Trust me

Holy crap. He died

I hated surprises. I hate the way adrenaline pumps through your veins even when you don't want them too. I hate hate hate it when that surprise hits you in the gut. It's the most annoying thing in the world.

I storm into my father's office. Or what's now my father's office. It was once Supreme Commander Musa Ibrahim's office. But since he's dead and his children haven't come to claim it my father has taken control of Asia. As he rightfully should. He was smarter than Musa anyways. In a lot of ways. Musa was a weak man in my opinion and I didn't feel one bit of remorse when I heard he died I did feel a stab of sympathy for Nazeera and Haider. But that's really it.

As I storm into the polished office I notice something...strange. My father for once isn't looking his usual brooding and intense self . He looks...almost shocked. What was so bad that it would shock my father the rightful Supreme Commander of Asia. He sits in his leather brown chair, his right hand holding a cigarette so tightly it was probably on half in his hand. His left hand was fisted while his jaw worked. His green eyes looked down at the letter that was on his table.

"I'm here. What is it that you need?" I say as I enter. I keep my voice steady and my chin held high as I walk on the fancy carpet that leads to the big wooden desk. The desk looks like it could be out of a movie, with the polished design and the little details in the carvings. My black heels click as I come to a stop. The long backing of my dress stops, brushing my legs lightly. I watch as my father slowly, very very slowly, looks up at me with those emerald green eyes. The ones he passed down to me.

It took him a long time to speak. He tried once. Twice. Finally he was able too.

"Paris Anderson was killed."

It took me five seconds for those words to register. Paris Anderson. Supreme Commander of North America. Dead. Shot? Assasined? No. For once in my damn life I'm speechless. Growing up father would talk about the Supreme Commander of North America. About how my father thought that Anderson alone, could change the world. He told tales about him. Sounding like Anderson was a hero. Sometimes my father would talk to him and they were good friends. Somehow. Even if father wasn't the Supreme Commander then.

"That's impossible," were all the words that came out of my mouth. I stared straight at my father. Our eyes locking for an eternity before he slammed his fist down onto the table. I didn't flinch this time.

"Paris. Anderson died. He fucking died somehow and I didn't get this letter till this week. He died months or weeks ago I have no clue but somebody killed him," my father snarled. "Some stupid minded, idiotic, and psychopathic person killed the Supreme Commander of North America."

I waited. Watching as my father snarked and shouted in this very tiny room. I closed my hands tightly behind my back, watching quietly as finally he settled down. He looked me in the eye, his mouth honking a hateful sneer.

"Was it his son? Aaron Anderson?" He growled out.

"Aaron Warner Anderson," I couldn't help but correct. Aaron Warner Anderson. A rather annoying man who's only emotion in life is fuck you. Whenever my father would meet with Paris Aaron would sometimes be around and I didn't even try to talk to him anymore after I turned 10. At first I was delusional. Thinking that it was because I was too talkative so I tried just hanging out with him. That didn't work. Even as he was younger he was already a little messed up in the head. He would ramble nonsense when his father wouldn't hear. But as he got older, hell he was a handful. But Lena could have that bastard. Hell I'd throw him to her if he wouldn't try and stab me first.

"Whatever I don't care," my father waved a dismissive hand but I could see all the hatred under his eyes. He's never tolerated Aaron's lack of social skills. My father taught me and my brother the skills we needed to charm anyone. Taught us how to be polite even if we wanted to throw them out the window. Which my brother did but we won't talk about that. But he never tolerated Aaron's lack of...well emotion. So now if Aaron did kill his father...oh my father would send a missile straight to that emotionless boys heart. And I wouldn't give a single tear. Ok maybe a shudder but nothing too much. I'm not heartless.

"My task for you, my sweet, violent little thing," my father cooed. I straightened, waiting. "Your job is to go over to North America and find out how the hell Paris died," my father hissed.

My heart stopped. My blood ran cold. My hands slackened. My hole soul shattered. I put myself back together quickly before I opened my mouth. I tried, one, two, three times to speak. I couldn't. I coughed then tried. Still couldn't. Is my father freaking crazy?! Sending me over there. Just for Aaron Warner Anderson. Just to see is Andersons son killed him.

"Why can't you send Natasha over there?" I asked stupidly. Natasha. My best friend and one of the best fighters in Asia. I looked at my father who was now standing, his hands gripping the same cigarette as he stalked over to me. When he stopped in front of me I looked up. My dark locks of long black hair fell over my back as I stared up at my father.

"Because when it comes down to the kill. I know that you'd do it without a second thought," his grin was outright terrifying. It didn't surprise me that he was certain that Aaron killed his father. And it didn't surprise me that he thought I would do it. I would. I would shoot whoever killed Anderson in a second. But what did surprise me was the timing.

"You want me to kill whoever killed Anderson now? Why not wait till they've settled and think everything is ok then do it?" I ask, watching as my father's grin spread to a whole new level. A level of evil he tried to train me and my brother in. One of us passed it.

"Because when prey are weak they look out to others for help. Whether they like it or not. They expose themselves sometimes without thinking. Then when they least expect it. The predator strikes," my father whispered in my ear.