Project Frostbite

Chapter 2

"We have a few things we'd like to tell you." Jaymee began.

Before Jaymee could say anything else to explain the bombshell she'd just dropped, someone knocked on the door. Kris and Jaymee exchanged looks and gave each other a nod. Kris reached behind him, where the oven was, and pushed down on one of the elements. It popped up to reveal a small compartment underneath, from which he pulled a sleek black gun. My mouth dropped open, but he put a finger to his lips, and I reluctantly let Jaymee pull me out of my chair, pushing me to the back door.

"Mom, what's happening?" I asked as Jaymee shoved a phone and a crisp white envelope in my hands. My mouth dropped open when she dropped the keys to her silver Mercades-Benz into my palm, closing my fingers around them. She never let anyone else drive her baby.

"Look Tryston, everything's going to be alright, but I need you to get as far away from here as possible. Call the number on the contact list, but only that number and no one else." Jaymee rushed out. She kissed both of my cheeks and embraced me tightly. I slowly hugged her back, unsure of what she was doing. "I love you, no matter what. Just remember that Tryston." Jaymee whispered, and I watched, stunned as my mother ran back into the house.

Shaking my head, I quickly pocketed the things I'd been given, and followed Jaymee back into the house to ask for answers, when a bang alerted me. It came from the hallway. It sounded like a gunshot. I ran forward, but quickly skidded to a halt when I saw the top half of Kris lying on the floor, his legs hidden behind the wall. His eyes stared straight at me, yet saw nothing. Blood pooled around his body from the bullet wound in his chest, staining the grey shirt he was wearing. I stared in paralyzed shock. My father was dead.

Hearing Jaymee scream, I hurriedly wiped my tears away and rushed to help my mother. She held a knife in her hand and was engaged in a standoff with a bald man nearly taller than I. The man was dressed in a black suit and red tie, with black gloves covering his hands. He fought with a sickening grace as he dodged and parried against Jaymee, when suddenly she noticed me standing in the doorway.

"Tryston run!" She yelled. Her momentary distraction allowed the man to pull out a sleek silver gun, and he pulled the trigger. I screamed as Jaymee's head snapped sideways and her entangled body hit the ground with a thud. Tears streamed down my face, and the cocking of a gun pulled my attention to the assassin.

The barrel of the gun was pointed directly at my heart.

"Now if you come along quiet, this won't hurt one bit Tryston." The man said quietly, but his voice reverberated around my skull and sent shudders down my spine. This man was not good. I took a step back.

"How the hell do you know my name?" I shouted, taking another step back. The gun was still pointed straight at my heart, which was threatening to break out of my ribs. "Who the hell are you? Why did you kill my parents?" Tears streamed down my face as my voice cracked. The hitman gave away nothing, watching me with a stoic face bare of any emotion. It was one I had seen Kris wear many a time, but this one was not fake.

"How I know these things is not important. However, considering you're going to be dead in a few seconds, it won't matter. They're not your parents." Time stopped. I blinked and stuttered.

"N-no, no you're lying!"

"It's true. Kris and Jaymee Waters are undercover CIA agents who've played parent for the last seventeen years of your life." The hitman explained, before he smirked. "But that doesn't matter anymore." He aimed the gun and his finger pulled the trigger.

They say that everyone has a three-second period in which they react, or they don't. I don't know what they call it. It has so many names. The knack, instinct. It happens when our fight or flight instinct kicks in.

I didn't think. Instinctively, I raised my hands palm out to shield my face, and waited for the bullet to tear through flesh. Nothing happened. Slowly, I lowered my hands just a tad, and what I saw shocked me. The bullet hovered just inches from my palms. I could see every curve, indent and engraving on the silver metal. It was melting. The sharpened tip melted away to nothing, and a clear liquid began to evaporate from inside it, until the bullet was no more than a silver puddle on the floor.

Gasping, I took a step back and looked at my wrists. The main veins running into my hands were no longer the faint indigo-blue color they should be. They were the same color they were that day: a bright neon orange. My hands were red, and heatwaves rose from them, fanning my face. I looked up at the man, who still had the gun raised at me. I jumped and held my hands up. Flames shot out of them like a flame-thrower, sending the man flying back into the hall. I screamed and moved my hands, trying to stop the fire. It only spread.

Catching onto the curtains, the fire licked the walls and moved across the floor like a snake, sneaking into the kitchen where the gas stoves were. My eyes widened and I ran for the giant glass window. As I leapt I curled into a ball, protecting my head as well as I could as the glass shattered upon contact.