LOUIS 🗡

Sunday, 8:57am

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DAMN, I'M TIED TO A CHAIR.

It's not even a good one—some rusty oak-wood seat that creaks when I shift to the left—and it's also not the most ideal of situations. Well, it's not the worst. Regardless, I'll give you the brief rundown of what's happening, because I've got at least thirty-seconds before I lose my chance to escape.

Let's begin.

30 seconds—five weeks ago, the SIS (also known as the British Secret Intelligence Service) caught wind of a cartel smuggling home-grown leeches through the canal tunnels. I was assigned the case because of my unblemished track record, and I spent the past three days working undercover.

15 seconds—thanks to my blubbering mission partner (who is probably dead at this point), I got exposed and caught.

14 seconds—they tied me to a chair.

10 seconds—however, I'm in this job for a reason, and silly squanders like this one are basically meaningless. Here's why: my days undercover told me everything I need to know about the inner-workings of the cartel. Three security guards, five handlers, and one mean ol' boss.

They deal in leeches, not money, so they keep their staff small.

5 seconds—in a few seconds one of the guards will walk through that door, and I will be able to escape. How? After some intense thinking, I've determined that they'll send the tallest man in first. I noticed that he smokes at least five times a day and does not eat healthily, so he's bound to have a weakness in his lungs.

3 seconds—jab to the left of his chest, enact an Omoplata to trap his arm, and then follow suit with a Choke Out. Simple.

2 seconds.

1 second.

Show time.

As if on cue, the door to the room swung open, and the shadowy figure of a muscled man stepped in. I didn't hesitate. Propping myself onto the balls of my feet, I spun around, ramming the back end of the chair into man with as much force as I could muster.

It split at the impact, freeing my hands from the binds and eliciting a groan from the guard. I didn't even try to hide my smug grin as I socked him in the gut, twisted his hand behind his head, and wrapped my arm around his neck until he was left gasping for air.

"Hush, hush, now," I whispered in amusement, "when you wake up, they'll have a nice cell for you in prison."

He was knocked out seconds after.

Dusting off my hands, I stood up, striding out of the room with no pain on my conscience. This was part of the job, okay? I didn't join the SIS at eighteen to feel bad about taking down criminals—so pity was out of the question.

They kept me hostage in one of their abandoned train-cars on the outskirts of London, meaning it only took a few steps out of the door and I was already hopping onto the barren ground beneath me. If they were any good at being criminals, they would have had more than one guard on me—but as I said before, they deal in leeches, so the staff is small—and I didn't blame them for underestimating me.

I was working my way up the SIS chain.

Arguably, they'd call me the best agent since Bond (and yes, he actually did exist).

Taking off my shoe, I slipped behind the train-car, popping open the sole. One of the perks of being a high-ranking agent were the gadgets. I had an emergency signaler hidden in my Oxfords, which was helpful, considering my belongings were taken from me when I got ratted out.

Dialing in the code (which I will not be telling you, obviously) I waited for the line to connect.

"Edward speaking," a thin voice finally said from the speaker, "would you like to speak to the Queen, the Duke, or the Duchess?"

That's a code phrase in case the phone ended up in the wrong hands.

"None," I said bluntly, "I wish to speak with the King."

Another code phrase.

"Putting you through, Agent Partridge."

Now, this is where I legally have to stop talking, because what I'm about to tell Headquarters is completely confidential. Top secret. I can, however, give you a vague summary.

From here, I inform my superiors of the cartel's whereabouts, silently take down the rest of the organization while I wait for backup to arrive, and then watch smugly when they all get put in the back of a police van. Then I grab a bite to eat, bask in momentary glory, and then return to HQ—where I'd be met with thunderous applause and rumors of a promotion.

That's another thing I don't need with this job: modesty.

Completing missions requires a lot more brain and physical work than any average person could have, and I won't waste my time pretending that I didn't put my life on the line to benefit the rest of the world (or London, to be specific, because that's where I'm stationed).

"Franklyn-Miller," I said gleefully, striding into my office with a grin, "what are the stats?"

Following my plan, I bought a sausage roll from Greggs' an hour before, and was now returning to my station to fill out paperwork. William—Will for short, although I prefer to address him by his last name when I feel like it—was already filling it out by the time I walked into my corner space.

Perks of rank, I tell you, a corner office and a personal assistant.

"Impressive," the man said, casting a proud glance from above his desk at the corner of the room, "hardly any property damage this time."

I took off my blazer, tossing it onto the coat hook without a second glance. "That's because most of the cartel worked in abandoned warehouses."

"At least that gives me less paperwork to do," the man shrugged.

"And less damage-control," I smirked from my chair, kicking my feet up onto the table, "what do the higher-ups have to say?"

William was an astute gentleman, who trained at the academy with me for several years, had a clean record, and accompanied me on missions every now and then, but I could never get used to the steely-cold look in his blue eyes. It was like getting pierced by ice every time he glared in my direction.

"They were impressed," he told me, slowly getting up from his desk, "as usual."

I sensed something else. "And?"

"It seems they think you're ready for another case."

There was a pause in the air, and I searched the man's face for any sense of jest. No twitch of the eye, no curl of the lips—he was being bloody serious.

"What? Already?" I exclaimed, my mouth hanging open, "I've only just returned from the last one."

William shrugged. "Don't complain, Partridge, they don't call you the 'Miracle-Rookie' for nothing."

"I'm assuming you mean 'Best Agent'?"

"You can assume on your own terms, I don't want to feed your ego," he smirked, "but I think you'll like this one."

Slapping a creme folder onto the wood of my desk, I watched the papers inside skew aside in the fall. The vague outline of identification pictures were sticking out on the sides, and on top was a red stamp that read: CLASSIFIED.

I flipped it open, scanning the page for whatever information I could use for summary—no one reads the full mission report, because it would take days, and most of the information is pointless when it barrels down to the actual fight. At the top of the listing, three words were highlighted in neon marker.

The Ash Duo.

"You've heard of them, no?" William said, cocking a brow.

How could I not?

The Ash Duo were practically the British Mafia, a sick duo of blood thirsty criminals. They delt in robberies, arson, domestic terrorism, and any other illegal activities that comes to mind. They first surfaced in 1973, when they staged a first-degree robbery at HSBC Holdings and left no trace of evidence. They were taken to court, but no one could prove them guilty.

The two of them were pretty much Hell in the SIS.

"They're giving me the Ash case?" I said, setting the folder down, "that's bloody insane."

"They seem to think you're capable of it," Will said hesitantly.

I narrowed my eyes at his tone. "Of course I am."

"Then get to work, Partridge," he said, tapping the folder, "London's in trouble."

I sent him a glance that said 'when is it not?' but promptly began to inspect the other contents of the folder. It said the Ash Duo were seen lingering outside a meat warehouse a few blocks out of the city, and an anonymous source said whatever they were planning was happening tonight.

It was simple.

Issue a rollout team to accompany me to the warehouse, infiltrate their plan, and capture the criminals. In order to keep them in custody, we can arrest on reasonable suspicion of foul-intent.

And I have no doubt in my mind I'll catch them this time.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

MY PLAN HAS THREE STEPS.

Infiltrate, fight, and win.

My swat team has been camping out a few blocks away from the meat warehouse, but we're prepared to swarm in a few seconds. I've got my transponder in my right hand, my wits in my mind, and a smug grin on my face. All things a good agent needs.

So, let's begin.

Infiltrate.

"Go on my word," I said into my communicator, my eyes piercing through the gaps in the bush I was crouched behind.

I had a team of five brought with me, all who were tacticals in my division, and our plan was to sneak in through the side door—the front entrance is out of the question, and the back is too obvious.

"Hold it..." I strained, watching as a blurry shadow of the man I assumed to be Robert Ash disappeared into the warehouse, "Now."

Getting into the establishment was easy, but then came the hard part.

The Fight.

Any amateur might have thought they could sneak in undetected, but that would be a dire mistake. That wasn't the point. If the Ash Duo could be easily sighted by an anonymous source, that means they want us there—or, at the very least, were expecting us.

It was the battle that mattered.

The Ashes were mentally and physically proficient, so luring the SIS over was a game to them. They were testing both us and themselves. It's a pity the most intelligent of people are too naive to see they're in the wrong.

So, the fight begins, as it was planned to.

My tactical team was instructed to handle the guards, while I scoped the area for Robert and Martha Ash. I didn't like getting my hands dirty when it was unneeded—like the time I had to scrub dirt out of my fingernails after I took down a poisonous flower infestation.

"Partridge," I heard a voice crackle in through my comms, "have you found them?"

I recognized the voice as Tactical-7, one of the leaders for the team. I'd been scoping around the meat warehouse for a while now, but all I could find was the stench of rotting beef and pork. The only light was from the sky streaming in through the foggy windows, casting shadows of meats hanging from their places on the conveyor-belt above.

Sometimes I question why I haven't become a vegetarian.

But then I remember steak (medium rare, marinated with garlic butter, and garnished with pesto, if you were interested).

"False lead," I exhaled into my comms, "they aren't here."

"Tactical took out the three targets lingering around the warehouse," I heard T7 say, "it's not making sense, Partridge."

It wasn't. "It does."

"Care to share why three combat-trained men were stationed here then?"

Part of my role as a leader in this operation was to have all the answers. Unfortunately, that meant running my mouth off whenever I wasn't sure, because you had to make it seem like it did.

"I said it was a false lead," I repeated, "those men were only here to make it seem legitimate."

"Affirmative."

"Tell your team to evacuate the premises, consider this case postponed."

Switching off the line, I rubbed my forehead in disappointment, letting out a breathy exhale. It reeked of meat and failure where I stood, tucked in the depths of a warehouse in Edinburgh. The third part of my plan was going to be postponed as well, but I think this serves as a temporary—

Girl?

What, no that's not part of the plan.

Out of the corner of my eye I swear I saw a girl ducking through the shadows, but that might have been a trick of the light. No, I'm getting distracted. I've checked the heat signatures multiple times, and no additional people showed up on the radar. I guess this failed mission is affecting me more than I thought.

Shaking my head, I trudged swiftly down the stairs and towards the exit.

"Agent Partridge!" I heard someone say—who I soon discovered to be Tactical-9—running towards me, "I don't think we should abandon the premises."

The rest of the team seemed to have already evacuated, so I cast a distasteful glance at T9, who was trailing after me like a lost puppy.

"Are you questioning my decision?" I said harshly.

The man widened his eyes. "No, with all due respect sir, I just noticed—"

"Nothing of my concern," I frowned, brushing past him, "save it."

But I had barely made it through the exit doors when I heard someone scream. Spinning around, I saw Tactical-9 falling to the ground like a limp rag-doll—arms splayed over his head, unconscious, laying on his stomach, and gun missing—all which point to the obvious idea that this was no accident.

But before I could inspect the situation, I heard the click of a pistol from a few paces away, and threw myself to the floor without a second thought. I dodged the shot of a bullet by a hair, nearly risking a shot to my left shoulder.

Brilliant.

Looking up, I caught sight of a figure standing on top of the balcony with the stolen weapon aimed straight at me. It was a vision of darkness, an unknown demon born from whatever hole they crawled out of.

So, I wasn't seeing things earlier, there really was a girl.

And that girl had a gun.

"Oops," she grinned, batting her eyelashes innocently, "I missed."

The sarcasm dripping off her words was enough to tell me two things:

One. We weren't playing on the same side here. I wasn't sure who she was, what she wanted, or where she even came from, but it's less than likely she'll stand there and give me her entire life story. Which, as luck would have it, brings us to the second thing.

Two. She definitely did not miss.

Spinning around, I had about three seconds to register that the bullet severed the rope of one of the meat slabs, and was hurtling towards my face faster than I could blink.

Damn it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

I'M TIED TO A CHAIR, AGAIN.

However, unlike earlier this morning, my attacker is still in the room, and I have zero information on who, why, what, when, and where.

The shadows of the tiny room covered her face from the small streaks of light, but I could pick out her figure from the small source illumination I did have. She was sitting on a chair opposite mine, the back pressed against her stomach, and the heels of her boots digging into the concrete floor—worn leather, dirt, specks of dried blood.

She was clearly no stranger to violence.

"Who are you?" I said through gritted teeth, tugging at the ropes around my wrists, "and what happened to the rest of my team?"

The girl shrugged, watching me through the darkness. "I wouldn't know."

"And why not?"

"Because I was put in charge of you not them," she said, narrowing her eyes, "Now shut up."

Her words made me feel like she spit on my pride, and in truth, she did. Managing to hold me hostage was proof enough that she was dangerous to a high extent, yet her attitude made her seem immature. She was unreadable and unidentified.

"I'll have you know, I'm one of the best in my station," I spat out, twisting in my chair, "you won't win this."

She laughed.

"Ouch! So he bites!" She exclaimed, almost mocking me in the process, "your arrogance isn't attractive, darling, check yourself."

"Excuse me? I am not arrogant."

"Then you're wrong," she said, standing up from her chair. "I'm the best in my station! If you weren't being arrogant, you were clearly mistaken, because I doubt the 'best of your station' would be tied to a chair right now."

She verbally spit on me again.

"Anyways," she yawned, straining her words in boredom, "what's your name, pretty-boy?"

I scoffed. "As If I'd tell you."

She ignored that comment, the click of her shoes against the concrete ground echoing loudly as she crossed the space. At first all I could see was the light creeping up the bottom of her black jeans, but the closer she walked towards me, the more I saw of her.

And then she was right in front of my face, her eyes locked onto mine like ticking time-bombs. Her face was exposed to me now, and I was taking every mental note of every feature I could grasp.

Placing the palm of her hand on the back of my chair, she leaned down to match my eye-level, playing a game of pure intimidation—and breach of personal space. I noticed the corner of her lip raise into a smirk as she used her other hand to reach into the pocket of my blazer, pulling out my ID card in the most teasing way possible. She was blatantly mocking my inability to move.

Flipping the card in her hand, she scanned the laminated surface with malicious intent.

"Louis Partridge," she read out, scoffing under her breath, "pretty name for a pretty face."

I ignored that remark. "Who the hell are you?"

She paused, taking her hand off the chair and stepping away.

"[y/n] Ash," she said, slipping my badge into her back pocket, "ring any bells?"

"Ash," I exhaled, nearly letting a gasp escape my mouth, "are you saying that—"

"I didn't say anything," she frowned, bending down to meet my eye level again, "and if you want to make it out of here alive, you shouldn't either."

I narrowed my eyes. "You can't tell me what to do."

"But I can make you," she grinned.

There was no doubt in my mind that she meant every word she said, because what I've gathered from the short amount of time with her, she was a threat. Her outfit was tailored, which meant she came from a family of wealth, but it was also worn, which meant she didn't care for expense.

And her last name was Ash, which meant she was—

"The daughter," she yawned in unamusement, "yes, I know what you're thinking, your thoughts are almost as easy to read as a picture book."

How the hell?

"But by the time you figure out how to escape from those ropes, my parents and I will be long gone," she said, rolling her eyes, "so don't try running after us, you won't find anything."

I glared. "Says who?"

"Says me," she smiled sweetly. If I wasn't suffering at the hands of her games, one might mistake her for an angel with the way she smiled—fake innocence dripping in spite. "And since you're the one tied to a chair, you should probably listen to what I say."

"You can't run forever."

"Who says I'll have to?" She asked, pulling out my ID from her pocket with nimble fingers. Giving another look at it, something unreadable flashed across her eyes. "I think I'll keep this."

And without another word, she left the room.

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I hope you enjoyed the first chapter ;)