Encrypted

I. Take-Off

"And he will face off against our reigning champion, Tigress!" The voice of the announcer sent a thrill through my bones as I confidently sauntered out to the ring, tossing Volkov my boxing robe that symbolized my street name perfectly - mainly orange with a black border - leaving me in only my leather bra-like top, the straps crossing over my chest before going over my shoulder and crossing once in the back, matching shorts that would pass more as underwear if worn outside of the ring, and my leather lace-up boots that stopped a bit past my knee.

I took my spot in my corner of the ring, Volkov patting my back as I stared down my competition. This was street fighting, and this was my life. It was a thrill my CIA agent father wouldn't approve of and would keep me on house arrest for eternity if he found out. The only good thing that came out of having a father in the CIA was the self-defense lessons. They came in really handy here in the ring.

Sadly, my life as Tigress was only a night-time thing. My black hair and bold make-up disappeared during the day, changing into my blonde-haired bland self, Evelyn Nichols. My confident persona on the ring morphed into a shy loner on the college campus, probably due to learning from an early age never to trust anyone. I guess that happens easily when your mother ends up being a double agent sent to kill your father. I was 7 when that happened, and ever since then, my dad has been overprotective, teaching me every trick he's learned from the CIA to keep me safe. Ever since I was 12, I've known how to fight hand-to-hand, hack, and handle a gun. And when I turned 16, I ran into Maxim Volkov, a leader of a Russo-American gang, and looking to sponsor a street fighter.

So here I am, facing an anonymous opponent, ready to beat the smug grin off his face thinking that a newbie like him could beat me. Ever since the start of my career, I've only lost once. And I'm 21 now.

The announcer signaled the start of the match, and immediately Mr. Hot Shot charged. I sidestepped him at the last second, nailing him in the side with a left hook and then a right uppercut. He staggered back, shock and anger now residing on his face. I bit back a chuckle, just keeping my confident smirk on my face. Fighting with emotions never ended well.

I used the ring to launch myself at him, kicking him square in the chest. He crashed to the ground, and I pinned him down for three seconds before Volkov pulled me off, cheering in my ear.

I had won.

I sent one final smirk to my opponent who was anything but happy. He should just be happy it ended so soon. Otherwise, he might have more than just a broken nose and bruised ribs.

"Great job, Tigress," Volkov congratulated as we headed out to the back lot where my Ducati was parked. The only remotely dangerous thing my dad allowed me to do was drive a motorcycle. Probably because his sister died in a car crash and he won't allow cars at the house. How motorcycles were better is beyond me, but I couldn't complain.

Volkov was the only guy in my corner anymore. For a while, I had a friend here, Ceryce Rameau. Both her parents were French, but she was born here in Virginia only a couple blocks away from my house and only a couple months before me. Sometimes people thought we were twins with our matching blonde hair that reached our waists, our side swept bangs, and our blue eyes. With her growing up in Virginia, she didn't get the French accent her parents had, so that was one more thing making us almost identical. However, right before everything went down with my mom, her family moved back to France, and I've never heard from her since.

So, I was left with Maxim Volkov, with his thick Russian accent, shoulder length brown hair and brown eyes, assortment of tattoos on his right arm, and signature leather vest. Ironically, he and his gang all rode Ducatis, making it quite easy for me to blend in, having changed into ripped black jeggings and a strappy cropped black tank coupled with a leather jacket.