Zero.

Chapter Two

Day 7

IT WAS strange becoming someone else. But for the mission, I was now Sarah McKinley, Yale graduate with a masters in government business.

I was 27 years old, unmarried and lived alone in a small apartment on the outskirts of Chicago. Of all the aliases Chief had given me, this one made me cringe the most. Sarah was to be cheerful, peppy and absurdly...bright.

Which begged the questions of where did Chief suppose Sarah would hide her gun? In her oversized floral hoop skirt or her matching tomato blouse?

Perhaps it was supposed to be wedged in her hideous matching floral, ballet flats?

I supposed Sarah's apparent love for thick, overly patterned tops would hide the arrowhead tattoo on my back well, but then again, I could just be trying to make her fashion choices make sense.

The punching bag I was working on started splitting at the seams.

My hair, even in a high pony tail lopped to my back, slapping me in the face with every movement. The most frustrating part was that I had to keep my hair long. Apparently long flowing hair made me look more trustworthy.

It didn't escape me that a large part of this mission was based on my ability to gain Lee's trust and I could easily admit that my people skills were lacking.

I spun around and sent a roundhouse kick to the punching bag. The stuffing finally popped out, snapping from the chain and falling to the ground.

That was the third bag I had been through.

We had 81 days to complete the mission. Chief had spent the last few days going over our strategies and ensuring that we knew our parts well. He had even insisted that One and I call each other by our fake identities until the mission was over. Every time she called me Sarah, I wanted to kick her, but I couldn't lie; the grimace she gave me when I called her Grace was worth it.

While my alias was cringeworthy, hers was downright horrendous. She would wear a plain, brown, short wig, with matching dull brown contacts. Agent One knew was beautiful, but even she couldn't pull off the overly baggy pants and black collar shirt that all the IT specialists at Pembroke wore.

I grabbed the punching bag from its sad position on the floor and tossed it in my corner. A perk to being me was that I had my own training room. Complete privacy and only Agent One dared to bother me when I was in here. She was currently training in her room, so when I heard the sound of tennis shoes behind me I knew it wasn't her.
"Poor punching bag. I don't think it deserved its fate."
I dropped the bag and turned to see Chief approaching me. He was wearing basketball shorts and a t-shirt. A drastic change from his usual 3-piece suit ensemble.
"Training?" He guessed.
"What gave me away?"
"The graveyard of dead punching bags." He answered glancing at my growing pile of stuffing.
"What can I say, they weren't up for the challenge." I shrugged. Waking up always made me jumpy. Fighting was usually the only peace my mind got from unwanted thoughts.

"Would you like a partner that can actually fight back?" he offered.
"Seriously?" I asked raising a brow. I was itching for a real fight, but against Chief, I wasn't too sure.
"What, scared you've lost your touch?" he taunted with a small smile.
I was more scared of permanently damaging that pretty face, but sure.
I covered the distance between us, positioning myself directly in front of him with a smirk.