Never in her life was Ingvild so sorry for not taking a boy's number.
"CIA...? Really?" she hums, reading through the file with a silent storm raging in her mind. The acrid taste of failure stings in her throat and she swallows to ease down the bile. What are the odds that a target would walk into the ladies room just when she happens to be there, and then later come to sit and attempt to flirt his way into her bed?
'I could have taken him home and finish him right there...'
Having such a limited range of emotions, it doesn't take much to remain stoic, though she can still feel her blood seething. Disappointment digs its nasty claws hard in whatever it is that beats in her chest.
She knew right away there was something off about that man. He didn't resemble a 'Luke', and even though August Walker is an unfortunate, porn-star-generator type of a name, it sure sounds more suitable and a perfect fit for a guy who works around with a ridiculous 1970's 'stache.
His physic tells of a man who not only works out but who is also trained in professional combat and martial arts, which should have made her question his story about being robbed, but she was too busy toying with him for no good reason.
Now she will have to work harder.
"Requested by Erica Sloane herself," Liam states.
"Her majesty the queen? I guess they really are in deep shit if they contacted 'Icarus' to do the job for them." Ingvild's eyes scan through the file, gathering every bit of information. It seems like up until 4 days ago, August Walker was cleaner than a hand sanitiser with not even a speck on his record; an outstanding operative assassin, 12 years in the CIA with every mission performed with remarkable success.
Turns out, this whole time Erica's "number one", was the leader of a terrorist organisation known "The Apostles."
"My, my, what an impressive man. Do you think they call him 'the hammer' because of his sexual nature?" Ingvild teases, looking at Liam with a playful smirk.
He rolls his eyes again and shakes his head. "What's wrong with you?"
Ingvild turns the file at him and points at August's photo.
"Wouldn't you fuck him, Liam?"
"No," the old man answers coldly, looking at her thoroughly unamused and unphased by her behaviour.
'Child's acting out again...' He muses, easily analysing her behaviour; thirsty for attention which he would never give anyway. Her silver eyes rounding up and peering at him as if he's the father figure he was never willing to be.
"If the IMF was able to stop him, you and I wouldn't be sitting here having a nice chat," he explains while disregarding her games. "He had two nuclear bombs ready to be detonated in Kashmir."
A loud snort release from her nose, making the few people at the diner turn their head and glance at them oddly.
"IMF!? I thought you said this guy was dangerous."
"He's an anarchist and a part of a guild, so I'd take this more seriously and be careful if I were you," he warns, observing the young woman as she continues rummaging through the file with great interest. "He is their leader, wrote some manifesto or something."
"Strange, it's not in the file, this manifesto."
Reading the file meticulously, she memorizes every detail: his height, weight, eye colour, skill sets, and the languages he speaks. 'Motherfucker pretended he doesn't understand Norwegian!"
It doesn't take a genius to understand that August simply wanted to use her as an angle to plot his escape; someone he can exploit for a place to stay, and get his dick wet on the way. Ingvild fumes at the thought. Usually, she doesn't care if her targets suffer too much, but this time she will make sure to make an extra effort when taking this man down.
"Ingi," Liam calls, interrupting her train of thoughts. The girl lowers the file to her nose, peering at the ageing assassin. "You are not the only one on this job, get it?"
"There will be others," she nods in acknowledgement.
This only makes the sting of failure burn hotter. To think she had him right there in the base of her palm and let him get away.
"August Walker is wanted by every organization in the world right now - Mossad, FBI, CIA, MI6, Interpol, even fucking Scotland Yard. And the price is high, so you better watch your back out there and get him first." His hazel eyes glint with the closest thing to care she ever saw in them.
Granting him one of her obviously fake smirks, she shrugs. "You know me, Liam, I'm a professional, I get the job done."
That's actually the only thing he can say about her that's true. The child may be the devil's bride but despite her psychotic tendencies, she is organised, meticulous, and savvy. She'd spend weeks tracking down a target without being detected and would take them down in seconds without anyone ever knowing she was there.
After a long silent stare, the old man nods and then takes 1000 Norwegian krone in cash from his jacket. "To get you started," he speaks and gets up from his chair.
"Bye, Papa," she provokes, eliciting a disgusted grunt from his mouth as he exits the diner.
Her pale eyes track the old man through the window, watching him drive away before she breaks into a sigh and mutters some profanities. The young cashier and the patrons gawk at her, baffled.
"Faen! Faen! Faen!"
Icy wrath paints her face as she marches outside. Agent Walker is probably in Bergen by now, he has at least an hour ahead of her and a man like him who managed to hide beneath the CIA's nose for such a long time will probably go underground soon. There's a very limited time window for success.
Failure is not an option.
The gas station's parking lot seems abandoned at this time, crows crackle in mockery while the young woman storms onto the crunchy gravel in search of her bike. Strange. She is not one to ever forget where she parked and she is 100% convinced she left it right next to the street lamp, and yet it's nowhere to be seen, almost as if it was...
"Motherfucker!!!!!"
~*~
A deep, long, lingering groan escapes his throat. Beaten and aching, his large, naked body sinks into the hot bathwater and he immediately shuts his eyes. His voice is raspy and low as he curses in a mixture of pain and relief.
"F....u........c....k...."
It's not long before the foam becomes pink from the blood staining the water.
Leaning his head back, August stares at the tiny soap bubbles as slowly they dissolve into nothing.
'Quite the metaphor,' he muses with drowsy eyes, wondering how many more moments of serenity like this will he be eligible to. The young woman at the reception downstairs was yet to recognise him. She was slightly uncomfortable by his dishevelled looks, eyeing him with concern, but he paid by cash to which she kindly smiled and kept her mouth shut.
Mindful, he presses his fingers to his temples, massaging gently at the mental pain that crowds his head. Over and over, he tries to figure how on earth did he manage to end up like this; stripped from all his victories, bent and empty-handed.
At one point he didn't care about his title, his seniority, and rank. He wore fancy suits, owned a luxurious coffee machine, and fucked models. Always flew business, stayed at the presidential suites, and had the fanciest of delights a man could dream of.
On the outside, August Walker was the cover of some gentlemen's lifestyle magazine.
But on the inside -spew the black poison, thick as tar.
Nights were spent sitting in his briefs next to a computer. In zeal, he composed his manifesto, lurking underneath the penumbra with hunger sparking his eyes. All that sweat, all that labour for the of birth his philosophy.
All he needed to do was click the execute button and his virus would spread into the dark web, infecting hundreds of cells in minutes. It was only a matter of time until he gained followers - his apostles. To them, he was John Lark, a suitable pseudonym, as he would be the daybreak the world needed.
'Might as well be the bringer of light.'
It wasn't about hate, revenge, or villainy. It was always about justice.
Exhaustion slowly pulls him under its unfaithful blanket, making his eyelids blink close. After few days of skipping sleep and a serious beating, his body begins to catch up on him. Groaning, he lets his head back, and massages the side of his torso, feeling the cracked bone beneath his skin before drifting into a reverie.
But sleep offers no rest tonight, as in his dream he sees the woman that left aeons ago, so long he almost forgot about her ever existing. Yet, here she is, standing with her back facing him. Bewildered by her sight, August reaches out to stroke her golden hair but the moment his fingertips touch the shimmering locks the hair withers from her skull, remaining tangled, gory his hand.
"All of this for nothing," she speaks with disappointment.
Furious, he turns her toward him, but her once green eyes are now dark hollow pits.
Dirty bathwater splashes all over the tiled floor as August wakes with a gasp. It was just a dream. Thankfully. And why should she care about her anyway? He had thousands of women to warm his bed after her.
Wiping his face, he takes a deep breath and steps out of the bath.
Stacks of money cover his bed. The CIA wasn't smart enough to figure out the aliases and different bank accounts he methodically scattered all over the world, allowing him the luxury of withdrawing enough cash to get by.
The funniest thing about it is that this is basically their money, obtained via trading and dealing dirty little secrets. For years August fucked the government down its throat and no one had a clue.
Serves them right.
The system was rotten to its core, whatever shard of belief August had was lost a decade ago.
'Back then, ha? When you lost your humanity...'
August kneels by the bed and shoves the money below the mattress. Tomorrow, he will purchase some real clothes, a new mobile device, and a laptop. Then, he must figure out his next steps. There is no way of contacting the Apostles other than posting a message on their dark web server, the one he created.
Operation "New Order" is still a go, now more than ever. The blueprints are still in his grasp and his followers remain devoted.
All that's left is to get a hold of plutonium.
Acknowledging the long day that awaits him he growls and slumps onto the bed. "I hate shopping," he mutters before a long, dreamless sleep steals him away.
~*~
It took nearly 3 hours to get home, having to hitchhike with perverts and walk along the rural sideroads for most of the path to Bergen. After figuring out that August stole her motorcycle, she called Liam right away, but to her not-so-great surprise, the older man just laughed at her coldly and hung up.
Liam's life philosophy is that asking for assistance is for the weak. A woman as strong and independent as Ingvild should be able to find her own way back home. It's also a form of punishment letting her know the stolen motorcycle is nothing but her fault.
'Mistakes get you killed, little Ingi.'
Walking into her apartment, she throws her little backpack on the floor and slams the door shut.
"Honey, I'm home," she screams into the house, pretending to wait for someone to call back but naturally her voice reverberates between the empty corridors until it dies out with a soft buzzing hum.
Liam is right, she gathers, it was sort of her fault, but for different reasons. If she allowed August to toy with her, she wouldn't be in this little predicament and would have broken some sort of record for the fastest execution ever known to man (and woman).
She also wouldn't need to shop for a new motorcycle.
"I hate shopping," she sighs, walking toward the living room and kneeling in front of the green IKEA sofa. Above the sofa hangs a pink neon sign, spelling: "I wish I knew you."
Liam once visited her apartment to hand in payment for one of her successful missions. He praised her for having the worst taste in decoration he'd ever seen. Truth is, Ingvild cared very little for home decor. Everything she had in her apartment, from the vanilla-scented candles, the golden polygons plant holders, to the white IKEA furniture, she picked out of pure sarcasm.
But keeping these to spite Liam was rather entertaining.
Pulling out the linen storage placed at the bottom half of the sofa, she exposes a stock of guns, knives, ammunition, and various equipment. If August Walker is in Bergen, this can still be a quick and clean elimination. After chewing her bottom lip for a brief moment, her hand fishes a 9MM and a silencer.
An intimate kill. If he was ready to fuck her in the little girls' room, she figures a stupid man like that will let her get close enough.
'They always do.'
Taking the weapons in her hands, she walks to get her backpack and carries it toward the bedroom. When she rented the apartment, the walls in the bedroom were pink, and being so amused by it she decided to keep it the way it is. There was something amusing about murdering people in her day to day while going to sleep in a room suitable to a Disney princess.
Ingvild places the gun on the white wooden vanity and grabs the file from her backpack.
"August. Walker."
The name slips between her lips slowly as she grabs the photo from the dossier and tucks it behind the mirror's frame. She stares at him while attaching the muzzle to the handgun. He looks so different with hair combed to the side, a tie and a suit yet his glare is fierce, just like she remembered.
"Won't help you now, August Walker."
After finishing preparing the gun, she reaches for the upper drawer and picks a tube of red lipstick. The only time she ever wore it was for a job is when she needed to play a role and look a certain way. Otherwise there never really was a need for her to put on pretty make, it's not like anyone ever invites her anywhere.
Ingvild paints her lips slowly, letting the colour define her lips. She then leans toward August's photo and plants a long, deep kiss on his cheek.