CHAPTER 1: Don't Go Screaming If I Blow You With A Bang

I think I'm reconsidering all my life choices right now. On a second thought, no. No, I am not. But you would think that hanging upside down in some abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere would be a reason enough.

"Can you get on with it, already? I've got places to be and people to meet," I sad, sighing exasperatedly. I mean seriously if you have someone captive just go straight to the damn interrogation before said captive finds a way to escape.

So, yeah, I'm tied upside down in a warehouse with a bunch of baddies surrounding me. Also, one wouldn't think that a twelve year old girl would need a dozen guards, you know, the big, bad, burrly type, who think that shaving your hair, wearing sunglasses inside, and holding rifles are intimidating.

Truthfully, for anyone else, it would be. But it is not intimidating for me. Why? Well, you got to find out. 'Cause I ain't tellin' ya.

Baldy number one growled.

"Oh my, I'm terrified." Seriously? I mean, I already had my hands untied. Just as I was planning on making this poor guy's life miserable, someone came in to my cell. Intimidation factor, dumbass. "Finally!"

The guy who came in was stereotypical rich-gang-boss. He's even got it down to the Italian black suit, shiny shoes, sunglasses inside, two goons bigger than himself as bodyguards, and that adorable scar on his eye, like Scar's scar from The Lion King. I'm calling him Tip.

Tip looked at me incredulously, and then turned to look at my guards.

"She's the problem," Tip sneered at his goonies. I raised an eyebrow. "I said I wanted the thief. Not a ten year old!"

"And here I thought I was the only one disappointed," I sighed shaking my head frustratedly. "I'm twelve by the way."

Seems like Tip doesn't like sarcasm. The dude kept on ranting about how I couldn't be the thief, like how could a twelve year old break into a Mafia safe house, get past all the security goons and alarm system and break into his own personal safe.

"Someone needs a security system update," I said, breaking off his terrible, useless rant. Tip did not like the interruption and was going to cut me off, but I was seriously reconsidering my stay. "If I was you, and I'm seriously glad I'm not, I don't think that I would be putting a five hundred million dollar diamond anywhere farther than five centimeters away from myself. That was stupid, really stupid." I've had the diamond for a week now.

Tip looked like he wanted to murder me. Ah, well, take a number and get in line. I was done with this whole fuck-up of mission. They didn't know shit. If i wanted info I needed to get to the higher ups. Though, one would think that stealing- ah, sorry borrowing one of the Italian Mafia's most prized possessions would get the big boss out of his lair. Oh, well. At least, I got a new shiny trophy.

Thirty minutes later, there was a nice bonfire left behind me. Ah, the wonderful uses of warehouses. Don't worry, I made sure the baddies escaped. I might be a lot of things, but I'm not a killer, unless it was necessary. But a couple of the goons died in the crossfire.

I tried making myself look presentable enough for my mom not freak out. I mean, she knows about it, all my wonderful adventures, and she can't really stop me. Just because she semi-retired (she joins me sometimes) after she had me doesn't mean I'll stop. And, frankly, having your house raided in front of you makes you determined.

I climbed to my room through the fire escape stairs. I took a shower, one of the best parts of my day. I put my hair in two dutch braids. I put on a light, cold-shoulder, army green hoodie with denim shorts and mid calf black combat boots.

Mom says I look like dad. According to her, I have his mesmerizing sea-green eyes, Mediterranean tan, aristocratic features, and the black-black hair that when it catches the light seems a kaleidoscope of blues, greens, and purples. (Poetic, eh?)

Of course, under my big hoodie was my shoulder holster stocked with the glock and colt I refrained from using last night/this morning. I had a couple of different metal knives and a pretty dagger, a gift for on tenth birthday from mom.

Well, its technical term is athame. They are ceremonial daggers, and they are wickedly sharp though. Mine was an alloy of a glowing bronze and gold metal, with black something spidering through it. The athame had a twelve inch curved blade, and there was a sea serpent coiled around the hilt. The serpent was made of a blue metal encrusted with sapphires and emeralds, and two rubies for its eyes. Its head rested on the beginning of the blade. The end of the blue serpent's tail was made of silver and was sharp enough to gauge someone's eyes out with little to no pain. (Yes, I speak from experience. I wound not kill.) It was just as beautiful as it was lethal. A lot. Her name was Kýma. Wave.

Mom never told me where she got it from or how. But she had a wistful look on her face. It was related to my dad. I didn't question her further. Though, she did say that one day I'll know.

Also, in case you're wondering, metal detectors seem to ignore it, and i have ways to smuggle (hehe, the word's funny) the guns and other knives from security. It also helps that a twelve year old girl is rarely ever suspicious, except if it involved cookies and homework.

Speaking of cookies, my stomach grumbled. Mom was baking her ridiculously delicious, blue cookies. Mmmm.

I left my room without a thought. Bad mistake. Mom was standing behind the kitchen island and the heavenly tray of hot, gooey cookies. And she looked mad.

"Percillia Rhea Jackson," she said it in a cool, low house. Shit, she used the full

name. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about the warehouse explosion in Queens last night, eh?"

"Um, well, you see. It depends really." Why, oh why, do I turn into a flustered, I-was-just-caught-in-the-forbidden-weapons-room-again kid? She intensified her glare. "Yes, I did I'm sorry. But I couldn't sleep. And Nancy was bitchin again, and Grover kept moaning and groaning and mumbling gibberish. I have a field trip tomorrow. Oh, shit- it's today! I was stressed and a game of tag with the Mafia sounded fun and stress-relieving. And I'm rambling now. Please stop glaring like that. And- ugh!"

My mom was laughing her ass off. Thanks, I feel the love, Mom. I sighed. I swear she is the only person who can get me all flustered like this.

"Can I atleast have some cookies before I sneak back to my dorm?"