Chapter 2

Pov 7

I am Seven. I received instructions to infiltrate a J.A.T.F. safehouse by pretending to be one of the girls the targets men are delivering to him. The girls were in a house sixteen kilometers away from the target location. I went to the house two days ago, after confirming that the girls didn’t really know each other I killed one of them and took her dress, hid her body and waited. It really didn’t bother me to kill her, I know it should but it didn’t. It was for the sake of the mission, and I have to complete it like always.

Now I’m in a car that just pulled up in front of the target location. As the minions of my target are escorting me I cannot help but to feel uneasy. My handler should have already contacted me about what to do after I have terminated the target. When I tried contacting them, there was no answer. This is worrisome, it has never happened before.

My life has only been different trainers in a forest with a town ruins and with an occasional mission. Only during the missions did I get see something other than trees and houses that did not stand the test of time. This is my first time in an area with dense human population. I have seen places like these before only through my scope. At the time, the towns looked unreal to me. How can so many people live in such a small area?

I learned to hunt, to track, to survive and to kill. But now I am in a group of girls that are so different than me. I have never met other people of my age, but now I realize something. Something isn’t right about how I was raised.

The other girls with me are frail, in body and mind. They look vulnerable and sad. I wonder what kind of lives have they lived and why are they so sad now, maybe they didn’t obey or finish their mission and that’s why they are sad.

We arrive in a comfy looking room, there are no hard surfaces in sight except for the roof. There is a man on the bed who stands up when we are lined in front of him. He is my target. He matches the picture I was showed before they sent me of to join the other girls.

Is it just my imagination or is he staring at me? It’s fucking creepy. I try to avoid his gaze as he asks me my age. I’m pushed forward, and I almost reflexive stab the heart of the minion who dared to push me. I regain my balance and answer the man while avoiding looking into his eyes. I think about the mission, should I terminate him now? No, I wouldn’t make it out alive. I should wait for the contact from my handlers.

It is always a different people who gives me my target, but my handlers are the ones that gets me out when the deed is done. As I’m weighing my opinions the door slams open. Soldiers fill the room and amongst them is a single woman.

As my target questions their presence, the fiery red haired woman with blue eyes says something troublesome. They have discovered that I should not be here. How did they discover that, this has never happened before. The woman looks me in the eyes as I gaze her.

I really am not sure how to proceed. Well it was only a matter of time until they leave me for dead. Perhaps that time has come now. My trainers always said that capture means death. On the off change that there is a plan to get me out of here I should go through with the mission. I know my handlers, and I know what would happen if I were to return unsuccessful.

As the woman is going for her pistol I go for my target. One clean swipe with the blade that I had hidden in my sleeve does the trick. My target collapses in front of me as I’m sprayed with his blood.

Somebody yells for me to drop the knife and I drop it. I turn around and I’m greeted with half a dozen angry minions who want to shoot me full of holes and the soldiers that are the only thing stopping them.

“What happens to me now?” I ask, genuinely curious what becomes of me now. I’m starting to doubt that my handlers are extracting me but I don’t really mind it. It wasn’t fun to live my life but it is the only life I have known. Perhaps this journey doesn’t end with death.

I’m dragged away from the house and put in a car. I’m seated between two of the soldiers so it really isn’t that confrontable.

We drive for ten minutes as I gaze through the cars tinted windows admiring the landscape, possibly the last one I see. We come to a stop in a clearing by the side of the road. I’m told to exit the car and I do so. Standing there, the soldiers starts coming out of the other cars too. Then I see the red headed woman coming from her car, looking at me and walking towards me.

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“Who ordered the hit” She asks. Hit? Does she mean the termination? Probably.

“I don’t know. An older man with a beard.” I answer. I don’t really have anything to hide. My handlers didn’t contact me and the guys who gave me the target are not my problem.

“We have already destroyed your organization Al-Alam so you are protecting no one. Give me a name.” The woman says.

What? Al-Alam, is that the name of the group who trained me, tortured me and raised me? I don’t know if I’m happy or sad. A single tear runs down my face as I smile a sad smile. I will miss them, well, some of them. And I will miss the forest, but perhaps I can someday return to there, though I don’t know where it is. I know it’s in the northern hemisphere, possibly in Scandinavia.

“You terminated my trainers and handlers?” I ask, confused about what answer I’d like to hear.

She looks at me for a second and nods yes.

“All of them?”

“Yes, we launched a coordinated bomb strike to all their bases when their locations were leaked”

A bomb, a projectile, formerly usually spherical, filled with a bursting charge and exploded by means of a fuse, by impact, or otherwise, now generally designed to be dropped from an aircraft. Or that it is what it says in the only books I was allowed to read: a dictionary.

And of course my trainers told me about them, what to do in case of a bomb strike, and how to detect the signs when one is incoming.

If they didn’t manage to clear the buildings they are probably dead then, everyone I have ever known is dead.

I drop to my knees and bury my face in my hands. I know that they were not good people, but they too were just following instructions like me.

“A Name” The woman says. But I really don’t know what to say to her. I know nothing about the people who gave me my latest target. I do know some of the names of my trainers but that’s useless as they are probably dead now, not to mention they probably weren’t their real names.

“Seven” I decide to answer with the only name I know, whose bearer is surely alive. The other names I know are not relevant to their, nor my situation. They are only possible targets, men of interest so to speak. I had to study their most likely locations and their habits, if they ever did become a target.

“That is not a name” She answers.

“It is mine.”

The red headed woman in a military uniform looks at me with a complicated gaze which I do not recognize.

“Don’t pity her. She killed our asset.” A man who looks to be in his thirties in normal clothes with short black hair says from the side.

Pity, sympathetic or kindly sorrow evoked by the suffering, distress, or misfortune of another, often leading one to give relief or aid or to show mercy. Why would she pity me, is it because they killed Al-Alam. If it is, then it is unnecessary. They killed people too, so they had it coming, I guess. By that logic, do I have it coming too?

“I just feel sorry for her Brian, shut up.” The woman answers to the man, Brian.

I hear a noise coming from the direction of the setting sun. The noise is getting louder and what comes in a view is a helicopter. Wow. I only ever saw these in pictures. I get to go in that? Awesome, I always have traveled by sea. But I never actually saw the sea, I was always stuffed in a shipping container with enough food and water to survive plus a bucket.

“The chopper will take us to the airfield, where we grab a plane going to france.” The woman tells me.

I stand up and wipe the tears from my face, dirtying my sleeve with the blood on my face. The blood of my target. If only there was a river for me to wash myself. It is my first time in a place this hot and dry and I’m really not used to a climate like this. Not to mention the blood.

As the helicopter draws closer the wind speeds up. I have cover my eyes so that sand does not get to them. As the helicopter has landed in the field, Brian says something to the soldiers, which I cannot hear because the noise of the chopper. But I can guess, as the soldiers take a set of sturdy shackles and starts heading my way.

The shackles are clearly made for bigger guys than me but they still do the job. A chain connects my hands now, and from that chain goes another one that connects to the similar one in my legs. I cannot raise my arms up, I cannot run, or even walk properly now. I could try to pick the locks or wiggle them out but that would serve no point.

Two soldiers take each of my hands as they start boarding me to the helicopter. Some of the soldiers returns to their cars, as the helicopter has seats for only nine people plus the pilot.

…

The helicopter ride was uneventful, nobody asked me any more questions, and as I wasn’t wearing the headset the others had, I didn’t hear much of their conversations through the noise of the rotors. I have excellent hearing and other senses but when there is so much loud background noise, my concentration goes to bearing the pain to my ears. It isn’t always that convenient to have good ears.

We are now at an airfield, my guess is that it is in the possession of Israel as I recognize a symbol painted in a plane in the hangar. It is the symbol for Mossad, the national intelligence agency of Israel.

There is another plane on the runway, the way we are headed. It has the symbol for J.A.T.F., which is a shield in front of a globe. We board the plane, and like in the helicopter, my shackles are connected with a chain to the floor of the plane.

The helicopter ride was fun, but this is even better. During takeoff, I cannot help but to try and peek through the windows of the plane, as a smile involuntarily creeps to my face. I hope the landing will be as much fun as this.