Night Fury: First Act (3 page)

“Yeah. Okay.”

A mixture of excitement and fear causes adrenaline to violently course through my body. So much, it threatens to make me sick. I close my eyes and control my breathing, forcing myself to keep calm.

To tell you the truth, there is nothing about tonight that scares me—apart from the fact everyone expects me to fail.

That scares the crap out of me.

I give myself an internal pep talk.

James was a mistake. Never again. You can do this. You’ve been training for this since you were five years old. This is your second nature—your calling in life.

And most importantly...

This is God’s will.

I have had that fact drilled into me for forever. I have to believe that this
is
God’s will. If not, I am just a criminal, no better than the people I am to hunt.

Bob leads us through the kitchen, out the backdoor, and past my garden. We walk until we reach the barn that sits at the very back of the property. It’s an absolute eyesore. It almost ruins the elegance of the rest of the property, but that eyesore is there for good reason.

The big barn doors look old; it’s paint is peeling and faded. Bob avoids them, instead, moving to the side of the building to a steel-reinforced door with a keypad on the side. He keys in a six-digit number. “If you do well tonight, you’ll get your own code.”

Frankie smiles at me, and it calms my soul.

At least she believes in me.

The steel door whirs and vibrates a moment before we hear the latch click over. Bob pushes it in and we follow him inside. A spotlight comes on, bathing us in bright light.

Four vehicles sit covered by gun-metal grey covers, taking up most of the space in the barn. Bob moves silently between the cars towards the very back wall of the barn, where another steel door awaits. And my heart skips a beat. Or two.

This is it.

I’ve entered the nerve centre of Mirage only once before. That was two years ago. I was sixteen then, and Bob thought I was ready for my first job. At the time, I thought I was too.

We were both wrong.

Bob stands by the keypad. Without looking back, he asks, “You sure about this, Cat?”

I wish people would stop asking me.

Every time I’m asked this question, a small piece of my self-confidence bails on me. I grit my teeth, holding back the snide remark that sits at the very tip of my tongue, and I respond instead, “Sure as sugar, Bob. Do it. Let me in.”

He keys in his code; the door whizzes and purrs, clicks over, and then I wait.

Bob pushes open the door, steps back and offers a genuine smile, all for me. “Welcome back, Night Fury.” With a jerk of his chin in Frankie’s direction, he adds, “Moon Shadow will take you through. I have some things I need to do.”

“Thanks, Boss.”

He looks at me a moment before pulling me into a bear hug. “Just do your best.”

And then he’s gone.

Frankie—codename: Moon Shadow—takes my hand and pulls me along behind her. The steel door shuts behind us and she says, “You know he doesn’t actually have anything to do, right? He’s just scared shitless of his little girl growing up.”

I know this should make me roll my eyes, but I smile instead. “Well, he’s the closest thing I have to a dad. I guess it would be hard for him.”

She scoffs, “He’s been training you for over a decade, Cat. He needs to put a lock on those emotions. They don’t do anyone any good.”

Of course, she’s right, but it’s nice to have someone care about you that much.

I trail her down the long, dimly lit hall, the sounds of our footsteps echoing through the narrow space.

I’m walking towards my destiny.

How poetic.

We reach the end of the hall. Frankie clicks in her keypad code. More humming and buzzing, the steel door clicks opens and finally—
finally
—I’m home.I take the first step towards the rest of my life, and I do it wearing a shit-eating grin.

This is exciting.

I’m excited.

My life will be thrown one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. From boring to extraordinary.

I can’t wait.

“Welcome back to Mirage.” Frankie starts her descent down the stairs to the ground floor, but I’m glued to my position on the top floor.

My eyes scan down to the open area. I try to take it all in, but it’s hard, like walking from complete darkness into the intense brightness of the midday sun.

And it
is
bright in here. The area is completely open, with two desks in the middle of the open space. Four whiteboards full of writing stand surrounding the desks, which are littered with documents and photographs. Sounds come from all around. Computers beep, printers scratch, the fax machine plays its tune, but more clearly, dance music blasts from the stereo down below.

Frankie walks over to the two men who bop their heads to the music, typing away furiously. One man talks into the headset attached to his ear, and the other jumps out of his chair to add more scribble to one of the whiteboards.

I know one of men sitting below, but the other is new, and when I say new, I mean he had to have been recruited within the two years I haven’t been here. So, I guess he might not be so new. Perhaps
I’m
the new person in this room.

You’ve been here your whole life and
you’re
the new person?

That stinks.

Frankie approaches the man typing away, leans close to him and says something that makes him stop typing, stand and look up towards the second floor. He spots me and grins, mumbling, “Holy shit.” I chuckle and he booms, “Get your ass down here! Been too damn long.”

I make my way down the stairs towards Clark—codename: Data Stream—the handsome computer whiz. Taller than me, but not too tall, he was my very first crush. His brown hair is now long enough to put behind his ear, and his blue eyes are warm and welcoming. His stubble makes him look manlier than what should be permitted for a computer geek.

Thinking of that causes my face to turn bright red as I approach. I haven’t seen him in a long time.

Smiling all the way over to him, my heart stutters. I wring my hands together. I feel suddenly nervous. “Hello, Clark.”

Smiling softly, he approaches me slowly, as if he would a frightened animal. He holds his arms open to me, and with little-to-no thought at all, I step into his receiving arms. He wraps me up tight, and I close my eyes and inhale the zesty citrus-based scent at his collar. I forgot what it feels like to have a man hold you.

No longer nervous, but dizzy, I breathe into his shoulder, “Hi.”

His stubble scrapes my forehead as he moves to kiss me there. “Missed you, Cat.”

“I missed you too.” Clark had been a great friend to me before I was pulled from the program. We hung out for years before—

Well, just...before.

Someone clearing their throat breaks the spell I’m under.

I gently extract myself from Clark and turn to face a grinning Frankie and the inquisitive looking new guy. His eyes search mine a moment before he masks his curiosity and steps forward, holding out his hand. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess you’re Catarina.”

I’m momentarily stunned.

Stuck in my place in front of Clark, I look at the new guy through lowered brows.

Taller than Clark, but not as tall as Bob, his posture screams
military man
—legs parted slightly, his presence fierce. His body built the way it is, I feel small next to him. Buzzed light brown hair with green eyes, he watches me as if I may bolt any second.

Not going to happen.

My hand slides into his as I ask quietly, “How did you know that?”

He grins. “I know everything about you.”

Oh, my.

Gently dropping my hand, he clears his throat, crosses his arms over his chest and spouts information as if he himself were a computer. “Catarina White. Age eighteen. 5’6. 140—” I make a noise and glare at him. He smirks and continues, “I mean 130 pounds,” he eyes my body under my plain clothes, “of course. Shoulder-length black hair. Light brown eyes. Birthmark in the shape of a dove on your left inner thigh.” My face flames but he ignores it and carries on, “Trained by the best of the best. Black belt—E1—in Krav Maga. Highly trained in Eskrima. The weapons you are best at are the baston and largo mano yantok. Excelled in Fencing. Also highly skilled in weaponless combat fighting styles, namely Sambo. An expert in sword and dagger knife fighting, you favour the saber grip. You prefer an ivory-handled twenty-four inch Katana sword, which you affectionately named Koneko, which means kitten.” He smiles a cutesy smile my way before it falls and he continues quietly, “Your first job didn’t go too well. Target: James—”

I cut him off by snapping, “I get the point. Thank you.” I work at the pins attaching my habit, removing them one-by-one. When my hair is free, I ask, “Who are you?”

“I’m Marco. Codename: Flamethrower. Been here a year.”

My lip quirks up. “Flamethrower?”

Clark rests his hands on my shoulders, leans down to my ear and says an amused, “’Cause he can burn through any firewall put to him.” He sighs dreamily. “He’s amazing.”

Great. My old crush has a bromance on an asshole.

Marco searches my pink-cheeked face before smirking, knowing he’s shown me up.

“Wonderful. Look forward to working with you,” I blatantly lie.

––––––––

M
y afternoon consists of preparing myself for tonight. I expected to be working closely with my old friend Clark, but instead, I’m put in a mildly uncomfortable situation when I’m paired with Marco to take me through who tonight’s target is.

Frankie and Clark make their way over to the furthest whiteboard, where Clark begins chatting away furiously. Frankie nods her head as he speaks, and I know they’re discussing upcoming contracts.

Feeling a little awkward, I wrap my arms around myself and wait for Marco to instruct me.

He watches me.

I watch him right back, my gaze unwavering.

He grins.

I do not.

He jerks his chin to the second office chair by his desk. “Yo, sit your ass down.”

This pisses me off. “You could ask nicely, you know.”

His grin turns into a smirk. I’m coming to learn is his trademark, and I can’t help but notice he is extremely attractive. It also makes me want to show him how well I was trained by gifting him a broken arm.

Marco surprises me when he stands, moves the chair right behind me and waits for me to take a seat.

I wait a moment...it could be a trick.

When he makes no move to send me flat on my butt and shows unexpected patience, I sit. He pushes my chair in gently, takes a seat next to me and states, “I
can
be a gentleman.”

Shame tightens my chest. It seems I’ve misjudged him.

His smile dazzles me. “It’s just I
choose
not to be.”

Nope, I was right on the money about this cocky bastard.

I roll my eyes and he chuckles, low and rough. The sound caresses me into awareness that this man is dangerous in more than one way. Voice cracking, I ask, “So, you’re ex-military, right?”

Clicking away at the keyboard, he jerks his chin and replies, “Yes, ma’am. Army.”

“How’d you get recruited?”

He barks out a laugh. “I’ve got no fucking idea. Bob turns up at my house one day dressed as Father Robert, tells me he has something to discuss with me.” He turns to face me and admits with a soft smile, “The man could sell ice to Eskimos. The very next day, I arrived at Mirage. Sorta never left.”

“I guess I’m wondering how you ended up at this end of the spectrum. You look like you can hold your own; I’m sure you’ve fought before.”

The statement clearly makes Marco uncomfortable. His body stiffens and his features tighten. “Honey, I’ve seen more than my fair share of carnage. I guess you could say I’m done with it. Call me retired.”

The way he says this only spurs more questions in my meddlesome mind. I want to ask a thousand intrusive questions, but instead, I ask, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine last week.”

My brows rise. “Happy belated birthday.” He looks younger than twenty-nine. I’d say he looks more in his mid-twenties.

He grunts, and I take it as a ‘thank you’.

He looks distractedly at the computer screen and mumbles, “Gimme a sec. I just got something to do really quickly, and then we’ll get down to business.”

“No problem. Take your time.”

I swing the office chair side-to-side, pretending to be comfortable and at-home in a completely unfamiliar and alien space.
That’s supposed to work, isn’t it?

Fake it till you make it.

Still sounding distracted, he utters, “So Bob’s your old man? Must be nice for him—you steppin’ into the family business. He has to be proud of you.”

“He started training me young, and frankly, I’m looking forward to tonight. I’ve been preparing for it a long time.” I bunch my nose. “Bob is the closest thing I have to a father, but I was brought here as an orphan when I was just a few weeks old. He’s cool though. I’ve never felt anything but loved.”

Marco’s brows pull down in the middle. “Oh, but—”

With a shake of my head, I cut him off, “I know he’s protective of me.”

His confused reaction is understandable. Bob is everything to me a father should be. And I love him.

He shakes his head as if to clear it, brings his palms down on his jean-clad thighs and spouts, “Okay, then. Let’s get to it.”

He hands me a printed document and I read through it. My stomach dips.

I try to hide my reaction, but Marco spots it immediately. “You know him?”

I nod.

“You ever see him act anything shifty-like?”

“No. Never,” I whisper. I try really damn hard to see past the printed photo on the document, but I’m stuck staring. Before I can overthink this, Marco pulls my chair around to face his. His expression unsympathetic, he orders, “Turn the page.”

I’m suddenly anxious. My stomach does somersaults.

The first page of the document is just a target bio; the second page lists the alleged crimes committed.