances.

Suddenly, the door opened again. Sam almost missed the sound of turning handle in his sluggish state, but something snapped in his brain just in time. A bare foot slid to the side to lower his center of gravity. Balls of feet twisted to turn quickly, one foot now well behind the other. With the new position of legs coiled beneath him, he launched towards the door just as the figure began to step through. There was a flash of blonde hair, and a look of shock on an unfamiliar face. Norse decent? It didn't matter. The full weight of Sam Lincoln's body slammed into the back of the door, catching the opponent between it and the frame before even a sound of shock could be uttered.

His hand shot forward even as the door began to open in slow motion once more, having bounced with a sickening thud off of the victim's ribcage. Fingers closed around throat, and with as much strength as he could muster, Sam yanked the figure into the room and plunged blade deep into chest, between a pair of cracked ribs.

Bloodshot eyes stared in blank shock above a blood-gushing nose, before the blonde dropped to his knees. With the tugging of the knife from chest, the first obstacle went down without a sound.

Heavy breathing followed as Sam collected himself for a few moments. Then, he opened the door slowly and padded barefoot into the hall. There were a couple of options available to him at this moment: he could use intimidation to his favor, walk tall and proud into the open room at the end of the hall and try to strike fear into his opponents, or he could playact weak and sickly, and use their overconfidence to his advantage. Since the drugs were still claiming their hold on his form, and it was hard to look intimidating in boxers, he opted for the latter. In truth, he didn't have to pretend much to seem more weakened than he already was. It already felt like he was walking underwater... at the bottom of an ocean... wearing lead clothing.

Weak and sickly it is.

Within moments, his hunched frame appeared in the doorway of the anteroom, and it took a half-moment for the three men inside to even react. They bolted up from their respect positions in a near panic. Well, two of them did. The two scrawny-looking ones. The mountain of a man in the center rose slowly, the sneer of a hunter meeting his prey stretching his lips. The smile of a killer. Sam would recognize that smile anywhere. The first opponent broke Lincoln's gaze As he reached for a pistol and opened fire from two meters to the immediate left.

The man's lack of confidence with a firearm was immediately obvious in the way the weapon shook and rose with each shot. But Sam wasn't about to let him empty an entire clip in his direction; even the most inexperienced and scared get lucky with shots. The trained assassin ducked and bolted, legs screaming in protest as they launched him shoulder-first into the Irishman. The grunt of air being shoved from his lungs detracted from the next motion, which was when Sam grabbed the burning-hot barrel of the .45 and twisted it forcefully out of his opponent's weakened grip. Two shots fired quickly, and the man gurgled blood before slumping to the floor.

A loud retort from the other side of the room, and the change in pressure, mixed with the zing sound, alerted Lincoln that a small caliber round had just passed within inches of his skull. Sam dropped and twisted, then fired three shots in the direction of his attacker. The first pair were squeezed off before he could acquire the target, but served as a distraction while the third punctured the throat of the skinny tech-looking captor. Shame. Kid didn't look old enough to shave. Sam frowned in disappointment. But the thought was cut short by a pounding blow to the side of the head. He'd forgotten all about Muscles McKenzie.

The mountain barreled forward, kicking the pistol away as it had clambered from Sam's hand. Impossibly large hand grabbed at the assassin's throat and literally dragged him up off the ground and into the air before he could even process what was happening.

Shit.

This was the only word that would come to mind as Lincoln hung limply in the air. Blood streamed from the side of forehead, cutting off vision in one eye. A ring from the boxing-glove hand must have caught his temple in that strike. And Sam couldn't breath. Panic washed over his body for a moment, fueled by the drugs, no doubt, as he felt his lungs scream for air far too quickly. Something had to happen, or the trained assassin would find his death at the hands of Andre the Giant's darker, stronger twin. But nothing was coming to mind beyond the pain and drugs.

The door opened behind the man, and blondie rushed in with rifle in hand. Wait... wasn't he dead? Despite the pain and impending suffocation, Sam couldn't help but have a moment of confusion as the dead-man's brother appeared. The mountain looked towards the door to ensure friend or foe, and that was all that Lincoln needed.

Both fists came down in a hammer motion, aimed for the crooks in the larger man's arms. The desired effect of breaking their lock was achieved and Sam followed it up with a strike to the man's throat and solar plexus. The hulk's eyes went wide, and another hammer fist to the bridge of nose followed quickly to further disorient him. He fell to his knees, clutching throat and nose, as Sams lungs finally expanded sweet, sweet oxygen in tortured relief. The blonde twin raised rifle in slow motion as Sam ducked down under the mountain of muscle before him, and shoved with both legs.

The problem with rifles in small spaces is simple: such a long weapon has no space to be maneuvered in such cramped confines. Sam kept this in mind as every fiber of his being focused on task of slamming his shoulder into the bulky man's chest and pushing him up and backwards into the blonde with the rifle.

Fuck he's heavy!

Between the drugs and previous lack of air, his muscles had all but given up on him. But he forced his legs to push like they'd never pushed before. Body hit rifle as rifle went off, and blood splattered across Sam's face as a hole opened up in the chest next to his head; high-caliber round barely missing him through the bulky body.

The blonde was helpless as the larger man fell on top of him, pinning him down with rifle between them. He panicked and tried to free himself while Sam knelt down to pick up a fallen pistol. Calm was in the assassin's eyes, even as he gasped for air, and the single fired shot silenced the last of his opponents permanently.

Within hours, Sam Lincoln would be cleaned up, refreshed, and on a plane to Zürich, where he would sleep like the dead for almost the entire flight.