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Saturday, August 2st | 7:32pm| Wesley's Private Jet
The flight back to America was a silent one. Each team member was in their own respective space - Fox had retreated for the bedroom, Cam had his headphones on staring out the window at his seat, and Jukes was on the opposite end of the plane in the other seat poised with a pair of sunglasses to hide his tired eyes.
Kandy herself was perched on the sink in the bathroom, trying to calm her nerves by polishing a handgun. She lowly whistled a melodic happy sounding tune that was doing its best to temporarily take her mind off the fact that they had screwed up the biggest mission they had ever done in their entire lives.
There was a huge weight on her shoulders, a paralyzing guilt that burned deep within her conscience. She was the one up on that rooftop completely oblivious to the other shooter who was merely eight buildings away from her position. The shooter, dressed in head to toe black clothing, was too fast for her to catch up with. Behind her eyes, images of jumping across rooftop, scaling the sides of buildings, and running for her life played on a constant loop.
She could have prevented it if only she had been more aware of her surroundings. She could have caught the perpetrator if she had seen them earlier or run faster.
These little tiny things, she should have noticed, but didn't.
She fucked up.
The one time there shouldn't have been any room for error, she walked into that room with a sign on her forehead that read "HI ERROR, PLEASE KILL ME". And boy, did error know how to deliver.
How could there have been another shooter? Who was the other team? Why were they out to get them?
Answers that Kandy needed, she didn't know how they would begin to find the answers.
Right when they ascended into the air, each member of the team whipped out their devices. They first went through the list of men that acted as security guards for both the President and Popova, yet all names were of dead or missing people from all over the world - ordinary citizens like retired high school teachers, missing college students, and even deceased athletes.
In other words, it was a dead end.
The only concrete facts they had were their memories of what the dimensions and features of the faces of the men that had chased them. Even then, their facial recognition database found thousands of hits matching the exact descriptions they inputted into the system. However, because they were on the road, their resources for doing deep research were limited, but once they were back at headquarters, they'd be able to locate a hit in no time.
Whenever she felt even a drop of anxiety or stress, her favorite pastime was simply killing. There was a thirst for blood only death could satisfy when her nerves were on edge, ready to barrage in order to release the suppressed aggression that caged her heart.
