Chapter 2 One

• Five months ago. Somewhere in East L.A.
• The last thing Tony remembered was a pair of eyes.
• Doe-like.
• Innocent.
• Shimmering like they’d never seen war.
• Then pain.
• Then nothing.
• He woke up coughing.
• Heat licking at his skin.
• He was inside the warehouse.
• The same goddamn warehouse he and his team had been investigating—for three fucking whole months.
• Now it was burning.
• The air was thick with smoke and ash.
• Flames chewed through steel beams like they were made of paper.
• His ears rang like hell.
• His wrists were zip tied.
• And his face?
• Pressed to the cold concrete.
• A brutal contrast to the firestorm around him.
• ‘It’s not been burning for too long then..’ Tony thought, mind racing.
• He could still smell the perfume on his nose.
• Faint.
• Sweet.
• “Fuck,” he spat, rolling onto his side, eyes stinging from the smoke.
• His head felt like it came from being grounded like a beef.
• He tried to move.
• Slow and deliberate.
• Taking a good look around with little movements that he could.
• He was alone.
• No.
• Worse than alone.
• His team was dead.
• All of them.
• Six of the best operatives the CIA had on payroll.
• They are ghosts.
• Men and women who didn't officially exist.
• Gone.
• Dead
• ‘Shit. They would never let this go. Six is a lot of manpower.’
• How was he sure?
• He didn't need a pulse to check.
• He can spot them.
• Blood still oozed from Max, Jessie and Olivia’s head—
• One bullet each.
• And the other three?
• Peter. Calvin and Diane.
• Based on their unnatural body angle and the blood pooling beneath them—it was very highly likely that they have gone to meet their maker.
• And it's all because he had let his guard down.
• Because he let some pretty girl come close—close enough to hit his head.
• After whispering some nonsense.
• Asking for help.
• ‘What bullshit,’ he cursed.
• ‘Fuck fuck fuck! This one is on me.’
• He never saw it coming.
• She’d been so convincing.
• Too convincing with her crocodile tears.
• Showing her full cleavage.
• Flawless cleavage.
• And soft.
• Deliberately sticking it to his chest.
• ‘Fuck fuck fuck..!’
• And worst of all?
• He hadn't even gotten her name.
• And that pissed him off the most.
• ‘Why did they leave me alive?’ he wondered after a while.
• They should have killed him too.
• That would've been cleaner.
• And they are making the world safe by killing the likes of him.
• A cold bastard.
• Now he was a liability.
• A loose end.
• Alive and responsible for six deaths.
• He can already picture how the CIA will sack him.
• He crawled, dragging himself forward—using his front body toward the exit.
• And once he had regained a bit of his strength, he snapped the zip ties behind him.
• ‘It’s too late to get their bodies out.’
• He looked back one last time.
• ‘I’m sorry.’
• ‘I really am.’
• Then he walked out.
• Once he was outside, he patted himself down for his satellite phone.
• ‘Gone.’
• Shit.
• He staggered, felt the warm blood sliding down the back of his head.
• From the hit.
• ‘What did they hit me with? Gun? Pipe?’
• Does it matter?
• His eyes drifted one more time in the warehouse.
• It continues to burn.
• Like a hell’s gateway.
• Orange flames almost reached the sky like hands.
• Spitting smoke and ash into the air as if trying to erase the sins committed inside.
• Sirens howled in the distance—too late.
• As always.
• The fire was greedy.
• It consumed everything.
• Then an unexpected explosion.
• Tony was thrown back from the impact.
• Coughing.
• Clothes scorched.
• Skin stinging from the blast debris.
• He did not move and stayed on his back.
• Staring up.
• The sky was already dark.
• Warm blood continued to drip from behind his head.
• ‘I thought I was cold blooded,’ he thought.
• ‘Not warm.’
• His ears were ringing more loudly now.
• Somewhere around him, metals screamed.
• They were coming.
• Tony let his head fall back.
• Tension was leaving him.
• And in its wake, reality is settling in.
• His team.
• His elite team—was gone.
• Reduced to corpses and charred bones.
• All six of them.
• Max. Jessie. Olivia. Peter. Calvin and Diane.
• He had trained them himself.
• He remembered their laughs.
• Their bickering.
• Their goddamn loyalty.
• Now they are gone.
• Because of him.
• ‘Because I can't keep it in my pants.’
• “Fucking bitch,” he cursed under his breath.
• “Fucking pretty bitch!” he snarled.
• He slammed his fist to the ground.
• The other hand covered his face.
• Fighting back his tears.
• **
• Three days later. CIA’s Manhattan field office.
• “You’re suspended, Santa De Leones.”
• Tony sat stiff in the office chair across from Nick Gates—the deputy Director.
• HIs head was wrapped in bandages.
• His hands too.
• His knuckles split.
• His jaw was also patched with bandages.
• One of his eyes is swollen shut.
• Not from the incident, but from one of the agents—Diane’s husband.
• He let the bastard hit him.
• He wasn't sure why.
• “You mean fired,” Tony muttered, voice dry.
• “No, suspended. Pending internal investigation. The fact that you’re alive makes this worse,” Nick exhaled.
• “You’re the only witness—and the only one who screwed up.”
• Tony laughed bitterly.
• “You think I don't know that?”
• He stood.
• Ignoring the pain that flared down his spine.
• He started to limp towards the door.
• “You send me and my team to handle a black ops arms deal in East L.A. You gave me intel that was useless,” he stopped limping, but he did not look at NIck.
• “We had to investigate for three months because of it, to make sure. To make sure that there are no mistakes.” Tony exhaled then gritted his teeth.
• “And then blame me when the whole place goes up like a bonfire?”
• Nick didn't flinch, one of his eyebrows was rising.
• “You’re the best we had Santa De Leones. Were.”
• Silence.
• “And I know you personally. You have a weakness for pretty faces. You screw up because of that.”
• Tony looked back.
• Sensing that there is something that’s not right with what Nick said.
• “Don't give me that look. Unless there is no pretty woman involved, you don't mess shit up.”
• Silence again.
• Then, “Turn in your badge. Take some fucking time off. Lose that penchant of yours for pretty things. I suggest going to Europe or Zimbabwe.”
• Nick’s eyes are dead serious.
• “And, you look like fucking hell itself.”
• **