Story: The Trust Theory
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Chapter 1: Captured Quarry
Riley’s POV:
Pt.1
I was comfortably leaning against my counter sipping my favorite latté as I stared out a window that gave off a radiant view of a stunning drenched morning. It’s been raining pretty hard since last night and even now it still hasn’t let up. I remember thinking to myself I’d hate to be caught in that. I lightly pushed myself up off the counter to right myself. I set the cup on the counter and slowly stretched my long arms in the air leaning my head back enjoying the comforting motion. I put my arms back to my sides and quickly smooth out the bottom of my shirt to cover my flat tummy. I leisurely strolled to the front door and opened it. All at once the aroma of rain dew and flowers hit me and I deeply drew in the smell releasing the unsullied air in a smooth exhale.
My front deck had a roof over it and a nice little swing so it was the ideal place to relax and think about things.
XXX
I sat on my swing with one leg drawn to my chest and the other on the railing pushing me back and forth with every extension of my lightly tinted russet leg. The pitter patter of the rainfall kept a southing rhythm as it seemed to dance with the green blades of grass and vividly colored flowers that made up my endless property. I closed my eyes reaching my hand upward to play with a strand of hair at the side of my temples.
Peaceful.
Peaceful was the only word that seemed to make since of this flawless moment and I couldn’t help but lightly nod in agreement at the thought. A buzz broke through the peace like a dagger and I quickly opened my eyes displeased by the disrupted tranquility. I leaned my back against the body of the swing turning my head to the door and quietly listened as the humming vibrations continued. My work phone, I thought to myself. I swiftly got off the comfy swing which was if not just a little saddening. I opened the door and went in my house and proceeded back into the large kitchen to spot the buzzing phone on the large oak table. It was at the very edge of the wooden table…the vibrations pushing it closer to the verge that would more than likely involve me paying endless payments for a new replacement phone. At the very last moment my body ran on instincts and quickly jerked forward like a baseball ball player using every bodily function to catch the ball that would insure an astounding victory. I caught the phone just before it hit the ground. I let out a heavy sigh when I realized I was holding my breath. I was now on the ground; one knee firmly planted on the marble floor, my other leg outstretched keeping me balanced, one hand held the still vibrating phone while the other was placed flatly on the floor. I relaxed my tense body and curled up before sitting with my legs crossed on the cool floor. I looked at the screen perplexed by what the caller ID said.
Unknown Number.
It only took me a milli-second to remember who liked to keep their number unidentified even when talking too trusted individuals; black ops. Like I mentioned before I have two different phones; this phone involves my business. I receive requests to go on missions, assassinations even a few hits here and there. I get these requests from random top secret organizations. My other phone is nothing more than to keep track of my personal life with friends and family. Which by the way isn’t exactly all too great; this hectic life that I’m living can be very demanding so I’m always busy with someone or something. I’m slowly starting to lose friends and my parents are starting to become skeptical on what I really am doing with my life. I never told them what I do…I lied and told them I got an offer for a well worth it medical profession up here in Minnesota. I already know they would greatly disapprove of my passion so I never told them. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them by explaining their star kid is not really what they think she is. Ha; and if you think my personal life is bad don’t even get me started on my romance life.
I flipped the phone open and brought the phone to my ear. I already know what they were calling for though every task was different all were life threatening. This is actually the first time I received an appeal from the black ops. I quit the black ops almost going on seven months now. Once I moved here I made it clear to not only them but many other top secret organizations that I would be taking request willingly but after seven long months of no word from the black ops I thought they completely discommunicated me from all restricted programs. They obviously are in quite of a bind if they are asking for my help; the girl that decided she could do way better off without the all mighty black ops. I hope you also note the deep sarcasm lining my voice.
I pursed me lips not really sure on how to respond. *Perky voice: Hey! Yeah…sooo…how’s it goooing?* I frowned at the words that popped unexpectedly into my conscious. It was a good thing they spoke up first saving me the hassle of replying first.
“Bonjour êtes-vous Riley (Hello is this Riley),” Said a female voice.
“Oui c'est elle (This is she),” I replied back quite pleased that learning multiply languages wasn’t a waste of time after all.
“Quel est votre ancien code et le numéro de (What is your former code and number),” She asked.
Every black ops and ex-black ops personnel has a code and serial number they are assigned to. It was just something to make sure that they knew you weren’t lying when you claimed who you were. Hm…to put it in a way you’d understand it’s like to get into a private club you had to know the secret password so the bouncers knew you were one of them and not a nosy cop.
“Mon code est 78263 et mon numéro est 17836 (My code is 78263 and my number is 19056),” I clearly said.
There was a long pause over the phone as I waited for her to confirm my information. While I waited I took the time to get back on my feet and walk over to the latté I seemed to have disregarded. I grabbed the cub and tossed whatever contents down the drain and hastily shoved it in the dishwasher. I faintly grimaced at the fact that my dishwasher besides the purple coffee cup was empty. I don’t really get time to relax in the confines of my home for too long before I’m rushed to another operation. So I guess you could say my home feels like more of a one week get away hotel that I barely get a chance to use.
“Classement confirmé, Eden Riley ancien vétéran de Black Ops (Classification confirmed, Riley Eden former black ops veteran),” She said as I closed the dishwasher.
I vaguely nodded my head.
“Quelle est la mission? (What is the mission?),” I said quickly and to the point.
“Il y aura un plan pour vous rendre à votre destination, dont les coordonnées DB 784 à 7:00 forte. Sur votre chemin, il ya quelqu'un va expliquer votre tâche. (There will be a plane to take you to your destination at the coordinates LB 384 at 7:00 P.M. sharp. On your way there someone will explain your task.),” She responded.
I looked up at the clock that read 5:56 just as she began to explain something about weapons and clothing will be provided.
“Je serai là (I’ll be there),” I said hanging up.
I set the phone on the counter and I nervously ran a hand threw my short auburn hair. My last mission was a month ago and it didn’t exactly go as planned. Majority of my allies I was partnered with were killed leaving me and an old comrade left. I and he singlehandedly overpowered the opposing forces. Just when I was about to kill the main man my so called friend stabbed me in the back. It turned out he worked for the enemy and was a hired spy sent undercover to infiltrate are division. I hesitantly reached a shy hand to my back and gingerly touched the scar that I knew hid under the fabric of my burgundy button up shirt. I bet my ex-collaborators had a good laugh at hearing my near failure and the embarrassing scar that would forever mane my almost defeat.
Ever since that last mission I’d never really trust anyone. Everyone was looking out for themselves in my eyes so it was only natural that I at that point on rely on myself and myself only. The ability to trust was something I began to lack; what substituted that gap was something inhuman.
To Be Continued...
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Story: The Trust Theory
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