An Assassin's Love

Summary: Set during the movie (after 'The Losers' are presumed dead and when they are living in Bolivia). Carlos 'Cougar' Alvarez becomes 'acquainted' with a bar owner who isn't who she says she is.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Losers or anything having to do with it. I own my made-up characters though - I don't own their face / body if I use someone else to portray them, of course.
(Calista Castillo is portrayed by Adriana Lima, Quentin Bishop is portrayed by Michael Clarke Duncan, Beck is portrayed by Isaiah Mustafa, Archer is portrayed by Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Theo is portrayed by Channing Tatum, Newt is portrayed by Teddy Geiger, Keyes is portrayed by James Kyson Lee, Star is portrayed by Halle Berry, Brody is portrayed by Eric Bana, Colby Montgomery is portrayed by Gerard Butler)

Genre: Romance / Drama.

Rating: Mature for sexual themes, language, violence, etc.

Pairing(s): Cougar / OC.

Author's Note: So, this whole first chapter is basically background and whatnot. Let me mention this now; the Spanish used may be wrong. I had to use a translator, of course. I apologize if it is wrong, but there will be translations (of course) so that doesn't really matter. Certain things such as hola or senorita will not be defined since they are basic Spanish terms. I don't exactly know what part of Bolivia they were supposed to be in, but I did some research to see what places surrounded the rainforest / river. La Paz is south of the Madre de Dios River, so that's where I'm going to say they're at.
Another Note: There will be pictures of all characters in profile, along with Star's car.

Update on January 8th: So, I've corrected any and all spelling errors. Also, I've rewritten anything that didn't make sense before. I changed the pictures of the characters, Keyes and Star as well, so check it out.

I. The Past, Present, and Future

Emotions; they were things that got in the way of the job. What I was supposed to be taught to have none of. Let's start with the beginning, shall we?

I was born in Cabedelo, Paraíba, Brazil, and I lived there until I was seven—when my mother died of an 'accidental overdose'. I knew better than that—she was murdered when I was at school. When I came home, orange prescription bottles addressed to random people were scattered all over the floor. According to the police, a nurse like herself could've gotten a hold of anything. I told my father the truth as soon as I was shipped off to Europe to live with him in Spain. He was American, and had impregnated my mother after a mission in South America. It was usual for him to tell me about top-secret, confidential missions—who he killed, why, and how he didn't believe in it. My father was a Green Beret, specializing in long-range eliminations, and he worked alone. By the time I was eight, I knew how to shoot precisely, and how to disassemble / reassemble a gun in less than thirty seconds. We traveled constantly, and my father took me on his missions occasionally (although it was forbidden); normally during his missions, he preferred that I wait in whatever broken down warehouse we were staying at. On my thirteenth birthday, my father's boss gave him a new target—one he couldn't refuse with a payout so large he could've bought Europe. He never returned to the apartment we were staying at; he was discovered two days later—caked in dried blood, multiple gunshot wounds littered his body. I was sent back to where I always thought I belonged—Brazil. Apparently, I was a threat to North and South America because of the things I knew. They put me under the watch of General Raphael of the Brazilian army; that night, I shot the military official point blank in the head without any regret. There were two things my father said repeatedly—"trust no one" and "if they send you to live with someone of important stature after my unexpected death—whether it be by accident, fate, or purpose—kill them because if you don't, they'll kill you." I managed to take a bus all the way to Georgetown, Guyana, and there I stowed away on a cargo ship that took me to Jacksonville, Florida. I hitched random rides across America, eventually landing me in Los Angeles, 'the City of Angels'.

"What's a young girl like yourself doing out here on the streets?" My eyes flickered up through my knotty, greasy hair. I needed a shower desperately, but not as much as I wanted to sleep in an actual bed. The man was tall with dark skin, a small smirk tugging on his lips. He was dressed in a business suit that looked like it came directly from an expensive Armani catalog. I remained quiet, my father's advice playing in my head over and over. "You're an orphan, child?" He asked, taking a seat beside me on the uncomfortable wooden bench.

"Yeah." I decided that I'd keep my answers short, a maximum of three words, since this man had no intention of leaving me alone.

"I'm Quentin Bishop." His hand extended in my direction, so I could shake it, but I only stared at it. "What's your name?" His voice was gentle, and his eyes held a certain carefreeness I couldn't match.

"Calista Castillo." My accent laced my words thickly as I mentally thought out all my escape routes. Plan A—there was an empty street to my left, and I was sure I was faster than the man sitting next to me. Plan B—a rusty fence was behind the bench that I could climb, but I would definitely injure myself on the barbed wire lining the top. Plan C—there was more 'life' to the right, which meant I would be running into the crowds and lights of Los Angeles. Quentin's limousine was also parked by the curb, his chauffeur waiting patiently by the door. Plan D—shoot my way out. My gun was casually shoved in the waistband of my jeans, most likely visible to Quentin, but I could see a similar handgun in a holster at his hip.

"Not anymore." The man's grin was inviting, and surprisingly warm. His teeth were a bright white against his skin, and I had just noticed just how muscular he really was. "Come with me; I'll provide you with everything you need. Food, shelter, money. We'll mold your talent as of right now to make you the best. You'll be able to seek revenge soon enough, child." It was against my better judgment to go with him, but that last sentence was all I truly needed to hear to make me go.

Quentin (who actually preferred being called Bishop) was the leader of The Organization, as I soon found out; it was a top-secret society that consisted of assassins. Anyone Quentin thought was 'special', such as myself, was put into the long-term training that lasted three years. The Organization was fond of amateurs, simply because they could be brainwashed and disposed of. Evidently, The Organization was behind any major assassination in the United Stated—including President Lincoln's and Kennedy's. They were the cause of plenty of failed assassination attempts as well, all the way from President Roosevelt's to Nixon's. Training was broke up into five divisions—hand-to-hand combat, weaponry, transportation, athleticism, and torture. Hand-to-hand combat is pretty self-explanatory; seemingly infinite sessions taught me tae-kwon-doe, karate, jiu jitsu—the options of what stance I could come at were endless. My 'teacher' was Beck—a thirty-five year old man from Southern Africa. Weaponry was broken up into branches—guns, knives, explosives, improvised, martial arts, melee, and artillery. Guns had a wide range of things to learn to use—pistols, submachine guns, shotguns, assault rifles, sniper rifles, machine guns, and grenade launchers. Archer had been my 'teacher' when it came to guns; he said that I was the best he had ever seen, and I was really skilled when it came to shooting at a distance.

"What's the lesson for the day?" I asked as I flipped my hair over my shoulder. My fourteenth birthday would be here soon, and a few days after that would mark my 'one year' anniversary at The Organization (even though I'm in training).

"Sniper." Archer was of Irish lineage with a strong accent, and he was twenty-six years old. He got into the 'business' around the same time as I did after a similar occurrence happened to him. He handed me a 7.62x51mm M40A3, the Marine Corps standard issue. It was the heaviest gun he ever made me deal with—sixteen and a half pounds. "Shoot targets while running." His orders weren't to be taken lightly, so I did as I was told. I sprinted through the obstacle course, my gun raised while shooting each piece of paper that strategically popped up in the forehead. At the end, I jogged back over to Archer with a smirk; I could tell he was impressed by the expression on his face. "Stand at the end of the room." His tone was soft as he nodded to the door that would take me back into our facility. I nodded and followed his demand, waiting for further instruction. "Shoot this target through every pressure point." He yelled from the other side of the room (which was very far away, might I add). I looked through the scope and under a minute, I had shot every major pressure point. "Well, I'll be damned. You're the best shooter I've ever trained." He smiled before guiding me back inside for a celebratory drink.

Knives were quite easy as well; throwing and anticipating my opponent's move were the most useful things taught. Theo had been my teacher, and our relationship changed forever one night.

"Theo. It's two in the morning; can I please go to bed?" I groaned; I normally never complained, but lessons ended at midnight, and lessons began as early as six in the morning; which meant I would have less than four hours to sleep tonight if Theo would let me go to bed already. My hair was pulled into a messy bun on the top of my head, and I had a white bandana wrapped around my forehead. I was wearing a pair of black spandex shorts and a white tank-top while Theo had on nothing but red gym shorts.

"Why, you hate spending time with me?" Theo grinned as he began to dribble a basketball between his legs. Yes, my lesson for the past hour and a half had been basketball. Bullshit, I know.

"No, I'm tired." I mumbled as I rubbed my eyes sleepily. I nearly collapsed from sleep deprivation, but Theo caught me. I hadn't gotten a good night's sleep for a year; the average hours of sleep per week a person is supposed to get is fifty-six, I only get forty-two—if that.

"One more game, please." Theo begged; in reality, he didn't have to do much. I would cave, because I wouldn't want him to be any harder on me than he already is. I nodded, and he smiled brightly before adding, "Let's up the ante. If you win, you get my entire collection of butterfly knives." I was definitely listening; he had some of the most beautiful knives in the world (no matter how small they were).

"What happens if I lose?" I cocked an eyebrow suspiciously as he passed the basketball to me.

"I get a good night kiss." He stated shortly as I 'checked' the ball to him. It was a bad idea; he was twenty-four, a decade older than me.

"Throw in your collection of bowie knives." I stated, and he nodded so I agreed with two words, "It's on." After a half hour of a game, I lost. He offered to walk me back to my room which I knew would only end up one way, but I couldn't say no. It took about ten minutes to reach my room, where an innocent good night kiss led to a heated make out session. He opened my door with my hand while his other was entangled in my hair. Once inside the room, he kicked the door shut with his foot and guided me to my bed. He was surprisingly gentle, and from that day forward, we had a 'secret' relationship.

Explosives had always been one of my favorite lessons because let's face it—everybody loves to blow up shit. Newt had been my 'teacher', and he was only twenty-one. Improvised consisted of baseball bats, boards, makeshift weapons, and anything along those lines; yet again, I didn't find it very difficult. Martial arts was mostly objects that I thought should've been under improvised or melee (knives would have been under melee or martial arts, but since it was such a large range of blades, it got its own category), so I didn't have any trouble with any of them. For all three branches I had one teacher, Keyes. Transportation had three branches—land, air, and sea. They all held importance, but I was particularly gifted with vehicles. Teachings consisted of all sorts of maneuvers to make one an outstanding driver, pilot, and captain. Star had been my teacher (who I developed a strong bond with), and she was the only female teacher in the institute. Athleticism's sessions were supposed to help me build up my stamina, so I could run for hours at a time without getting winded; Brody was my teacher. The last division and by far my least favorite, torture. Recruits had to endure being beaten, shot, stabbed (no fatal wounds, of course)—basically anything that could cause bodily harm so one could learn to resist, ignore, and tolerate pain; The Executioner was in charge of these sessions. Over three years of ruthless training, I had become the ultimate killing machine. Bishop believed that I'd be the greatest assassin to go down in The Organization's history, especially after my first hit. I had one weakness, one flaw—I wasn't heartless.

"What did he do wrong?" I asked, watching the man pacing the length of his living room in his classy penthouse through the scope of my gun. I was stationed two buildings north, my sniper rifle perched on the edge of the building. He was talking into a cellphone, obviously agitated; I was sixteen now, and my waist length hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail—my 'signature' accessory (a black bandana) was tied around my forehead. This would be my first assassination, and I could choose how to do it thanks to the client. Long-range was my choice for two reasons; my father would've taken out a target this way, and I wasn't sure if I would be able to handle an emotional plea from my target to spare their life.

"He's a bad man, C352C. Now is not the time for questions. Get the job done." I expected Bishop to be angrier, but he wasn't; he had become a father figure over the last few years, and I wouldn't go against his orders. I inhaled a deep breath, focusing the scope on the man; I determined the wind speed, and distance in a matter of seconds. I moved the sniper rifle slightly to the right as the man stopped walking. He was now facing the window, screaming into the phone. Too easy, I thought as I pushed any feelings of doubt to the back of my mind.

"Forgive me, Father, for I am about to sin." I whispered before firing off a single, muffled shot due to the silencer. The bullet landed directly in between the man's eyes, and he fell to the floor lifelessly. I slung my rifle onto my shoulder by its strap as Bishop clapped with a proud smile.

"Amazing." He wrapped his arm around my shoulders carefully, making sure not to get in the way of my weapon.

I later found out that the man was named Felix Withers, and he was thirty-eight years old. He had a six-year-old son with his girlfriend, and a fourteen-year-old daughter from an ex-wife. Looking back on it, I knew why I was hired to kill him. There are only three reasons an assassin is hired to kill someone—the target knows too much, rivalry, and self-gain. After an assassin's first successful kill in The Organization, they were given the 'initiation mark'.

"Come with me, C352C." Bishop was excited—about what? I have no idea. I had to admit though, I hated my 'name'. When an assassin received a name, it normally consisted of random numbers and letters, but I was 'special'—or so Bishop often told me. The C stood for Calista, my birth name, the 3 stood for the third letter of the alphabet - C - which was the first letter of one of my middle names'—Charmene, the 5 stood for the fifth letter in the alphabet - E - which was the letter of another one of my middle names'—Eloisa, the 2 stood for the second letter in the alphabet - B - which was the first letter of my last middle name—Blanca, and the C stood for my surname, Castillo. I finally noticed we were heading in the direction of the basement, where the torture chambers are located.

"Why are we going down there?" I asked casually. If I was weak, I would've involuntarily shook with fear—but I wasn't, so I was calm. Over the process of being brutally tormented on so many occasions, fear had become a word that didn't exist in my vocabulary anymore. The same goes with pain.

"Just wait." Bishop shot me a reassuring smile over his shoulder before stepping out into the open floor plan. He kindly demanded that I take my shirt off and stand against the wall—my back facing him and the one who was only known as 'The Executioner'. I did as I was told, gripping the moldy tile wall as I waited. Something extremely hot pressed deeply into the small of my back, causing indescribable pain to rip through me. I bared it, just like I had been taught. I swallowed the lump in my throat, and counted back from one hundred as I anticipated its end. The breeze of air on the burned area brought me great relief, and I found that I had been holding my breath. I exhaled and turned around, confusion contorted my face. The Executioner was holding a hot iron in his hands, though it had noticeably cooled down since it had been burning my back. The end was in the shape of a circle with a thick cross on the inside. "Welcome to The Organization, officially." Bishop's grin was more than sincere, and I couldn't help but smile back.

The next year flew by; it was a requirement to train once a week with each teacher (to make sure one didn't get 'rusty')—torture was only used for punishment, thankfully. There was a set of rules The Organization set up that one had to follow; the number one rule—which is the most important—was to never have attachments. I was determined to live by the rules, unlike somebody I knew.

I sighed contently as I slid a hand under my head. Tonight had been incredible, and I was lying beside Theo in his bed. Our 'thing' was strictly good sex, or so I thought. "I love you." When those words left Theo's lips, I had jolted upright so quick and whipped my head around that I was surprised I didn't get whiplash. My eyes widened, and my mouth fell open in surprise. The last time I heard those words was four years ago, minutes before my father left me forever. I climbed out of his bed and began to slip on the clothes I had been wearing before I came for our nightly session. "What's wrong?" He asked with his eyebrows scrunched up in puzzlement. I didn't respond as I pulled my hair out of my shirt, but I didn't really have a choice after Theo leapt out of bed and grabbed my wrist. I was seventeen, and I sure as hell did not love Theo.

"We agreed going into this that it was nothing but sex." I stated coldly, ripping my wrist from his grasp. He managed to stop me before I reached the door, a sullen look on his face.

"You can't tell me that after three years, you feel nothing towards me." He whispered harshly, and I could see tears pricking his eyes. Pathetic, I thought with an eye roll.

"Yes I can, and I just did." I shoved him out of my way before storming out of his bedroom.

I hadn't seen him for days after that major incident; a meeting was held a little over a month after he vanished.

"Assassins, we have gathered here today for one reason." Bishop's voice boomed in the large room; he was unusually angry, and all my 'teachers' were on edge. Only those who had been inducted into The Organization were here, so only a dozen other people around my age were in the room. "One of our own has gone rogue." He didn't need to say much more than that—I already knew who it was, and I had a feeling I knew why. Only a second later, Theo's image popped up onto the briefing room's wall. They had gone old school with the presentation, using a projector to display pictures on the white cement. I had zoned out as I sat there, my head in my hands. What have I done? I questioned myself mentally with a barely visible shake of my head.

Ever since Theo was announced dead to us, every member of The Organization had to watch their back. There was no telling when somebody would be ambushed; it only happened once, to a new kid on his third hit. 8CF2D, whose real name was Zeke Carter. The year passed without any more killings, and once my eighteenth birthday arrived, I was surprised that The Organization and its members celebrated it.

"God damn it. A fucking hit on my birthday." I growled lowly as I stomped down the sidewalk that led to the front door of what appeared to be a run-down warehouse. In actuality, it was The Organization's headquarters; it was meant to look horrific on the outside with barred up windows that a person couldn't see through. On the inside, it was shockingly beautiful with hardwood floors, chandeliers, and antique rugs. "Of course you have a target, C352C. Why wouldn't you?" I mocked Bishop's tone that I heard over my secure cellphone only fifteen minutes earlier. Aloof and angry—which was completely out of his element. I lived at The Organization, but the past few days were spent at a hotel—reconnaissance. My latest target had been eight buildings over, but with my scope adjusted, I could see him through the clear windows best during nighttime (oddly). I took him out last night, since he was alone in his office. I had spent my final night at the hotel, and expected to come home to a cake prepared by Star—she was quite the cook. But no, I get called in for another fucking hit. Duty calls when duty calls, I guess. I hit the door in three different spots, making it click open. As soon as I walked in, the dark foyer was flooded with light and cheers of 'Happy Birthday'. All of my previous teachers (excluding Theo) were here along with Bishop, a few elite assassins in their old age, and the assassins around my age. After several meet-and-greets, I began to open up poorly wrapped presents. I received an array of weapons, but the one I'll never forget was a AMP Technical Services DSR-1 sniper rifle imported from Germany (gifted to me from Archer).

A few months after I turned twenty, Bishop found the men responsible for my father's death. He didn't know who hired them, but he knew who pulled the trigger.

"Public place, how wonderful." I smiled as I looked up at a two-story inn; it was where the four men who shot my father were staying at. I was currently dressed in my usual attire; I wore tight, black, skinny jeans with a form-fitting, sleeveless, black top. My combat boots were laced up and stopped short of my knee. Recently, I had chopped my hair off to mirror a combination of Twiggy (a fashion icon from the 60's) and Mia Farrow (in Rosemary's Baby) with my own added flavor - 'edgy' swept bangs that hung in my eyes. I wore a knee-length, twill trench coat to hide the holsters on my hips and sheaths strapped around my thighs (I doubted I would use the knives, but it's always best to come prepared). I slid on a pair of black Ray Ban sunglasses, although it was nighttime, and began to walk nonchalantly through the doors. I sauntered up to a desk where a young receptionist was waiting, snapping gum in between her teeth incessantly while twirling a lock of her bleached blonde hair around her finger; she was reading a magazine in her lap—Cosmopolitan. "I'm here to see Michael Smith." My smirk widened when it looked like her eyes were going to pop out. I was used to people fearing me, so the frightened look on her face didn't bother me.

"Uh, are you a relative of some sort?" She squeaked, searching through the computer's database of what room number he was in. I knew that all four men were in the same room; they weren't the kind to separate, which only made it easier for me.

"Maybe." I stated as I placed my black leather glove covered hands on the countertop.

"Second floor, room four, ma'am." She sounded like a mouse that was getting mauled by a cat.

"Thanks." I slid a crisp one hundred dollar bill her way, which seemed to ease her nerves as she inspected it. I walked towards the stairway to my right, and it barely took a minute to reach the second floor. I untied the belt holding my trench coat together before letting it pool to the floor behind me. I wore a black, high tech watch on my left wrist, and set the time to give me exactly five minutes and fourteen seconds; that's all the time I would have. I withdrew my Beretta M9 pistols from their holsters as I walked down the hallway; I stopped when I saw a golden 4 hanging on a door and knocked. The second it opened, I fired off a shot without hesitation, killing Randy Banks—one of the men involved—in the center of his forehead. The three other men—Michael Smith, Lou Frederick, and Eunice Haynes—were huddled around a table playing poker, but were now whipping out their guns as fast as they could manage. I shot Lou and Eunice at the same time with speed none of them could match; I was going to save Michael for last, and make sure his was the most painful. One bullet through his hand rendered him incapable of holding his gun.

"Bitch!" He shrieked, cradling his hand to his stomach. "Why the fuck are you doing this?" He yelled; he was a lame excuse of a human being if he was whining with only a gunshot to the hand.

"Do you remember a man named Mattie Castillo?" I asked through clenched teeth; my gun aimed at his head. My father's name had been Matthew; 'Mattie' was his nickname ever since he was a kid.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Hearing this, I shot him in the knee. It looked like he was struggling to keep consciousness, so I figured I better hurry this along.

"Who hired you?" I asked as I raised my eyebrows in question.

"A guy gave us half a million each if we made sure to kill him. His name was Max—that's all I know!" He let out a blood curdling scream when I shot him where the sun don't shine.

"Well, I hope you know now that you fucked with the wrong family. See you in hell, dick." I snarled before shooting him in the forehead. I put my guns back in their rightful place as I heard police sirens in the distance.

Something Bishop failed to mention was that the four shooters were in the Scottish mob; they were just as dangerous as Russians, but they made sure to keep their things silent and on the down low. I told Bishop about Max, but he didn't give me anything useful. As the years passed, I killed more people than at least one hundred soldiers combined did within their lifetime. I lost count sometime after the death toll when it reached the triple digits (trust me, it's way beyond that). I had more riches than anyone ever listed in Forbes, and I traveled a lot due to my profession, but my home was in Los Angeles. Permanently, or so I hoped. I considered my life the closest thing to perfect for somebody like me. Excluding the fact that I wasn't supposed to have any outer attachments and no one was ever allowed to know my real name. I was twenty-three when I met Colby Montgomery, unfortunately.

"What the fuck is the difference between one perfect and whole milk?" I mumbled under my breath as I stared at the two cartons I was holding my hands. I shrugged apathetically, putting the whole milk in my cart while I placed the one percent back in the grocery store's refrigerator. I pushed my car into a nearby aisle, stopping when I spotted my favorite breakfast food. "Cereal." I smiled softly as my eyes scanned over all the different kinds.

"Personally, I'd go with Cheerio's—they're good for your cholesterol." A smooth voice with an accent spoke from behind me; I turned around with a lopsided grin. I give props to Star who taught me basic social skills (under Bishop's orders when I was fourteen). "Colby Montgomery." His hand extended in my direction when he smiled. He was gorgeous—he was taller than me by an inch or two (I'm freakishly tall at five nine) with lightly tanned skin, dark hair, and blue eyes.

"Elena Palmer." I shook his hand, not expecting our conversation to go anywhere. I had at least ten different aliases I made up during my free time—Elena Palmer was my favorite. She graduated from high school in Talca, Chile; she originally planned on going to college in Michigan, but dropped out so she could live in California with the hopes of pursuing her dreams of becoming an actress. My favorite thing had to be that she was normal, something I truly never had the chance of being.

"Beautiful name." He complimented, and I simply nodded as I felt my phone begin to vibrate wildly in my brown leather jacket's pocket. My street clothes had to be more discreet than wearing all black, leather, and spandex - or so Bishop told me, so over time I had an ample collection of clothes of all colors, except for neon's or pastel's. I held up a finger to Colby as if to indicate I would need a second while answering it.

"Hello?" I normally would've said my codename as soon as I answered, since this was a phone The Organization issued, and Bishop was the only one with the number.

"C352C, you're in the presence of another?" Bishop asked calmly on the other line as I brushed my hair behind my ear. I varied the styles over the past four years and it had now grown out to my collarbone; the tips of my hair were razored and layers were scattered throughout my hair. I kept the bangs, because they framed my face nicely.

"Yes." I responded as I examined my nails, trying to appear bored to Colby.

"I've just received word from a trusting source that there is a bounty on your head, reaching more than seven digits. It all originates from the four men you assassinated. A man just arrived from Glasgow a few days ago. Is the man you're looking at Scottish?" Bishop's tone had a hint of panic in it, which was highly unusual; he knew I could take care of myself. I measured up the man now leaning against the shelf behind him casually before deciding.

"Definitely." I replied, pinching the bridge of my nose. I wouldn't want to fight him in a public place, I'd rather lure him elsewhere to do that.

"He's a member of a secret society, similar to ours, but they work under the direct orders of the Scottish mob, and they don't have you. Colby Montgomery is the only person that could even come close. They have been monitoring you ever since your mother's death, and The Organization is sure that when Theo flipped, he waited for something to hold against you. Get the hell out of there, C. Meet me at our secondary rendezvous when you can." Bishop rushed through his miniature speech, and I couldn't suppress the smile that made its way onto my lips.

"Sure thing." I hung up the phone, sliding it back into my pocket before taking a step towards Colby. I saw his body tense, and I was now close enough that I could feel his rapid heartbeat against my chest. "It was nice meeting you and all, but I really must go. Duty calls." I leaned in close enough to convince him I was going in for a kiss and as soon as his eyes shut, my forehead connected with his nose in a powerful head butt. "Moron." I chuckled as I took off the same way I came down the aisle, darting into the storage room where employees were allowed only. Like that would stop me, I mentally scoffed as I saw the steps that led to the door with 'Roof Entrance' printed in bold letters. Swiftly, I made my way up the steps, flung open the door, and started to run as fast as I could. Buildings lined one another around here, so I ran across them, jumping when there were minor gaps. I could hear Colby screaming in frustration behind me; there were two thoughts plaguing my mind. Why hadn't they come for me earlier and why hasn't this imbecile tried to shoot me already? A large gap was coming up ahead, and I could only hope that Colby couldn't jump it. I just barely made it and stumbled as I landed. I looked up to see that Colby had stopped, but I took off before he could say anything.

After nearly escaping a run-in with the Scottish mob, I was ordered a week off work. Once I returned to working, I found out that Colby had my number when I wasn't in the most comfortable position.

"Hello?" Most assassins weren't idiotic enough to attempt to balance their phone in between their shoulder and ear while reloading any weapon; mine being a Desert Eagle I plucked from a guard's waistband earlier, along with two magazines filled with nine bullets each.

"Good evening, Elena, or should I call you by your birth name, Calista?" A suave Scottish accent spoke on the other line, making me roll my eyes. "It was such a honor to see you. I always thought you were just a legend." Hearing this, I rolled my eyes, and rounded the corner, shooting each guard that was standing in front of the metal door in the forehead. "I must've caught you at a bad time, love." He laughed lightly, and yet again, I rolled my eyes.

"Not at all. I always take calls when I'm on a mission." I barked sarcastically as I began to unlatch the door. Larry Summers would be on the other side of this, most likely quivering while holding an old school revolver. He was fifty-six, and after I took him out, I was supposed to retrieve his hard drive. Then my mission would be completed. I hung up the phone and slid it back into its rightful spot before entering the room stealthily. Larry was underneath his desk, shaking with fear - just as I suspected.

Bishop knew Colby was taunting me, and it was only a matter of time before he tried to kill me again. My teachers had become more overprotective, and I figured out they had been watching over me during assassinations. Although it was appreciated, I preferred to be alone.

"You can go ahead and come out now." I called out as soon as I jumped off the fire escape's last step; I had been on the rooftop a few moments ago, taking out a woman known only as Lady. A green 1970 Plymouth Barracuda came to a screeching halt at the alleyway's exit. Star was in the driver's seat, a smile on her lips. Her hair was spiked as usual, and she wore a black leather vest (a gift I gave her a year ago) over a red, lacy shirt. I heard footsteps behind me and looked over my shoulder to see Beck holding a walkie-talkie. Without another word, Beck crammed himself into the backseat while I rode in the passenger seat. "I can handle myself, y'know." I spoke after a moment of silence. My twenty-fifth birthday was in a few months; I wasn't still the kid that had come into The Organization nearly twelve years ago. Suddenly, bullets rained through the roof of Star's prized possession. One went directly through Beck's hand through the seat, one barely wounded Star's arm, and three grazed my shoulder.

"Motherfucker ruined my car." Star growled through clenched teeth as she spun the car's wheel while withdrawing a Hi-Point .45 ACP from the holster on her hip. As she changed gears to reverse, her foot slammed onto the gas, and she began to drive backwards while she shot through the windshield, successfully killing the driver of a black 2002 Ford Explorer. I managed to bring my sniper rifle up and shoot the man with the gun in the passenger seat. The windshield ended up completely shattering, throwing glass back on the both of us. I was momentarily blinded, but I was able to make out the two faces in the backseat who were smirking. Theo and Colby.

It was clear that I was wanted dead, and always would be. After my twenty-fifth birthday, I knew what was the right course of action.

"Bishop, I've put twelve years into The Organization, and nine of those years were spent completing hits." I sighed, looking over at the aging man seated next to me on the bench. It was similar to how we met the first time, but there were several differences. Age, for example. I was now an adult, and he would be a senior citizen in ten years. "I won't stick around if it'll cost any members of The Organization their life. This is me resigning." I glanced at him from the corner of my eye to observe his reaction. He didn't look angry, but he didn't look happy.

"I understand, Calista." He smiled sincerely as he pulled me into a brief side-hug. "I suggest you leave the States. I'll find a way to contact you if we ever find Max." He mumbled, and I nodded before we parted ways.

I left the States, and moved to Rio Branco in Western Brazil. It wasn't where I was born, but I wasn't about to take the risk of someone possibly finding out my true identity. I pretended to be 'Elena Palmer', but I didn't seek employment. I lived in a house secluded in the woods that an architect (Antonio) built—he had a major crush on me. He asked me out at least a dozen times before I finally agreed. He had a seven-year-old daughter, Gabriella, but I didn't let that get in the way of our blossoming relationship. After knowing each other for a eleven months, and dating for four (it took seven months to build the house), he moved in with his daughter. Everything was going smoothly, until I marked the calendar as one year of retirement from The Organization. That's when tragedy struck.

A morning run. It always helped to calm me down. I was stressed, to say the least. I was debating on whether or not I should tell Antonio Cortez about the real me—Calista Castillo. He knew 'Elena Palmer', who did have a lot in common with me, but only because I made it that way. Tony was understanding, but this was huge. False identity would be enough to make someone leave another, especially if they had a previous profession like mine. I took a deep breath, and decided that the truth would be best. Through the dense trees, I could make out the shape of our house. I smiled lightly at the simple thought of Tony cooking Gabriella and I breakfast. On the side of the house, I saw a black box with a flashing red light. It took me a moment to register what was going on, but once I did, I pushed myself to go faster. I didn't make it; the explosion was enough to knock me off my feet. Debris landed beside me, and smoke hung in the air. I coughed as I stood up and examined the wreckage. I took off running and stopped at the border of Bolivia where I had stashed millions of dollars (possibly billions) and all my weapons from my former life.

The Scottish mob and Theo thought that I was dead, so it was easier for me to function without paranoia after that. There was a funeral for me back in Brazil, where I was raised.

Looking through the scope, I shifted it to all the different faces. Star was in tears—which is something very rare considering crying is a weakness—and Beck had a caring arm over her shoulder. They had only made a few changes in appearance over the past year; Beck had a trimmed goatee while Star's hair was streaked with a deep maroon. Bishop had his head down, as did the rest of my past teachers—Brody, Archer, Newt, and Keyes. There was a Portuguese priest saying a few words. It was rather nice if I do say so myself; I was laying on my stomach on a nearby grassy knoll that should've been far enough for no one to notice me. Bishop glanced up at the end of the funeral, and it was almost as if he knew I was there because a smirk tugged on his lips.

I took the name Gabriella Cortez, and I live in La Paz, Bolivia. It's a poor place, but I'm not moving again. I opened up a bar named Cortez's Corner, and it's been one year since I was presumed dead. I never thought I'd get my revenge against Max, the Scottish mob, or Theo…until I met them.

There was the first chapter (: Super long, I hope you guys enjoyed it. The next chapter will introduce The Losers! Review, please.