It was still early in the afternoon when the sound of a helicopter barreled through the stillness of the air. Clouds hovered around the craft, little pillows of water that broke up the monochromatic, pale-blue sky. And every so often, the sun would hit the metal sides just right to reflect a blinding stream of light. It truly was a gorgeous day to soar through the sky.

But I wasn't one to stare out windows, gawking at something that I'd seen pretty much everyday of my life—especially when I was on a mission. Instead, I opened the mission file and began reviewing the current mission plan in my head.

Operation Brev: Agent 23 lands helicopter twenty-five hundred yards away from the warehouse. Agent 24 and Agent 52 exit the aircraft while Agent 41 secures the perimeter for any agents. Agent 30 checks for any technological devices and bombs within a twenty-mile radius of the building. If any are found, Agent 30 hacks them and shuts them down. Agent 52 secures the exterior of the warehouse while Agent 24 enters. Agent 24 enacts exchange, watching for any signs of operation change. Agent 24 recites the password, retrieves the file, and exits. Agent 52 and Agent 24 return to the helicopter with the file and deliver it to headquarters immediately.

Must be followed at all times, unless Agent 24, The Lead, states otherwise.

If you were to ask most agents, they would tell you that things never go according to plan. I wouldn't say that. No, I would say that ninety-seven percent of the time, my missions go exactly according to the established operation. Because even when things go awry—a detail is missed or we are ambushed—there is always a back up plan.

It is The Lead's job to always plan four steps ahead. To recognize when to switch plans, as well as which plan to follow.

That's why my job is and always would be the most important. But I think it is safe to say that after more than twenty-three years of spy work, I can easily pick up on those signs, those slight cues. Those details most would miss, the giveaways that something isn't right. It's second nature to me.

And I know exactly which plan to call. I could never forget the plans, even if I tried. I remembered every single main operation, along with every single back up plan of every mission I had ever been on. That's what you get when you have a sonographic memory. Every recording that is played back, every conversation, every whisper you hear, you remember.

And that's why my name is renowned for being the best in the business. Everyone in the International Intelligence Agency, or IIA, had heard of Agent X.

The IIA is a third party spy organization, not affiliated with any country. We are hired by other countries to assist missions that are too difficult or too dangerous for their own agents. Our only caveat is that the missions must enhance peace and freedom in the world. My parents were two of the top spies in the IIA. So from an early age, I was involved in spy work. I was a natural at it with my sonographic memory and attention to detail.

My fingers flipped through the various photos and papers in the file until I found the page I was looking for. My eyes stared at the map, trying to memorize every last detail. The plans were no problem to remember, as they could be recorded. The instant the tapes were played for me, the plans were forever burned into my memory. Maps and photographs required a little more effort on my part. But I always managed to remember. My life depended on it.

"Nervous?"

I turned to my right to see Agent 52, otherwise known as Ty, with a huge smirk across his lips. I didn't so much as move an eyelash in response.

"Please inform me of the last time I was nervous," I stated, turning back to the map. Some people tease in order to get a reaction. But Ty teased me because he enjoyed my lack of reaction.

Always calm, always cool, always collected. Emotionless.

Ty opened his own case file, nudging my arm in the process. "Or did you forget to look at the map prior to today?"

"Better to be over prepared than under," I replied, smoother than silk. "How else could I have acquired the best mission completion record in the IIA?"

Ty rolled his eyes, returning his attention to the file. In the corner of my eye, I saw his brow furrowed in concentration as he stared at the operation list. He probably is still trying to memorize it, I thought. As a master of disguise and professional smooth-talker, he did better with improvisation, not carefully planned agendas.

I was the opposite. I needed the stability of everything being set in stone. Technically, when things went wrong, everything was still going according to plan since I had already accounted for.

"T-minus five minutes until landing." The voice of Agent 23 rang through the cabin. I glanced down at my watch. The numbers 3:34 lit up. Exactly on schedule. No delays.

I glanced at Ty, noticing he wasn't wearing his seatbelt.

"Are you going to fasten your seatbelt? Or are you planning to have another concussion right before our mission?"

"Oh come on," Ty protested. "That was three years ago."

"My recommendation stands," I quipped. With a playful glare, he reached over and fastened the seatbelt, though somewhat reluctantly. If there was anything he hated, it was being bossed around, especially by me. And yet, I was the only person he would listen to.

I turned my attention to the person sitting on my left, Agent 30. She was the youngest software specialist to ever earn a grade A rating in the agency. At age eighteen, she was recruited by the IIA, pulled out from completing her senior year in college. Six years later, she had managed to rise through the ranks of C and B spies. Now a twenty-seven-year-old, she has been a vital and skilled member of our team for two years. Though her youth certainly showed through. To this day, I heard her say exactly three times that her position was being a software specialist. Instead, she favored the term "hacker."

She smiled as she stared into a laptop screen, her fingers clacking on the keyboard at lightning speed.

"Any sign of intruders?" I asked.

She turned to me, though her fingers didn't miss a beat in typing. "Not yet. But don't get your hopes up. They might just be late to the party."

"Have you hacked into the warehouse security system yet?"

"No, the range is too far away right now. I'll let you know when I do."

"T-minus one minute until landing," Agent 23 announced.

I glanced at Jax, who sat in the copilot's seat. He cradled a knife in one hand, while he struck a stone against the blade, sharpening it into a fatal weapon. Every few moments, he peeked out the window, scouring for anyone whom he could shoot down with his m16 rifle.

He was the eldest of the group, a born and bred sharp shooter for nearly half of his lifetime. He rarely spoke, the silent assassin. I'd learned that checking in was pointless. I already knew that I could count on him to do what he did best: take out any and all enemy agents in sight.

Right now, he was watching for WAOIC, the World Agency of Intel Collection. They are hired to spy and collect information on everything and anything, from the partner you think is cheating on you to the foremost countries. Owned by a private ring of elite billionaires, WAOIC was willing to do any job, as long as you paid royally for their shady services.

"Beginning descent. Agent 52, please buckle up."

"Mission complete, Captain." Ty saluted in the direction of the cockpit.

"That's ships." Not even a hint of amusement in Finn's voice. Ty harrumphed, crossing his arms and pouting like a child.

I'd taught Finn well. My younger brother used to be the biggest jokester in all of Washington D.C. until he began spy work. Mom and Dad said that he needed to get serious with his life, be like me. It took time, and he still likes to joke around. But on missions, he's all business.

The air seemed to drop from beneath me as the altitude dropped at a rapid pace. I peered out the window, just to make sure that all went well. We passed from clouds, to trees until finally, I could see a vast marshland. For miles, there were only tall, green grasses interspersed with ponds. The helicopter came closer and closer, until I felt the cabin jolt as we made contact with the ground.

"All clear," Finn said. "Good luck, agents."

I unbuckled my seatbelt and squeezed past Agent 30 as I headed for the exit, Ty at my heels. A clear, cold breeze hit me as the cabin door opened. I carefully stepped from the helicopter, my feet sinking into mud. I pulled out my compass and took a few steps in the knee-high grass to orient my direction.

68 degrees longitude.

I glanced in the direction we needed to go in.

"Ready to go, Agent X?" Ty asked with his signature, mischievous grin.

"Always," I replied simply.

And with that, we broke into a run.

We ran in silence, focusing on the mission ahead. The cattails and sawgrass grazed my legs, flicking dew onto my leather pants. The mud on the ground caked my combat boots, weighing them down. But I didn't stop running. It felt good to run, the wind whipping through my short, black hair. Clean air—likely from recent rain—filled my lungs.

Cold metal pressed against my skin. Underneath my leather apparel was bullet proof armor. A safety precaution, since I had one of the biggest targets riding on my head. They wanted me dead. Even though metal was considerably heavy, I'd learned to get used to it. I focused on the movement forward, running in sync with Ty.

Soon, the shape of an old warehouse loomed in the distance. A large, unfinished brick building sat in the middle of a square, concrete lot. Around the perimeter lay a dilapidated, brick fence, no more than a few feet tall. I quickened my pace, heading toward a taller section of the fence—where there were enough bricks to conceal us. I ducked down low, watching for any activity through the cracks in the brick.

Not a soul in sight. I pulled my radio off my belt.

"Agent 41, come in Agent 41," I whispered.

"I read you loud and clear. Nothing to report so far," Jax stated, deeper and more placid than the depths of the sea.

"Copy that. Over and out." I reattached my transmissions device to my belt.

"What did Agent 41 say?" Ty whispered.

"Nothing to report," I said, turning my eyes back to the dirty-brick exterior.

"That's good!" Ty exclaimed. He had far more excitement in his voice than he should've.

I turned to Ty, my face deadpan.

"No," I said pointedly. "That is very, very bad."

Ty opened his mouth to speak, but I pulled out my radio again before he could object to my assertion.

"Agent 30. Come in Agent 30."

"I read you Agent X."

"Are you in?"

"Still trying to hack the security system. It's more encrypted and up to date than I anticipated. Give me five minutes max."

That wasn't good. High security in an abandoned warehouse was not normal. If anything, her problem should've been having dead surveillance cameras, not overactive ones.

"Five minutes and no more, understood? We must remain on schedule. Even if you don't access it, I will have to enter to meet the contact. Over and out."

Something wasn't right. I could feel it in my bones. WAOIC wouldn't be stupid enough to pass up this opportunity to intercept the file that would lead us to one of their foremost impersonators, the agent who would replace one of the world's foremost leaders at the Global Peace Summit. And they knew better than to arrive late to such an important exchange. So either WAOIC was planning on intercepting the file and had already concealed themselves, or...

This was a set up.

But it didn't matter either way, as I had already accounted for both possibilities.

I glanced at my watch. It was four minutes to three-thirty pm. Right on schedule.

"Agent 30. Come in Agent 30," I said.

"I read you Agent X. I still haven't gotten in."

"Keep trying. I'm going in. See you on the other side."

I glanced. He looked ill, his face pale and strained.

"I don't feel good about sending you in there alone," he said.

"I've been an agent for more than twenty years, and this is the moment that you choose to have a bad feeling about me going in alone?"

"Something feels off," Ty insisted.

"We've been over this. The dealer won't meet with me unless I'm alone. We need that file. So just sit tight until I get back. And remember, stick to the plan."

I stood. Ty gulped, unusually quiet. With a slight nod of my head, I headed for the entrance of the building. There was no door, only a doorway to the unknown. I took in a breath, glancing at my watch. 3:27 pm. I gazed at the glowing numbers, the seconds ticking down.

56, 57, 58, 59.

3:28.

Showtime.

I stepped into the warehouse. My nose wrinkled at the stench of paint and old construction materials. In the dim lighting, I could make out the shape of splayed boards, and unsealed walls. The inside was just like the outside—dilapidated, unfinished, abandoned.

Well, almost abandoned. After all, I was there. The dealer was there. And if the dealer brought friends, they would be here too. I recalled the map from the case file, using the layout to guide me through the maze of nails and rubble. I gazed up and down the gray walls, watching, waiting. Watching for someone who wasn't supposed to be here. Waiting for something that wasn't supposed to happen.

I slipped easily through the empty halls, shrouded in shadows. Darkness was and always would be my camouflage. On missions, I always wore my black-leather jacket, pants, and combat boots. Around my waist, I always had my black belt, holding poison, explosives, and of course, my pistol. Even my hair blended in. My Dad used to say that my hair was made black on purpose to conceal my work by night. The only differentiation between me and the shadows were my pale skin and my blue eyes. Eyes of ice, my Mom would say. They never showed mercy.

The darkness began to part as the hall approached an open room. My hand gripped the dagger on my belt. If I saw anyone with a weapon pointed at me, I would not hesitate to throw it. The wooden posts and littered ground parted into an arena. Natural sunlight from a single window perched at the top of the ceiling pooled into the center of the room. I stayed on the sides, where the shadows remained.

I gazed around the smooth, stone walls. My eyes dropped to my watch, which read 3:30. I'm on time, where are you? I thought.

I didn't have to wait long to find out. On the opposite end of the arena, a door opened, allowing a silhouette to enter. Footsteps on the concrete floor echoed as the figure edged toward the center of the room. I squinted, trying to make out the figure in the dim lighting. His head whipped from side to side, seemingly in search of something.

"Agent X?" he called.

Well that was brazen. You'd think he would be more cautious than to announce both his and my location...

Nevertheless, I replied. "I'm here, and waiting."

The figure moved into the light. He looked pretty generic: 5'6,'' brown hair, brown eyes, black business suit, black briefcase. No visible tattoos or piercings. Clean shaven. Standard haircut. Traditionalist.

More importantly, he fit the profile picture of the person I was supposed to be meeting.

But, looks can be deceiving.

The man, Harold Turner, adjusted his tie with a gulp. Hmm, he must be nervous. The shining light illuminated his sweaty forehead. His left hand, not holding his briefcase, fidgeted relentlessly. His eyes scanned the room, searching for me, or perhaps someone who had followed him here. I didn't budge from my spot. Not until he initiated the password.

"I-I had dinner last." He stuttered every word of the password. He is definitely not cut out for spy work. The pressure of this exchange is getting to him already.

"I skipped it," I responded. "I already reached my apartment at seven, and felt too tired."

"T-that's too ba—" he stopped. His face contorted as he tried to recall the exact words to say. My eyes narrowed.

"That's a shame," he corrected himself. "We had a beef ribeye at the restaurant 'File.'"

"I prefer the restaurant 'Collect'," I finished, emerging from my hiding spot. Harold turned around, his eyes widening as they came to rest me. He'd probably never seen a spy before.

"Agent X?" he said tentatively. I gave a single nod. "Oh thank goodness! I-I think I'm being followed."

"By whom?" I questioned.

Harold's eyes fell to the ground, brow furrowed. "I-I don't know. They could be from my work, where I found the file."

In the corner of my eye, I noticed a movement on the left side of his face: his ear twitched. I blinked. If I hadn't known better, I would say that it didn't even happen. It had lasted a fraction of a second. But I knew better than to miss a cue like that. It was the sign that something might not be right.

"Can you give a description?" I asked. I needed to buy more time before we handed over five-thousand dollars in exchange for the file.

"Hmm, let me think..."

I let his voice fade as I inspected his face. Now that I was looking for it, I could see the make-up. Yes, I could see where his contours had been smoothed out. His hair was ever so slightly clumped, like it had been dyed.

It was Agent Smog from WAOIC, a master of disguise. I'd only come face to face with him once before, when we were putting him behind bars ten years ago. That day, I noticed his slight, but unforgettable twitches in his left ear. To most, it was hidden. The slightest movement. Not even Smog knew when he was twitching.

But I noticed.

I adjusted my stance, placing my left hand on my hip.

Time to go.

My fingers ran over the black knobs on my belt, feeling for the red button. To the layperson, all of the buttons looked the same. But I knew the exact placement of the red button. The one that would alert my crew to the change of plans from Operation Brev to Operation Volta.

The button that would tell my crew that this was a trap.

Agent Smog didn't do so much as take a second glance at me. Either he hadn't noticed the action, or he wasn't letting on. All I had to do now was buy time. As soon as I handed over the money, the game was over. I'd be the worst spy in history.

"Tell me, how did you find this file?" I asked. I already knew the answer—his fake answer that is. I'd seen it in the case file. But getting him talking was the perfect distraction.

Smog's eyes flashed. "I-I told your agency. I don't want to wait any longer. They're onto me."

He looked like he was on the verge of a mental breakdown. I have to give credit where credit is due—Smog was a terrific actor.

Just not good enough.

"Don't worry, nothing will happen to you," I assured him. "But we must have absolute validation that you are who you say you are."

Realizing the fight was lost, Smog said, "Alright. I'll tell you.

"The architecture firm I work for, Navil and Lus, has had dealings with WAOIC for years, maybe even decades. They are very reliable in providing information on our contractors in order to make sure that we partnered with the right people. I mean, if there was one phony building, our name would get tainted along with theirs. I had no idea that they had international dealings in espionage work.

"Last week, I received a file in the mail from WAOIC for work. It was supposed to be on a certain contractor that would be building an apartment complex that I had designed. But I received this instead. There was some sort of mix up. Upon opening it, I realized that this was an issue of national importance so I contacted you immediately."

I didn't press the issue of why he contacted us, a private espionage organization, and not the CIA. I already knew the answer. They wanted to throw us off the scent of the imposter.

Once again, I pressed the red button. I kept my face stoic, but internally, I was mulling over Operation Volta.

Where on Earth is Ty? He was supposed to come in here as a distraction while we waited for the helicopter to pick us up. Then, once the helicopter arrived, he was the one in charge of throwing the grenade into the warehouse to blow the enemy agents. But he couldn't do any of that if he wasn't here.

I needed to buy more time.

"So how did you become employed by this architecture firm?"

"I actually applied to work for them as soon as I finished College. They were my first choice when it came to..."

Smog's voice dissipated as questions wormed their way into my brain. Why didn't he protest my second question? If he wanted the money, and wanted to speed up the transaction, he would have said that he didn't feel comfortable waiting any longer, which means...

Is there another reason for this transaction?

For the third time, my fingers made their way to the red button.

Where is Ty? Where is the helicopter? What happened to Operation Volta? I was top agent for one reason, and one reason only: I stuck to the plan.

In my gut, I knew something was wrong. Just like I was stalling, he was stalling too. Why did he need more time? Was he waiting for someone else to get here?

My eyes were trained on him, watching, waiting. My hand inched towards my pistol. I took in a breath, letting all of the tension in my body melt away.

Always calm. Always cool. Always collected. Emotionless.

Something in Smog's eyes changed. The fear that I had seen before was gone, replaced with something far more deadly. I saw triumph. A grin crept its way onto Smog's face.

"You know, don't you?" Smog said. His voice was no longer erratic and quiet. Instead, it sounded smoother than syrup, the kind that gave you a toothache.

"Agent Smog," I stated. No smile, no movement. But not rigid either. I just looked...bored.

Annoyance flashed in Smog's eyes. My lack of reaction seemed to bother him, which was precisely what it was supposed to do. By not responding to what he says, it shows that I am in control of the situation. Which, according to my book, I still was. I called the plan. But for some reason, the others were just...delayed.

"You're probably wondering why you are here," Smog taunted. He smirked, his white teeth glinting to the pale, yellow light.

"Unless I already know, and this meeting was set up to put you behind bars again." My voice rang clear as bells, echoing off the empty walls.

Smog raised an eyebrow. "Not if we get you first."

Behind me, I heard the slightest sound, the sound of feet on concrete. I whipped around, gun in hand, only to see a posse of men and women, dressed in black jumpsuits.

WAOIC. My heart started to beat a little quicker. I forced myself not to panic.

"You are surrounded," Smog sang. "Drop your weapon and don't try anything."

Adrenaline began pumping through my veins, but I had the sense to stay still. Chances were that they weren't going to kill me—at least not yet. I was too valuable to dispose of so quickly.

A woman with short, brown hair stalked over. She reached down and removed my belt, my last hope at calling for help. A man came and wrenched my arms behind me, tightening handcuffs. The metal dug into my skin, and when I glanced down, I saw a small pool of blood oozing from beneath the cuffs.

I never thought I'd see the day that I was captured. In the past, I'd never messed up enough to let this happen.

I didn't mess up. My crew abandoned me.

In the corner of my eye, I saw two men plugging fuses into a machine. They were setting up a bomb.

The brunette grabbed my arm, pulling my gaze from the bomb. She forced me to follow her to a door on the opposite end of the room. I was flanked on both sides by two agents, machine guns trained on me.

"I hope to meet you again," Smog said as we left. "I'm sure that while you are locked up there will be plenty of time to get acquainted. Believe me, I know."

I was yanked through the dark halls of the warehouse, lit only by a flashlight held by a guard. After a few minutes of walking, we reached a small door that opened to blinding sunlight. My eyes squinted, trying to make out the path in front of me. The other agents pressed on despite my lack of vision, practically dragging me forward. The flash of light wore off to reveal a black pick-up truck. An agent opened the door, and I was pushed onto the black, leather seats inside. The brunette grabbed a chain from the floor of the truck and tried my feet to my hands.

"Don't even think of trying anything," she spat. "Right now, you have four agents ready to shoot you down. Not to kill, of course, only to put you in enough pain to make you regret your decision."

The door slammed, a lock clicking. I was trapped. I forced myself to breathe normally.

Always calm. Always cool. Always collected. Emotionless.

I gazed out the window, letting the adrenaline wear off. The car jolted forward, tearing down the road at lightning speed. As we drove away from the site, my eyes suddenly caught on red and blue sparks flying in the air. In a flash, the warehouse exploded into a cloud of smoke.