A/N-Thanks for the support on this book! It's what made this early update happen :)
~~~
Tusca, West Artena
1500 hours
Luke bolted up from his sleep, cold sweat running down his body.
He sighed in relief when he found himself on his bed in his room. It was just a nightmare.
The sink's water was warm and soothing when he splashed it onto his face. But even it couldn't hide the truth:
No. It was not a nightmare. The Agency had tried to hide it for nine years.
That he was working for the people who killed his family.
However, that wasn't the worst thing that had happened to him. Not even in the top hundred.
And, in a bit, not even the top thousand.
"Royal One, please report to your handler. Royal One, please report." The order came from the speaker installed in his room, given by a monotonous voice.
Luke sighed; it was time to get ready.
It took him five minutes. Granted, slipping on a short-sleeved shirt and shorts for the temperate weather didn't take that long, but Luke might've taken his time. It was his way of rebelling.
He slipped out of the metal-reinforced door of his room—and was immediately blinded by sunlight.
For a secret agency tasked with the mission of ending the deadly war between West and East Artema with a victory, the Deployed Armed Agency was headquartered in an exciting building.
It was a facility whose outer walls were created entirely of glass.
As Luke walked through the hallways, he could see outside onto the campus lawn. A surprising amount of agents—numbering in the dozens—were playing soccer outside. Luke felt the urge to join in but reminded himself he was needed.
Even though the agents outside were less than one percent of the workforce, the interior of the Agency building was surprisingly vacant. He only bumped into three people on the five-minute trip to his destination.
"Sorry," he had muttered each time—he wasn't exactly the best at getting out of people's way.
The third person had it the worst: Luke'd just quickened his pace and turned the corner—right into a man carrying a bunch of documents. Manilla folders and papers went everywhere, a perfectionist's worst nightmare.
Luke was right there, grabbing papers and smoothening out their creases. "I'm so sorry. I was just in such a hurry. I'll make sure this doesn't happen again—!"
"Luke?" the man groaned, rubbing his head where they'd made contact.
When the two recognized each other, they heaved a big sigh of relief simultaneously. Then they burst out laughing.
"Mr. Adiola!" Luke exclaimed. "Thank God it's you! I thought you were a big executive—"
"That was going to beat you to a pulp?" the man finished. He gave Luke a piercing gaze. "Don't think I'll go any easier on you than them, boy. You better clean your mess up."
They both knew that he was anything but intimidating, however. The man's brown eyes were hidden under a pair of thick eyeglasses. He always had this habit of brushing his hair back to break eye contact during conversations. And whenever he was stressed, he ate. A lot. The beginning of a potbelly poked out of his button-up shirt, as if even it were afraid of being prominent. Furthermore, Mr. Adiola was a family friend—and the man had saved his life when he was an infant.
Their relationship blossomed even further after that life-altering event, and the man became Luke's father figure of sorts. He worked in the same complex as Luke. And even though Luke was a spy and Mr. Adiola a "mere accountant" for the company, they managed to somehow meet every single day.
Like now.
"Did you give my proposition any thought?" the man asked as Luke handed him the documents he'd spilled, now in a neat stack.
"Don't you think it's a bit . . . extreme?"
Mr. Adiola's grimace was dark. "Luke, my boy, there's nothing more extreme than"—He looked around furtively, making sure no one was eavesdropping—"this compound."
"I know, I know. You're just trying to do the best for me."
"Just . . . think about it. That's all I ask." Mr. Adiola's gaze softened. "And—"
"Royal One, report to your handler. Royal One." The voice that came over the PA system seemed pretty annoyed.
"I gotta go," Luke said, relieved at the distraction. "Before they send the SWAT team after me."
They both knew he wasn't joking.
"Just in case," Mr. Adiola told him, then pressed something into his hand. "It's always there."
Luke nodded, and Mr. Adiola hurried away without a look back. As the click-clack of his dress shoes faded away, the boy turned for the stairs, wrapped deep in thought.
The "proposition" Mr. Adiola was talking about was a desperate plan. A last-ditch effort that would destroy everything Luke'd built for the past nine years. It's such a bad path to take . . .
Then why did Luke have to force himself to push the object into his pocket before he used it?
Luke climbed the last flight of stairs and found himself in a hallway. Even one who had never been in the Agency building could tell it was an impressive hallway for special people, complete with red carpet, chandeliers, and pots of roses on tables that seemed to be swapped out every day. He opened the rightmost door and slipped into the room.
"Ah, Luke," a pleased voice greeted him. "It's good to see you. How do you like my space? I told the Agency to renovate it just for you."
The woman talking was seated behind the mahogany desk centered in the room. She looked to be around fifteen—Luke's age. Her blue eyes were filled with intelligence, while luscious locks of red hair fell to her shoulders.
Alerted by her question, Luke looked around: The far wall was glass as always, revealing the flawless beauty of the Agency grounds; both side walls were symmetrical still, with wooden cabinets running down and surveillance maps plastered on any viable space above; and the two plants in marble vases were still flanking the desk. The only difference from the last time he was here was the teen's computer—and even that looked like she'd just sprung for the latest model.
"Er . . . the renovation looks amazing," Liam lied. "It lets a lot more . . . light in."
Scarlett Livingston was a prodigy of the Agency, the only seventeen-year-old to date to be given the important job of an " agent handler." Coupled with this, the gorgeous teenager was the collective crush of every young male teenage agent—and there were many.
Scarlett pursed her lips as if she didn't believe him, though she let it slide. "I'm glad you like it. But you don't have much more time to admire it."
"Another mission? I went on one this morning."
"Pity I wasn't there to see you off. It was a bit too early for me."
"What about Royal Two?" Luke asked. He didn't want to go.
"She's on a mission, as is Royal Three, Royal Four . . . up to Royal Ten. We've got plenty of missions undergo today. And if it gets diluted further than that, I think you know better than me that the agent has less chance of a return."
The "Royals" were the Agency's ace—or more specifically, aces—up their sleeve. They had been through the same hellish four-year training that was hugging the line of violating human rights. He considered his fellow trainees as brothers and sisters.
Luke, being Royal One, the commander of the unit, was authorized to assign any other Royal on his mission if he deemed it fair. But given his ideals, he would never risk one of his agents for his comfort.
So when Scarlett reminded him of this, he involuntarily gritted his teeth. "Fine. What's the mission?"
The dazzling smile he got in return made his heart skip a beat. "It's not that hard for the likes of you. If you finish it quickly, there might be time to go on a date afterward." Scarlett winked.
Luke huffed as he snatched the file containing the specifics of the mission from her hand, though he couldn't hide his smile at her bold words.
For Scarlett wasn't just his handler . . .
. . . but his girlfriend.
"You better have a place booked by the time I return," Liam warned playfully. And then he vanished.
Little did they both know that he wouldn't be coming back.
~~~
At the border of West and Central Artema
1800 hours
The man collapsed at Luke's steel-toed shoes. "Please! I'll do anything! Just don't burn down my factory! It's all I have left!" he pleaded.
"You should have thought about that before providing intel to East Artenian forces," Luke said, gripping his rifle tightly.
The man was silent.
A voice came over his radio. It was Scarlett, who seemed to be listening. "Is that true, Luke? You've already started destroying the factory?"
Waving smoke from his face, Luke confirmed, "Yes, Ma'am. Though I don't see a gas mask anywhere in my gear."
"I thought you would burn the building after you got out of it," Scarlett grumbled. "But it doesn't matter. You have to complete the job faster. Kill that pathetic man and get out of there."
"What?"
Scarlett kept on going as though she didn't hear him. "I've already dispatched an ambulance to your location. They'll check for respiratory irritation . . ."
"Hold on. The mission entailed interrogating the man." Luke walked to a nearby window and peered through it. The outer walls of the factory had caught on fire, courtesy of his supporting squadmates.
"What did you think would happen to him afterward?" Scarlett asked drily.
"We would let him go?" Luke tried.
"No loose ends, remember? When we leave someone alive, they'll blab everything to East Artema."
"That might be true . . . but I didn't interrogate him yet."
"If he didn't say anything when Cat, Jaguar, and Panther exited the building with blowtorches and gasoline cans, he's not gonna crack ever."
Behind him, Luke heard the distinct sound of someone running away. He found the room empty when he spun around.
To the right, the man slipped out of a door. It was apparent he wasn't going to give up. Luke cursed under his breath and then followed.
"What's happening?" Scarlett asked as Liam exited the room.
"Nothing," Liam lied.
A groan reverberated from the radio. "He escaped, didn't he?"
"It doesn't matter. I'll catch him again."
"Luke," Scarlett sighed. "I've been waving it off because I didn't want you to get in trouble, but this is the last straw. When will you focus on the mission at hand?"
"I'm sorry. I'll try harder now." The words slipped out of his mouth automatically as he speed-walked through the ruined hallway; the doors were scorched black, and the smell of burnt something permeated through the air. A thin layer of soot was covering the ripped carpet.
There was a trail of footsteps leading to the last door of the hallway.
"That's the fifth time you've said that!" Scarlett exclaimed. "I need results, not promises."
"You will get results," Liam promised, striding up to the door, "now give me a second."
"What are you going to do—?" She didn't get to finish her sentence.
Bang!
There was a loud noise as Liam kicked open the door. He raised his rifle, alert for any threats that might attack him . . .
A boy less than five years old was staring back at him. Lincoln Burnes, the factory owner who'd run away from him, was hugging the boy, but Luke was so shocked that he barely noticed him.
The boy shouldn't be here, Luke thought as he lowered his rifle.
Not just because he was too young; his squadmates, professional assassins, had thoroughly swept through the building. They couldn't—they wouldn't—have missed a living being in the factory.
Unless they were ordered to.
Luke suddenly understood what was going on.
"P-please don't k-kill us!" Burnes pleaded.
"Kill them." Scarlett's voice was stony.
Luke just locked gazes with the boy. His blue eyes shone with innocence as if he had no idea how much danger he was in. Finally, Luke spoke. "Scarlett, do you know how I became Royal One?"
"I don't know how this is important to your mission. Carbon dioxide levels are approaching thirty-thousand parts per million . . . "
"Answer me now."
"I don't know—is it because you're the strongest?"
"If we were judged based on that alone, Royal Three would've taken my spot long ago," Luke countered. "It's a pity my girlfriend doesn't know this well-known fact about me."
"You're not in the right mind. Let's talk later."
There won't be a later, Luke thought. You'll make sure of it.
"I may not be the best at aiming a gun or fighting unarmed," Luke continued, "but I was chosen for my ingeniousness. You need brains to lead a squad."
"What are you on about? You can brag to me later. Carbon dioxide levels are up to thirty-five thousand parts per million. You're three minutes from suffocating to death."
Luke was undoubtedly feeling lightheaded, but that just seemed to boost his confidence. "Where did you find my squadmates?"
"They were available. So I pulled them out to help you." Scarlett huffed. "Though you don't seem appreciative."
"I didn't see any agents in the Agency building, and you told me there weren't any other agents that could take this mission." His mind was whirling. "They wouldn't abandon their original mission to burn a factory. That only leaves personal favor. And strong persuasion."
"Luke. Kill him and run. Otherwise, I will have no choice but to send you back to Royal boot camp." Her voice had changed. It was no longer the caring tone he was used to but cold as a winter day.
From the hallway came the sound of footsteps hurrying. Luke figured Scarlett had called for his squadmates to take control of the situation.
"You used our relationship to further your fame," Luke guessed.
"Of course!" Scarlett agreed, as if relieved that her ploy had been found out. "You're only good for completing missions. Who would sincerely love you?"
Who would love you? The words reverberated through his brain like shards of ice, stabbing through his happy memories. A dark fog slowly enveloped his brain like a curtain.
"As of now, Luke Jenson, you are under arrest and stripped of your Royal status," Scarlett droned with no emotion. "Please put down your weapons. If you resist, we will resort to force."
Luke's grip on his rifle tightened. He knew what to do.
The factory owner tensed with every step Luke took towards them, while the boy seemed to grow intrigued.
Luke kneeled in front of the kid. "You won't realize this until you grow up, but you just saved your father. Take good care of him."
And then a shot rang out.