Pain and Beauty

“Are you sure you’re ok?” Caleb asks for the fourth time when we hit the door to my office. I ignore the question. He can tell I’m in no mood, and the fierce look in my eyes forces him to take a step back. Peeling off my equipment, I watch as he grabs the next file off my desk.

I'm used to having three kills a day, but I don't want to hear it. The afternoon hit is always the worst one, and Caleb's face tells me all I need to know. I'm a neanderthal as I shove my hands into a jar of peanut butter and slush it down my throat.

He slides the file over to me, and I read the name Heather Brooks. Her details immediately intrigue me. She’s a small girl at 5'4, 110 pounds. She’s wanted for charges including grand larceny and murder. She carries no weapons, and she doesn’t have a list of possible contacts.

“Hey, you guys back already?” Camille pokes her head in, her brown hair falling clumsily across her forehead as I’m finishing the file. She looks nervous about something, maybe her first kill.

“Yeah,” Caleb says, cleaning the outside of his gun manically, “our morning kill was a piece of cake.”

He swells with undeserved overconfidence, and I hate it. I hate liars. There is just something about Caleb that excuses all the things I hate. He interests me because he isn't jaded yet. He swings his legs over my client-appointed chair, and it’s really annoying. I stare at him, and he slowly puts his feet down.

"Sorry boss," he taunts me, and I just reply but shaking my head.

“Mirasol just got in,” Camille says, ignoring him, “she said the meetings are at noon.”

"Noon?" I repeated it aloud, but I'm not sure why it suddenly makes me feel uneasy. Maybe I've just had enough of powerful women with their eyes on me.

Camille smiles and then she backs out the door. Camille is the pretty girl in the office who gets overlooked because she is such a liability. Sometimes I wonder why Camille works here. She is not rough around the edges. Surely she would have made a good wife to someone?

She is smart, but not street smart. She spent time in the academy training her body and trying to help others with the written portions. She wasn't one to sleep her way to the top, but she might have had a 'boyfriend'. I asked her once about growing up, and she told me she was a cheerleader. I laughed.

“Any guesses about the meetings?” Caleb stands holding the door open. We both know that a meeting in the office is never going to be about a Christmas bonus. Nope, if we are called into office, it is because we are about to deal with something that we don't want to deal with.

“It is time for are stats this year,” I say slowly as I lick the butter from my fingers. "The statistics meetings are mandatory and all secretive for absolutely no reason."

“Oh? I don't want to go to this meeting then, my stats really suck this year,” he says placing one of his guns into his left shoulder holster.

“I just hope I’m moving up. I could use a raise,” I say, turning back to face him. His face drops, and I can't quite read the expression.

"A raise? Around here?" He laughs, but just last year I did get one. I wouldn't tell anyone in the office about my success as they were already jealous of me. I'm the golden child who gets in trouble but stays the lead and even gets to pick my partner. I don't go putting a bigger target on my back.

"Anything is possible," I say, giving a fake half-chuckle.

"I guess I'll duck out for a bit and get ready for the next hit." He nervously makes his way out the door.

My thoughts instantly go to rare steak and potatoes. The blinds are closed, and the cold air makes for a perfect napping temperature. I set the alarm on my phone for a twenty-minute cat nap. The alarm is buzzing heavy and loud, right next to my ear. I jump up, realizing I'm late.

I shove my phone into my pocket and rush past the maze of empty offices to the conference room. My pulse is faster than my feet as my legs stumble over promises made by my pride.  My legs can't cash the check my ass wrote. I'm stumbling as I come up on the doorway.

All eyes stare at me like I'm the lunch banquet when I run through the door. There might be hundreds of eyes on me, but the purple pair picking away at my skin lead to a deadly pixie face. These eyes send a chill down my spine: violet, razor-sharp, peeling away my defenses to reveal every weakness beneath.

“Glad you could join us, Aiden,” Mirasol purrs, beaming in all her allure before the members of the A.S.S. It’s a large meeting room, since the building is so large, but she commands the entire room with effortless grace. “Since you’re already up here front and center, I can tell you would like to help us with a very important demonstration.”

“What kind of demonstration?” My brain is groggy and I'm struggling to catch up. My voice is rough, and my instincts are already whispering that I’m in for some kind of well-planned trouble.

Her tone of voice alone has let me know that not everything is ok. She had wanted to toy with someone today, and I had made it so easy for her.

“A demonstration on the precision of weaponry,” She says smoothly, pulling her katana from behind her. She always has he samurai blade on her, but most of us forget it’s there. I’ll never forget again. Hell, I’ll never be late again.

“Um,” Is all I manage to get out before the sword is thrust under my chin---cold steel to flesh. It’s so sharp that I can see my reflection. The fine hair of my jaw is visible in the clear steel of the blade. I begin to sweat on the blade, and I pray she isn’t as crazy as everyone says she is. A bead of sweat rolls down my nose.

Clearly, this is all wishful thinking. I know Mirasol is crazy.

“Take your seat,” She finally says with a voice so silky that it ties me to a place where I feel like a pup again, and inside there is loneliness and a touch of fear. Suddenly I'm not embarrassed, I'm angry.

I slide into a seat next to Caleb, and all eyes jump back onto Mirasol. She is the only center of attention, if you value your life. Sometimes I wonder how long she’s been around, but I’m not brave enough to ask. She doesn’t look a day over twenty, and remains birthdayless. All we know is she is from the streets of Virginia.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Assassination Southern Squadron, this meeting is in place to discuss two very pertinent things. One thing is our statistics for the year, and the other is our annual challenge with the A.N.S." She starts slow and calculated and finishes with a twinge of annoyance.

Claps dully punctuate the annual challenge that we all dread.

"Now you all know that our annual competition is very important to me and that whoever I choose to represent us this year will not only be the best, but they WILL win. So I’d like to get some input from the office before I make my decision." Everyone stared in unison. This was stupid.

Her involving the office or anyone, for that matter, in her decisions were merely a matter of formalities. Mirasol already knew who she was punishing by sending. I'd bet there were plane tickets with names inked on them printed out months ago in her glove compartment.

Last year, the two women she sent would have sold their arms to get out of it. Most of the office doesn’t want to go. The two who did it last year got fired. No one wants to lose their job over friendly competition. Worst yet is that one of the girls that Mirasol particularly didn't like had come up missing.

"So", she continues to the silent room, "this year, leave me your choices in the box outside my door. I’ll read them and then make my final decision. Thank you".

There it was. There was the truth. She would make whatever decision she had already made. We all clap, and then we leave the realm of make-believe to enter a class on statistics.

The room is filled with people, but sound is in a vacuum. Breaths are being held and people are shrinking in their seats, but we all knew the truth. Mirasol saw us all. Just like with the competition, she was already aware of our shortcomings.

Suddenly, someone appears beside Mirasol—so sophisticatedly that I never even saw her enter the room. She’s a striking brunette, tall, poised, and wrapped in a tailored red Calvin Klein suit that exudes authority. She owns the stage with effortless confidence. She would be comfortable in a suit or jeans.

I disliked her instantly. She looked snooty and also annoyingly good at her job.