I was once again in Dr. Jones office...for the fifth time in 7 months. I took a deep breath as I looked up at the ceiling, relaxing my body on the plush grey couch. The office was bright, and decorated in shades of black, white, and grey. There were large windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, displaying a pristine view of Langley below.

I watched as Dr. Jones as she pulled out her notepad, reading glasses, and pen like she usually does. She was an older woman, and has been with the Agency as their designated mental health evaluator for almost 25 years. Her long black hair was always pulled back in a bun tight enough to pull up the slightly sagging skin on her forehead. She was an uptight woman, and followed every procedure, rule, and regulation to a T. She was always dressed professionally, wearing a neutral colored pants suit everyday, just like everyone else in the agency.

"How did those mandated anger management classes go?" She asked with a straight face and a bored tone. In the 5 years I've known her, I've never seen her smile once.

I beat the shit out of the instructor and held him at gun point until he signed my release forms, then threatened his life if he spoke a word of what happened to anyone.

"They went great, helped me out a lot." I said as I continued to look up at the ceiling. I stretched out my arms in front of me, and placed them behind my head while I crossed my feet.

"Wonderful. And how's the depression? Are you seeing any side effects with the medication I prescribed?" She asked as she raised her eyebrow at me.

I flushed those fucking pills down the toilet the day you fucking gave them to me.

"No, everything seems fine. Better even." I said as I gave her a fake smile.

"Good to hear that." Dr. Jones said as she reached over and grabbed a file that was laying on a side table right next to her. She opened it before putting on her thick reading glasses.

"So what happened this time?" She said as she continued to look down at the file.

"Why do you need me to tell you? You're reading the report right now." I scoffed in annoyance.

"I need to hear it from your perspective. You've been in here enough, you should know the procedure by now." She said as she looked up from the file and glared at me.

I shot the fucker because I didn't feel like running after him. Cardio's not really my thing.

"My partner and I were sent to question Mario Ortez, the main suspect who we believe had ties with the European Mafia. As soon as we knocked on the door, he opened it, shot him, and tried to run. He took out his cell phone as he turned his head, I though it was a weapon, and I engaged." I lied smoothly.

I knew it was a fucking phone. There's no way I could ever mistake a cellular device for a weapon, but for some reason, that excuse was believable enough to get me out of this mental interrogation. 

"He was shot in the back of the head, killing him instantly." She read from the file as she raised her eyebrow, her eyes still locked on the folder in front of her.

Because that's exactly where I wanted to shoot him you fucking idiot.

"I was aiming for his arm, hoping that it would slow him down enough until we catch up to him. He moved at the last second, and instead of hitting his arm, it hit his head." I said, making sure to add a bit of regret into my tone to make it believable. Dr. Jones closed the file and put it back on her desk. She positioned her notebook on her lap as she crossed her legs and looked at me.

"So how did you feel when you killed him?" The boring and dull therapist said as she tilted her head slightly as she tapped the top of her pen against her chin gently.

Fucking amazing. Thrilled. Exuberant. Alive. He's a criminal, what else am I suposto feel?

"Horrible. I would take it back if I could." I lied smoothly as I furrowed my eyebrows, giving her the impression that I was remorseful. She scribbled down something on her light pink notepad. The office was uncomfortably silent, her pen writing against the paper was the only sound to pierce the tension.

"Do you feel that you have an urge to kill?" Dr. Jones asked as she scribbled down something on her light pink notepad. The office was uncomfortably silence, her pen writing against the paper was the only sound to pierce the tension.

Every second of every fucking day.

"No. Only when I feel threatened." I lied again, which made Dr. Jones write something else on her notepad.

"I feel awful, and I felt even worse when I found out he had a family. I haven't been able to sleep, to eat, to function. I didn't mean to kill him, it was a mistake, a lapse in my judgement." I said as I sat up and threw my legs over and onto the floor in front of me.

Lies. I almost over slept for this damn meeting from eating too much Chinese food last night.

Dr. Jones looked at me for a moment before she sighed and took her glasses off and placed them on top of the file resting on the side table to her left.

"Blaire, you have an IQ of 220 when the average is 85. You're the best in your field in hand to hand combat, weapon speciality, and intel gathering. You're one of the best agents the CIA has ever seen, but you've also been sent into my office more than any officer in CIA history. I know you regret it, but if I see you here one more time for killing on the job, I'll be forced to request the director to revoke your badge." She said seriously as she glared at me.

"Understood." I said as I nodded at her.

"You're free to go." She said scribbling something else onto the notepad in front of her. She ripped it out with one quick motion and held it out to me. I stood up, walked towards her and gently took it from her hand.

"Bring that to Director Hobs, you're cleared." She said as she glared up at me.

"Thank you Dr. Jones." I said before I quickly walked out of her bland office and made my way to see Director Hobbs.

Dr. Jones is an idiot, and I've always used my knowledge from my Masters in Psychology to play her like a violin. With my background in psychology and a little introspection, I discovered in college that I displayed all the symptoms of a modern day psychopath.

Pathological lying and manipulation: Not everyone needs to know the full truth all the damn time. And manipulation? That's just a term for people who are smart enough to get what they want from other.

Lack of empathy, remorse, or guilt: No one was ever successful in life by making everyone happy. Who cares how people fucking feel, as long as the job gets done.

Increased sense of self-worth: I just have a good self image, and believe in myself.

Superficial charm and glibness: I just have superb people skills.

Shallow emotions: I'm not one of those emotionally woman who cry when there's no ice cream in the freezer, I have emotion stability.

Being Impulsive: More like being decisive.

When you look at it like that, everyone should be classified as a god damn psychopath.

When I reached the dark wooden door labeled "Edward Hobbs", I knocked on it three times with the back of my hand before just walking in.

Hobbs was an older man, his black hair decorated with specks of white. He was always freshly shaven, and always had on a grey or black suit, a white collared shirt, and a red tie. He has a wide nose, and a narrow jawline. His office was decorated just like everyone else, dull and colorless. He was sitting in a leather chair behind his desk, looking down at the files scattered messily across his desk with his thick eyebrows furrowed.

I walked over and threw my release papers onto the desk, covering the file he was looking at and causing his brown eyes to look up at me with his eyebrow raised in curiosity.

"Dr. Jones sends her regards." I said as I smirked at him before sitting down in the uncomfortable chair in front of his desk and crossed my legs.

"I see you're still refusing to comply with the dress code." He said as he sat back in his chair and looked at my outfit with an emotionless face.

I looked down at my usual outfit: a grey tank top, black skinny jeans, combat boots, and a leather jacket. My long black hair was straight, and draping past my shoulders. I wore multiple silver rings on my fingers, which apparently, was also against this dictatorship they call a dress code.

"Pants suits were never really my thing." I said as I shrugged at him before crossing my arms in front of my chest.

"Lennon, I don't know how many times I have to go over this with you." He said as he rested his elbows on the table and started to rub his temples in annoyance.

"Hobb, have you ever had to pursue a criminal in a pant suit and heels? The dress code interferes with my ability to do my job properly, I don't know how many times I have to go over this with you." I said tilting my head at him and raising my eyebrow sassily.

"Lennon, you are on thin fucking ice. I can't keep saving your ass every time you feel like being trigger happy. The department is getting real sick and tired of making up stories for the news." He said as he leaned back in his chair.

"If they're so sick and tired of making up stories, then why don't they just tell America the truth?" I said with an edge in my voice. The CIA has covered up dozens, if not hundreds of crimes and events from the public.

"If the citizens knew what was really happening, we would be shut down. Especially if they discover that our best agent can't keep her finger off the fucking trigger." He growled at me.

"I'm gonna give you one more shot to redeem yourself, Lennon. You fail this mission, don't even bother coming back to the agency." Hobbs said seriously before grabbing the file he was looking at and tossing it onto my lap.

I opened it curiously to see all of the documents and records we had on the European Mafia, the largest Mafia organized crime has ever seen. On the front page was all of the information we've gathered on Ryder Calderon over the years. He took over the organization 4 years ago after his father died. According to rumors on the street, he was the more merciless, cold blooded, and lethal than his father was, and no one has ever seen his face before.

"You want me to go after Calderon? You're already setting me up for fucking failure, Hobbs." I growled in annoyance as I continued to flip through the information in the file.

"You're going to do more than just go after Calderon. You're going undercover in the European Mafia. Your mission is to gather as much intel as you can, and destroy the organization from the inside out." Hobbs said as he leaned back in his chair and glared at me. His elbows were on the arm rests, and his hands were held up near his chest, his fingers were straight and pressing against each other.

"You want one person, to take down the largest Mafia in the world. This isn't a mission, this is fucking suicide. Who authorized this?" I said in anger as I stood up quickly and tossed the file back onto Hobbs desk.

"The president." Hobbs said seriously as my eyes slightly widened.

"It's either you accept the mission, or the agency takes your badge. Your choice Lennon." He said  in a deadly tone as he glared at me. Our eyes were locked, both staring each other down as tension filled the room. My jaw clenched in anger, as I contemplated my options.

As much as I hated the rules, regulations, and procedures that came along with working for the CIA, I loved my job. I loved seeing the fear in a criminals eyes as they saw my badge. I loved the power that came along with the position. I loved the thrill of the chase, raids, arrests, and pursuits. I felt like I finally had a chance to bring justice to those who corrupt the world, to make the rules and law actually work for the benefit of others. It's as if I spent my entire life preparing me to be here, and Hobbs is about to rip that away from me.

"Where am I going?" I asked as I balled my hands into fists at my side.

"London." He stated as he continued to glare at me.

"When do I leave?" I said with an edge in my voice.

"Tomorrow morning." He said as he smirked.

Fucking lovely.