Falling for the Enemy || Captain America || Book 1

Chapter 1: Bingo Was His Namo

EDITED :)

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          Breaths are ragged. Sweat trickles down like a gentle dewdrop. Lips cracked. Throat dry. Heart thumping like a stampede of wildebeest in my chest. This is worse than dodgeball back in high school. No matter what, you always get freaking hit. Because you know how you secretly make that deal with some of the members of the other team, then all of a sudden they stab you in the back by pegging one of those mother hugging red balls at your face? That is the worst kind of betrayal out there. Besides someone taking your last cookie. That just condemns them to the deepest pits of hell.

           "We've got eyes on the target. She's within the apartment building on Baker Street, I repeat, the Nightingale is in the apartment building on Baker Street."

          Tapping into SHIELD's radio frequency works wonders.

          I lurch from the room and out the window, landing on the rusty fire escape on the side of the building. Leaping over the side, I hang myself from the railing and allow myself to drop to the next level, gripping the railing below and continuing to repeat myself until I've reached the damp and isolated alleyway.

          Of course you had to choose being an assassin Lilly, I mean, being a librarian? A teacher? An engineer? Boring. Sure, none of those professions end up with you having to watch your back every second so SHIELD doesn't pounce on your ass, but in the end, is that really a plausible enough reason to not reach for the stars and accomplish your dreams of murder and deplorable crime? One of the perks is getting full price off happy meals at McDonalds if they know who you are, and lucky for me, the news happens to love hearing about their darling assassin known as the Nightingale.

          Darting back and forth, light on my toes, I round corners until I've reached an open street, eyes wildly skimming the area for my Lamborghini. Well.... perhaps the term 'mine' is a little inaccurate.... primarily because I stole it. If the word 'stole' makes you feel uncomfortable, I could use 'permanently borrowed' should it better suit your interest.

          My feet have taken full jurisdiction of my actions, guiding me in a full out sprint toward the red beauty of a car. Fumbling with the keys for but a moment, I unlock the car and slide inside, stammering to get them into the ignition gear. When the sound of the engine roaring like lion reaches my ears, a satisfied smirk curls at my lips, however, it remains short-lived when a good twenty or so SHIELD agents burst out of the building I was previously occupying. Standing at the front remains my two most loyal, trustworthy, compassionate, kind, forgiving friends-

          Hahaha na, I'm just kidding.

          Standing at the front Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton appear beyond frustrated, the red head's face as red as her hair. Evidently, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed....

          More specifically, Low-rent Daryl Dixon's bed.

          My foot tramples down on the accelerator without a second thought, the engine roaring once more as the Lamborghini struggles to tear it's way down the street through all the bustling traffic, gunshots fading the further away I get.

          I don't relax once they're out of sight. No, that would be stupid. Never underestimate an enemy, no matter how small or large a threat they may appear to pose.

          Normally, this should be the time where someone would feel secure now, having reached the Golden Gate Bridge with limitless civilians surrounding you, no matter the foul language some may care to share. Honestly, some of them sound like New Yorkers. That's coming from someone who has lived a fair few years in said state as well.