The Mission of the Heart

It was suppose to be an easy mission, but I was wrong.

Oh, was I wrong.

The mission was to assassinate Charlie Carlson. A classified file was mailed to me a week ago, which stated that I must kill him immediately, no questions asked. There was no further information: Charlie's photo, background, nothing. A ticket for Chicago was also mailed to me: apparently, Charlie lives in a mansion in a suburb near Chicago. And so I went.

A week later, there I was, crouched down behind a bush trying to avoid a guard. I had my full gear on: the black Mark V Tactical Operation Suit stuck comfortably on my body, two 5-7 SC pistol hanging on my sides safely put in my harness, a M-160 Assault Rifle harnessed to my back, and a bulletproof vest. I can feel my sweat being absorbed, while I held on to my double bladed knife ready to attack.

Itching my face through my balaclava (or ski mask), I looked through my night vision goggles and prepared my plan to go inside the mansion. My combat boots and pants were already muddy from crawling. Overall, the equipments and suit on me were reasonably light, which is an advantage for a fast spy like me. Besides, since I'm a woman, I don't have enough muscles to carry large amount or heavy equipment. Even so, I still think I am a little buff, if not really toned.

The guard turned his back, which is the perfect time to disable the camera, which I did. I put away my double bladed knife and unharnessed one of my 7 SC Pistol. Quickly, I held the guard at gunpoint, holding him hostage. He froze.

"Charlie Carlson," I whispered gravely to him, " where is he?"

"Fuck you," he grunted.

Wrong answer. I kneed his hamstring and punched his left ribs 3 times. Hard. Expectedly, he fell down headfirst to the ground. I crouched down, putting pressure to my knee on his back. He groaned. I pressed my pistol hard to his skull.

"I have no patience," I whispered," Now. Where."

"Second floor," he grunted," probably the bedroom chamber. It's the far east side of the house."

Quickly, I hit his head by the blunt end of the gun, putting him unconscious. He was a big man, which puts me in a disadvantage of hiding the body. But I did anyway, slowly though. Going inside was barely a challenge for me. There were only five guards around the mansion, but I sneaked passed them. The only problem was I don't have a clue how many there are inside.

With two 7 SC Pistols on each of my hands, I switched to non-lethal bullets; recently designed a couple weeks ago, these bullets literally shock the body system, but not killing it. I disabled three cameras while going up the stairs. All this time, I stayed in the shadows, crouching. I spotted two guards, but one was sitting by a door half-asleep and the other one...well, let's just say I personally took care of him.

Finally, I was near the door. I harnessed both my pistols, took out my small camera that fits under the door. There was no one there. But then I heard a faint sound of water running, which made me realize that he might be in the bathroom in there. I picklocked the door, unharnessed both my pistols, searched the area, and stood patiently stood next to the door. The room was very dark, so I was perfectly camouflouged. The water stopped running and I grew anxious. The door opened and a figure slowly walked out, and flipped the light switch on the opposite side,

Shit. I got to do this fast.

I lifted both my arms, ready to shoot. But then the figure slowly turned. And I froze. In front of me was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. And she was about to scream.

The scream was like from a horror movie: long and bloodthirsty.

Kill her, I thought to myself, kill her now! But for some odd reason, I couldn't. I can't.

I harnessed one of the pistols, and covered her mouth with my free hand. She struggled and tried to escape, but I pushed her on to the bed, me straddling her. I gently pushed the 7 SC Pistol under and up her chin. She whimpered. I pushed my night goggles up, and I saw her clearly with my two brown naked eyes. She was probably in her young twenties like me. She was wearing only her white bathrobe and she was purely beautiful, but what on earth is she doing here? I leaned close to her right ear.

"Be quiet, " I whispered with authority," or you die. Nod if you understand."

Hesitantly, she slowly nodded her head up and down.

"I'm going to remove my hand from your mouth," I whispered," and I want you to tell me your name, why you're here, and where Charlie Carlson is."

She gave me a confused look, but she nodded at me again.

"I-I am C-C-Charlie Carlson," she whimpered, tears rolling down her face. I can feel her whole body shaking. "W-w-what are y-y-you g-going to d-d-do?" My eyes widened.

What on earth? Charlie Carlson is a woman? I immediately sat back up, and pointed my pistol right on her forehead. She froze. We looked at each other for a minute straight, maybe even more than that.

Kill her, I thought to myself, this is your mission. Kill her now!

But I couldn't. I sighed, and my muscles began to relax. I slowly put down the pistol to my side and began to stand up. I stood by the bed for a couple of minutes trying to think quietly to myself.

What the fuck was that about Pamela, I thought to myself. Why can't I do it? I've killed many other people before without any problems. Except now. I was pacing across the room, mumbling to myself that I didn't even notice Charlie walking towards the door.

"Help me!" she shouted while opening the door," Oh God, somebody please help me!"

Quick as lightning, I unharnessed both my pistols and aimed it at her. She immediately froze, her breaths getting heavier and heavier every second. I held my breath, but I didn't shoot her.

"Shit."

The alarm went off. Numerous guards were shouting outside and within the house, and I could hear footsteps tumbling near the staircase. I pulled Charlie into the room, and locked the door. Normally, I hate big guns, but there are times when I absolutely need it. I got my M-160 Assault Rifle ready

Time to play rough.

I turned off all the lights, and put my night goggles on.

"Open the door!" a guard shouted. Judging from the shuffling sound outside, I estimated that there were at least six guards near the door. I switched to rubber bullets. This was going to be easier than I thought. The guards started to tear down the door. On the corner of my eye, I can see Charlie inching her way to a corner looking petrified.

"Go under the bed," I hissed at her," Now!" Without any doubts, she did exactly just that. Deep inside, I don't want her to be involved in gunfire.

Snap out of it, I thought to myself. Five seconds passed by. Then ten. Then twenty.

The door opened violently, and the guards shouted to put my weapon down. One tried to switch the lights on, but I shot him to the solar plexus before he can even lift his arm. After that, the situation went downhill from there. Shots were being fired everywhere around me, but I quickly hid behind a nearby armchair. One by one, I took out each of the guards. As I was about to shoot, a bullet zipped pass my arm, leaving a deep cut. Giving a little cry, I shot the guard twice on the chest. Ignoring my throbbing arm, I waited and listened for thirty seconds to see if anyone else were coming. There wasn't.

Grunting, I calmly tore a curtain from a nearby window and began wrapping it around the cut.

Great, I thought, maybe I should've killed them all instead of hurting them.

I pushed my goggles up, and sighed. Well, this is what I get for not doing what I'm supposed to do. I looked at the bed, and heard a heart-wrecking sobbing. I leaned my back towards a wall.

"You can come out now," I said painfully to Charlie." The area is safe."

Except I was supposed to kill you, I thought to myself.

Lightly shaking, she slowly crawled out, while I switched on only a single lamp on a lamp table. Confused, she looked at me not knowing what to do next.

"Sit," I said to her, motioning to the armchair. She froze.

"Now," I ordered, while staring at her desperately. You're losing it, I thought to myself. You're definitely losing it. I rubbed my neck in confusion. Eventually, she did sit down, and I leaned against a wall in front of her. Face-to-face, we looked at each other with a sign of uncertainty in our eyes.

"The Agency," I said. "Mean anything to you?"

She shook her head, a tear came rolling down her left cheek. I walked over to her and squatted.

"They want you dead," I said. "And I was sent here to kill you."

Under the faint light, I can finally see her detailed features. I made a mental note to myself: she was around 5'5, 130 lbs, green eyes, long light brown hair (almost blonde), full lips, and a little scar on her chin. Her damped hair was starting to dry up, and so was her white robe. My eyes fell down on her slender legs, and I noticed there was a long slanted but not deep cut on the back of her left calf.

God, she was beautiful and I couldn't stop staring at her.

She started shaking, and the sobbing escalated. At that moment, I wanted to hold her in my arms and tell her everything was going to be okay. I stood up, tore another curtain in half, and squatted in front of her again.

"But," I said, while wrapping the torn curtain around her wounded calf," I'm not going to do that." I shook my head. This whole situation was ridiculous, but I wasn't willing to kill her.

She looked at me long enough to make me feel...vulnerable. I stared back, and there was...a moment, a spark between us that I can't really explain explain. She swallowed slowly.

"W-why not?" she whispered. I looked around the room trying to find the answer myself. Why not indeed?

I slowly stood up, but never dropped my gaze from her.

"I don't...know."

With that, I walked towards a nearby window and opened it. I went through it, jumped down and dived into the pool. Afterwards, I ran to my base point and let the night camouflage me.

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" Okay, two Whole-Roasted La-Bella Farms Foie Gras and a bottle of Chateau Margaux. Anything else I can get for you, Mr. and Mrs. Dupont?"

I smiled my gorgeous smile to the lovely couple, especially to Mr. Andre Dupont, which was my current target.

"No, merci," Mr. Dupont replied smiling." That would be all."

Smiling, I walked towards the kitchen to give the orders to the chef.

It was Friday night, two weeks after my incident with Charlie Carlson. After telling the Agency that I didn't complete the mission, I was on a tight leash. But they decided to cut it since leaving Charlie alive was probably a better choice. I was pissed, but they called the shots, not me.

I haven't stopped thinking about her ever since that night. I wonder if her leg was being taken care of?

"Get your head out of cloud nine, Mademoiselle," my co-worker Daniel said as he passed me. "The French aren't patient."

"Thanks, Dan," I said chuckling." I'll keep that in mind."

Patiently, I gave the orders from table ten, Mr. and Mrs. Dupont's table, to the chef. Mumbling something in French, he took a glance at the orders and went straight to cooking. Afterwards, I went to the basement to get the wine.

I've started working at Tru a week ago after I got my new "assignment." Andre Dupont, apparently a rich, 45-years-old, French Buerocrat, was visiting his son in Chicago. After spying on him, I learned he loved expensive French restaurants. Well, what French restaurants aren't expensive? So I got in his mind, learned his daily habits and routines, etc. Since he loved spending his money, I decided to work at Tru, one of the most luxurious French restaurants in Chicago; I had a feeling he'll be eating there one day and I was right.

I broke into his mansion outside the city two days ago and found out some information about him that I didn't particularly liked; he was greatly involved in the Black Market, illegal human trafficking, drug smuggling, and money laundering. The Agency, however, probably wants him dead for political reasons and they want him to sign some kind of contract. Either way, it's justifiable homicide for me when I do kill him.

"Table ten!" the chef shouted. I rushed over to the counter, picked up the tray along with the wine, and sprinkled two crushed sleeping pills on one of the meals. Then I graciously walked to table ten.

"Looks absolutely delicious," Mrs. Dupont said as I served the meal. "Isn't it, darling?"

"Yes," Mr. Dupont said smiling. "Merci."

"Enjoy your meal," I said mainly to Mr. Dupont as I was walking away.

Might as well, I thought to myself. It's probably your last. Table ten was my last table before my shift ended. After that, my real shift starts.

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23:03

With my full gear on, I was already in the Duponts' mansion with no trouble getting past their three guards. Three hours has passed after I left the restaurant and I was ready to get this assignment done. The images of Charlie randomly pop in my head without warning. Damn, I need some sort of vacation.

But my blood is in this work. It's not like I chose to be this...whatever I am, a bad guy or the good guy.

The main bedroom was on the second floor (why is it always the second floor?) on the north-eastern side of the house. Apparently, the Duponts' marriage were on the rocks, so they slept in two separate bedrooms. Luckily, Mrs. Dupont's room was on the opposite side of Andre Dupont's. There shouldn't be any problems and there were only five cameras around the house. Alarms? Disabled. Piece of cake.

I stealthily went to the second floor bathroom and hid in the huge towel closet.

Mrs. Dupont should be soundly asleep because of the crushed sleeping pills I had put in her meal. And Andre should be up any minute now since he always goes to the bathroom around 11:10 P.M.

Two minutes later, the bathroom door slowly creaked open and a figure came in and switched the lights on. Looking through a little crack, it was indeed Mr. Dupont. He went over to the toilet, did his business, and went towards the sink. Hunching forward, he filled the sink with water and began washing his face. While he did this, I was already behind him.

As he was about to stand upright, I quickly banged his head against the sink, and he fell right to the ground. With a surprised yelp, he tried to stand up again, but I already had my pistol pointed at his forehead. He froze right on the spot.

I let my left hand reach over to my pocket, and grabbed some kind of contract and a pen. I threw the single paper and the pen to him.

"Sign," I ordered with authority.

With a disgusted expression, he spat at me, but I didn't flinch.

Without any emotions, I shot his right calf, and he gave me a painful scream. I pointed the pistol to his head again, and his screams turned into whimpers.

"Sign," I ordered again, while gritting my teeth. Shaking, he signed the contract, and fearfully gave it to me. I took it and put it in my pocket.

"A-are y-y-ou g-g-going to k-kill m-m-m-me?" he stamperred quietly. I didn't have to answer since I pulled the trigger without any hesitation at all.

Justifiable homicide.

But how come I can't sleep properly at night?

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1:17

After changing in the car, I finally got back to my own hotel room. I was back to my own work clothes again, but I didn't care. If I walked around with my full gear on, people will ask questions. Besides, all my equipment were in my bulletproof, high classed car; I was amazed on how many things that car can do.

I decided to take a shower, so I locked all windows and the door and made sure the "Do Not Disturb" sign was still hanging outside my door; even though my reputation and "job" are swept under the rug, I still remain vigilant. I stepped into the shower after I painfully took out my clothes.

And there I was, standing under the extremely hot water, thinking. I sat down to the slimy bathtub and kept telling myself why I do what I do:

Name: Pamela Pearson, agent 76.

Age: 21

Birthday: January 9, 1989

Short description: 5'6, 137 lbs, very built, but not bulky. Specializes in Tae Kwon Do, Krav Maga, MMA, Kickboxing, and weaponry. I.Q. exceeds the norm. Other skills: classified.

Like the other agents, I was chosen from birth and was raised in a military sense, almost Spartan-like. From an underground secret base, I went through multiple exams, homework from age five till thirteen. There were multiple students, but we were all separated from each other; we couldn't be in contact whatsoever. At the age of fourteen, I already graduated from college education.

I never knew my parents, but I do know they were also agents. In fact, I never knew any of my relatives.

It was at the age of fifteen that changed my life because on my birthday I held my first gun. For nineteen hours per day for two years, I was training, training, training for the field. Everything from combatas, weaponry, strategies, to how to picklock professionally, that was life was about for me.

It was when I was eighteen I received my first mission and when I first killed someone. She was a fifty years old congresswoman, who had a family that depended on her. And she was killed with my knife.

We were taught to not let emotions overcome us, but I shook uncontrollably and cried painfully in my bunker the night I killed her. I always thought killing someone would be quick and easy, but no one told me about the emotions afterwards.

I finally got out of the underground base a month after my first assignment, and lived in society as a normal citizen, but a deathly spy and assassin inside. Equipments were shipped to me after every assignment I completed, but they were always personally delivered in my front steps at my current base. Money wasn't a problem. I had a single powerful credit card that had unlimited amount of money and a $3,500 amount of cash delivered to me every month.

Since then, I went from one assignment to another for the past hard three years; no social life, no romantic ties, nothing. The government owns me from birth till death, natural or not. If I tried running away, I will be killed immediately without warning.

The only reason I got for my existence is the safety of the country and its citizens. That was the only reason I got. I guess I was lucky to be given a reason at all.

I rubbed my back and the rest of my body with soap, and multiple memories came back to me. I closed my eyes:

A stab wound on my stomach from a Brazilian drug dealer, a bullet wound on my left shoulder from a Polish minister, a vertical six-inch cut on my right forearm from an Indonesian militant, a small, but deep cut under my right earlobe from a Russian General, another vertical cut on my left side, but only five inches long, from an Iraqi Terrorist leader, another small, but deep cut on the left side of my mouth from the Prime Minister of Japan.

A slanted, two-feet, deep cut on my back from a sixteen-year-old daughter, who was trying to save her 50 years old corrupted uncle.

And the cut on my right bicep I got two weeks ago from Charlie Carlson's mansion.

Good thing I had a very good knowledge about medical and surgical information, otherwise I would've died from infections or something. All that are left behind are stitches and scars.

Charlie Carlson.

God, I can't get her out of my head. Everytime I try shutting her out of my mind, she invites herself in. But what surprises me is I welcome her in. Her fearful expression she gave me wanted something inside me to hold and protect her, even from myself.

Sighing, I stood up, turned off the shower, and dried myself up with a towel. I changed into my pajamas, and went straight to my bed. I looked under my pillow, and saw my two 7 SC pistols. I laid the pillow on top of them, and then laid myself onto the bed.