The virtue of patience was something I had to practice. It took months of abuse and surveillance to claw out of captivity. Years more would pass before the underworld shook at my very name. However, even in my blood lusted focus, I couldn't stand my stakeout for a second longer.

Hours had passed since I snuck into the sewage plant, surveying every inch while I waited for the Caracals to prowl. It was easier said than done, though. Rusted-over rakes, crunching compactors, and struggling Archimedes pumps created a perpetual ear-splitting orchestra. The only thing worse was the noxious smell. I wasn't brave enough to think about how many gallons of sewage ran through here.

Thankfully, my makeshift gas mask, goggles, and earplugs blocked most of the sensory barrage. However, it only made me realize why James and Jasmine always talked before missions. Because once the noise faded, there was nothing but solitary, unbearable, deafening silence. A stillness so suffocating that my mind couldn't help having daggers of doubt run through. Wondering if the crushing loneliness, the backbreaking conditioning, and the senseless violence were all worth it. Knowing there was a chance to turn away before it was too late.

Only to realize that I was questioning myself was all the more reason why I needed to do this. If not, every jerked head turn, prickled goosebumps, or loud sound would be paying tribute to the Caracals. Infecting every part of my life till I reverted to the same scared girl Asad broke. Never again. Whether or not I lived or died, I was resolute to do the world a favor and wipe out their disease.

After another thirty minutes, I finally saw some action. A small sports car and sewage tanker rolled in an unoccupied unloading station, surrounded by empty trucks. Not the most suspicious sight until you piece it together. Any major city usually deals with a persistent onslaught of sewage, but Dubai was a unique case.

Their prized building: the Burj Khalifa, isn't connected to the main sewer line. So a parade of sloshing sewage trucks drove out to get processed here daily. A massive pipeline like that is begging for a few vehicles to zip through the chain or maybe even carry something they shouldn't. My theory got proven right as the drivers exited their respective cars.

The sports car held four men in street clothing, the same golden Caracal patches on their shoulders shining off the lamposts. No Asad to be seen, though, unluckily enough. Instead, out of the truck was a well-dressed Asian man in a black suit and tie. As the two forces got closer, I maneuvered across the roof till both were in view. Jasmine and Asad's teachings worked in overtime as I read the lips of everyone there.

"This better be worth the trip. I'm going to be smelling like a dumpster for weeks," the lead Caracal said while holding his nose repugnantly.

"Apologies for the … eccentric location, but my employers are huge advocates for hiding in plain sight. I hope you can understand. Besides, you should be more concerned about holding out your end of the bargain," the suited man said.

"Don't get your panties in a twist. We got them. We'll reveal them in due time."

The two men then backed to their respective payloads, my mind moving faster with every step. From the pouch of my bulletproof vest, I unfurled four homemade smoke bombs between each finger. Using my free hand used a lighter to ignite all four. Leaving me enough time to pull out a fully loaded SIG Sauer M17, remember my enemy's positions, and make peace for whatever came next.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

When I finished, I threw the smoke bombs across the area, turning the row of unattended vehicles into a deathly cage. Icy precision and fiery panic peppered every footstep as I sprinted across the tankers toward ground level, hoping the plant's machines could cover the sounds of my movements. First-hand experience showed me that Caracals are guerilla fighters first and foremost. Even when ambushed, a few seconds might as well be minutes at their speed.

Through a valiant leap, I land on the Caracal's sports car with a thud. Two noticed the sound, turning their heads to see eight bullets burrow through their bodies. Blood didn't even hit the floor before the other two started firing back. Panickedly I dove through the barrage, using the trucks as cover as I rolled beneath two of them.

I was far from unscathed. The twin shots I got on the way down felt like I was a pincushion for a thousand tiny needles. The graze to the left leg proved insulted to injury. Nevertheless, I tried pushing past my now-pounding headache as more shells started to crack the concrete. Finally, I weakly pulled myself toward the top, clinging for dear life, using the nearby mirror to see my two opponents checking underneath the truck before circling for a pincer.

I dragged my aching body to the back without letting any chance go to waste. Once the gunman got within range, I clumsily pounced on them. Then, with a sickening crash, we both crashed into the truck's hood as I tried everything I could to grapple him to a lock. My injuries got the better of me, weakening me enough for the Caracal to slam me into the back of the trunk.

He then raised his gun for a quick headshot. But, unfortunately, all he got out of it was broken fingers as I smacked his hand with my defiant hammer. The sudden pain made him drop his pistol, giving me enough time to kick it away for a melee bout. Desperately I pressed on, delivering a headbutt so strong we both saw stars, opening me up to aim a knife toward his jugular.

My opponent, though intercepted, the blade immediately pierced his hand and kicked his neck. A mini standoff sprouted from there, determined eyes, our arms trembling at the ever-inching knife. The Caracal broke first, attempting to end the deadlock with a left kick. I was faster though as I pushed and kicked him on his knees. My next trick after that was making my blade disappear as I kneed it into my enemy's trachea.

Despite my victory, though, it was the definition of fleeting, realizing my struggle took time. Enough for the remaining Caracal to shoot back. Several rounds cut through the smoke like scissors on a thin sheet of paper, missing me by the smallest of margins. Between slugs, I immediately rolled back towards the truck's backside. Not the best cover, I know, but in a shootout, all you need is one shot at turning the last man standing into an invalid.

I made that vision come true as I steadied my excited hands, sucking in one last defiant breath. Switching back towards my M17 to deploy a single a shell that drilled and pierced my opponent's foot. Horrid screams synchronized perfectly with the sounds of decrepit machinery, creating a satisfying melody while wriggling back to my feet.

When I did, I nearly buckled over my weight, the wounds across my body blaring like a bad siren. Shakingly I tried taking deep breaths, slowly pushing past the searing pain to secure the payload. An objective that seemed tantalizing within reach until I remembered the dealer was still in play.

"Crap in half," I murmured under my breath.

I had counted so much on the smoke and sound to cover my movements that I didn't think my enemies could use them for theirs. The split-second realization was the only reason I braced the spin kick to my face. Now cracked goggles completely stole my vision, forcing me to fire shots to at least get some distance blindly. It didn't even stop him for a second.

Acrobatically he side-flipped over the shots, seamlessly morphing towards an axe kick. Narrowly I rolled out of the way while getting back up, hoping to aim again. The opportunity never came, though, as the suited man lunged forward into CQC. He promptly secured my gun, shoved me aside, and elbowed my throat to take it himself.

In mere seconds the single man did more damage than the experienced Caracals ever had. And he probably would've gotten me if I didn't slide the magazine out at the last second. Momentary confusion covered the man's face before I mockingly shook the bullets before me. The warrior grew a slight smile, releasing a composed aura at his worthy opponent.

"Well, you've certainly made this deal even more bothersome. My superiors would be impressed," he said while readjusting his glasses and wrapping his tie around his right fist.

His off-kilter coldness poked through my stoic face, and I did not know how to approach. So instead, I grimly took advantage of my clipped arm from earlier and ripped off the entire left sleeve of my hoodie, straightening it till it went tight.

"Give up now, and I'll make things easy," I said bluntly with my now coarse throat.

"As much as I would like that, I refuse. As a professional, I'll see this exchange to the end. Failure's never been an option where I'm from. Besides, I think we passed the easy way long ago," the man fired back.

The cries of the industrial machines started to fade away at his declaration, our calloused hands holding our makeshift weapons as we would any other. And when the tension reached its fever pitch, we ventured toward our potential death march—not knowing that it would be my first few steps deeper into the underworld.