Black Swan | Ghost & König [I] ✓

chapter 2

"Merde," you cursed, the first feeling when being awoken the throbbing of your head. Instinctively, you reach up to grab it, but you realize you can't — your hands are tied down to a rusty metal chair.

You open your eyes painstakingly slow, getting a good look at your surroundings. The room you were in was secluded and dim, the only source of light a fluorescent bulb hanging sadly above your head. It seemed you were in some sort of crate. You curse again, panic setting into your bones.

Fuck. What happened? Where am I? You squeeze your eyes tightly. Right... I was trying to kill Alejandro Vargas, got spotted and when I tried to run away, I got caught. This realization made you inwardly groan. This has never happened before in your entire career.

You scanned the room, looking for potential torture weapons. Why didn't they just kill me? Then you looked for a means to escape. Nothing.

The sound of the door slamming open caught your attention. Seething silently, you glared as four men filed into the room. Defiantly, you turned your head to the side, refusing to look at them.

"What do you want from me, salaud?"

"We want to know why you're working with El Sin Nombre and why you were trying to kill Alejandro," a man with an American accent began.

You clenched your jaw tightly, refusing to reply.

"Talk," said the one with the rather offensive haircut... A mohawk, of all things.

"Or what?" you spat.

"Or we could kill you. Simple as that."

You grinned. "You Americans, so quick to anger." You clicked your tongue, shifted in your restraints, and feigned seductiveness. "Why not give me a chance, branleur?"

"Shut the fuck up," the American growled, slamming his hands into the armrests of the chair and laying his body weight on your wrists. You didn't make any reaction to the pain. "Why are you working with El Sin Nombre?"

"Dégage! I'm just trying to protect my home country, fils de pute," you hiss.

"That wasn't an answer."

"Je m'en fous."

"Stop speaking French, for fucks sake," he said. He released the pressure on your wrists and backed away. He ran his hands through his short hair.

Your mouth quirked into a cocky smile. "Bevorzugst du deutsch?"

"What the fuck do you want from me, pendeja?" Another man with a Spanish accent intercepted. You knew from the moment you heard his voice and saw his face that he was the one you were supposed to kill on the mission.

"I was just helping a friend of mine," you shrugged nonchalantly. "No hard feelings."

"Oh, there's hard feelings alright," the Scottish one with the mohawk said. "You mess with Alejandro, you mess with us." His eyes narrowed on your slim form, stripped of your tactical gear and left only in a black tank top and bulky black pants. "Why are you helping Hassan?"

"I don't know who the fuck Hassan is," you replied curtly. "I told you, I was just helping a friend of mine."

"Who do you work for?"

You kept your mouth shut. The last thing you wanted to do was get German Special Forces into any more trouble then they are already in. I really shouldn't have got myself caught.

"I was just carrying out orders, garçon," you spoke the last term insultingly.

"Orders from who?"

"Geh zum Teufel," you said in German.

The one with the mohawk pulled the American to the side and said something to him in a low voice. The only words you could make out were "Ghost" and "he's unbeatable; she couldn't kill him if she tried."

You didn't hear exactly what they said, but your mind is a sharp and analytical one. You pieced what you could together and impulsively barked at them.

"Unbeatable? Don't make me laugh."

Your French accent was strong and sharp, and your gaze was deadly, piercing into eyes of the man before you. He was not intimidating in the slightest, with his choppy, untamable mohawk and soft hazel eyes, yet he seemed completely serious and irrevocably sure of himself when he spoke.

You had a staring contest with him for a short moment, and then spoke once more.

"The name 'Ghost' is one I do not fear," you hissed. "The only thing for me to fear is my own capabilities if I were to ever be put up against him."

You knew who "Ghost" was — he was an infamous British soldier. In your line of work, anyone would know who he was — he was a heartless, calculated assassin willing to kill anyone and everyone in his path. But you weren't afraid of him. You weren't afraid of anything.

You tilted your chin upward haughtily, your dark hair falling across your face. You began to grow impatient.

You were being interrogated for a purpose you have no involvement in, and your only desire is to rush out of here the moment you get the opportunity.

Just right then, a man emerged from the shadows of the dark, stuffy chamber.

Had he always been there?

His identity was unmistakeable the moment your venomous eyes met with his. He had wispy, full blond eye lashes contrasting the black eye-makeup concealing the remains of his face beneath his scuffed white skull-mask. The eye contact made you inwardly shiver.

When he spoke, his voice seized all movement in the room and your blood ran cold. "Capabilities mean nothing when you're tied up to a chair and I'm the one with the gun in my hands." He tilted his head emotionlessly. "Plus, I have something you want."

"And what is that?"

"Ever heard of a man named 'König?'"