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« Last post by Mesut88 on Today at 02:38:58 pm »
Thanks Wookey! Here's chapter 3, and as always - feedback is appreciated.
3.
Left jab. Right jab. A powerful left hook.
She stepped back, her muscles coiled like springs, and threw two quick left jabs. Her right hand followed instantly, palm angled down as she executed a precise down parry, the movement fluid, instinctive. A moment’s pause, then a flurry of fast jabs, her knuckles snapping forward like pistons before delivering a thunderous rear uppercut that cracked through the air.
The impact rippled through the heavy bag, sending it swinging violently on its chain. The metallic clink echoed in the gym’s empty space. Phoebe lowered her fists, breathing heavily as she wiped a line of sweat from her eyes with the back of her glove.
For a moment, the world was just the rhythmic thudding of her pulse and the dull ache in her forearms.
Her stance relaxed slightly, but her muscles still hummed with tension—like an engine that refused to fully shut off. The combination had been sharp, each strike deliberate and loaded with power. Just the way she liked it.
Not a real fight. Just training. The thought lingered as she exhaled slowly, releasing the tight knot that had formed in her chest.
It had been a long time since she’d found anyone willing to spar with her competitively. Most people didn’t last long once they felt the sting of her punches. And it was somewhat understandable—her strikes were heavy, her technique honed from years of relentless training.
It had been three weeks since Stockholm. Since Whitaker’s outburst. And in those three weeks, it had been nothing but desk duty—hours of tedious briefings, paperwork, and the occasional “observation” assignment that left her feeling like an intern instead of a field agent.
The confinement gnawed at her, each passing day fueling the restless energy she couldn’t shake. Luckily, no one seemed to care that she spent at least a third of her working hours down here in the basement of the SiS building, rotating between the gym and the shooting range. Mostly the gym.
She threw another jab at the bag—sharp and full of frustration—before stepping back, breathing heavily. Her fists clenched momentarily, but the sound of a phone ping cut through the quiet hum of the gym.
Her phone. The one that only few people had the number to.
Phoebe peeled off her gloves, the leather sticking slightly to her damp skin, and wiped her palms against her black leggings before reaching for the device. A message glowed on the screen.
My office. 10 minutes.
—Whitaker
Shit.
Her pulse spiked as she glanced at the time. Tight. She tossed her gloves aside and sprinted toward the locker room, her boots thudding lightly against the floor.
The sweaty clothes disappeared quickly, peeled off in haste as she stepped beneath the freezing jet of water in the communal shower. The ice-cold spray hit her like a slap, shocking her system and making her muscles tense momentarily before she forced herself to relax. Thirty seconds. That’s all you’re getting, she thought, running her fingers through her damp hair as the water streamed down her body.
She shut the water off, grabbed a towel, and wiped herself down efficiently, her mind already racing through possibilities. Why now? What did Whitaker want?
Her reflection stared back from the mirror above the sink—wet, chiseled, and composed, but only barely. She pushed the thought aside and opened her locker.
Clean underwear, a fresh dress shirt, and the tailored dark grey suit she had worn earlier that day were donned quickly. The familiar, comfortable weight of her Blancpain watch settled around her wrist. She pressed the nozzle of her perfume once, the luxurious scent mixing briefly with the residual scent of sweat and shower steam.
Then, without missing a beat, she stepped into her high heels and bolted out of the locker room. Her long strides were purposeful, the echo of her heels clinking sharply against the corridor’s polished floors as she raced toward Whitaker’s office.
Don’t be late. Don’t give him another reason.
Outside the office, Phoebe nodded briefly to Ms. Greene, who returned the gesture with her usual composed, polite smile. Without missing a beat, Phoebe stepped inside.
Whitaker was seated behind his polished mahogany desk, the surface free of the chaotic stack of papers that had been there during her last visit. His gaze met hers briefly before he nodded toward the chair opposite him.
"Sit down, Lawson."
That must be a good sign, Phoebe thought as she crossed the room. No immediate yelling. Maybe things had cooled down. She still felt a little out of breath from her sprint, but she pushed the sensation aside as she sat down, adjusting her posture to remain sharp and alert.
"Thank you, sir," she said, her voice steady despite the slight thrum of adrenaline still coursing through her veins.
Whitaker leaned back slightly, his hands resting together in front of him. His demeanor was notably different from the last time she had been in this office. His face wasn’t red with frustration; his tone wasn’t razor-sharp. He studied her for a moment, as if weighing what to say.
“As you know, Lawson, most of our resources over the past year and a half have been directed toward the Architect case.”
Of course, she knew that. Every agent in the building knew about the Architect. A shadowy figure that had become the number one priority of intelligence agencies across Europe. His real identity remained unknown, and that was part of what made him so dangerous.
The name wasn’t just a codename—it was a reflection of his reputation. The Architect was known for being meticulous, methodical, and nearly impossible to track. He had emerged seemingly from nowhere, a man with no past, no visible weaknesses. What they did know was terrifying: he had been financing and orchestrating far-right extremist organizations across Europe and the UK. Groups that had previously been disorganized and relatively harmless had turned into coordinated, violent cells capable of sophisticated terror attacks.
Phoebe’s mind briefly flicked through the classified reports she had read. Dozens of incidents over the past few years, each one planned and executed with military precision. Bombings. Mass shootings. Political assassinations. The common thread between them was chilling: they were perfectly timed and disturbingly effective.
The Architect hadn’t just funded chaos—he had designed it.
Whitaker exhaled and leaned forward slightly.
"And as you may know, we are still struggling with it. We have been turning all the stones. And we’ll keep doing that until we finally can get closer to him."
Phoebe’s heart rate picked up, a steady thump against her ribs. Finally. This wasn’t another routine desk duty briefing—this sounded like action. Whitaker opened a drawer, the metallic slide punctuated by the faint rustle of papers. He pulled out a thin folder, its cover marked with the bold insignia of classified material. Without ceremony, he tossed it across the desk. It slid smoothly and stopped just in front of her.
“This is something we recently received from our American friends,” he said, his tone measured. “His name is Eli Cohen. The CIA believes The Architect has used him as a hitman—at least once, possibly more. But their intel is thin, and we haven’t been able to confirm any of it. That’s why, officially, this isn’t a big priority for us.” He leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping against the polished wood. “But unofficially, we still want to bring him in for interrogation.”
Whitaker paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her. Phoebe kept her posture firm, her fingers resting lightly on the edges of the folder, even though her instincts begged her to flip it open right there and then.
“I don’t have any other available field agents at the moment, Lawson. Or really any other resources for this. So I need you to bring this man here. In one piece. Alive.” He let the words settle for a moment, then leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Do you think you can do that? After Stockholm, I feel like I need to make sure you clearly understand the mission.”
A flicker of heat rose in Phoebe’s chest, anger bubbling just below the surface. Stockholm hadn’t been her fault. She could argue that ten different ways if he let her, but this wasn’t the moment. She forced the reaction down, suppressing the urge to clench her jaw. Her voice was calm, measured.
“Of course, sir,” she replied, her gaze steady and unwavering.
Whitaker stood, the leather of his chair creaking slightly as he rounded the desk and stopped beside her. His finger jabbed firmly against her shoulder, the suit fabric taut over the dense muscle beneath. Her deltoid barely gave under the pressure—round, hard, and unyielding. The jab wasn’t just a gesture; it felt like a deliberate test, one Phoebe didn’t flinch from.
“I really do mean it, Lawson,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Don’t fuck this thing up.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, her voice cool as ice.
“Dismissed.”
Phoebe stood and gave him a short nod before turning sharply on her heel. As she walked out of the office, her fingers gripped the folder a little tighter than necessary. Her heels clicked against the floor as she made her way toward her desk on the second floor, her mind already racing.
Eli Cohen. The name repeated itself like a drumbeat in her head. A hitman with ties to The Architect. The stakes were clear. Bring him in, interrogate him, and maybe—just maybe—this could be the lead MI6 needed to break the Architect case wide open.
But there was no room for mistakes. Not this time.
Her pace quickened as she reached her desk. She dropped into her chair, flipped the folder open, and began scanning its contents.
It took about five minutes for Phoebe’s initial eagerness to drain away, replaced by a growing sense of disbelief.
The mission seemed insane.
Eli Cohen, 38 years old, was born in Tel Aviv. His file read like the blueprint for the world’s most dangerous operative. He had served three years in the Israeli army, finishing as a staff sergeant for an elite combat unit specializing in reconnaissance and covert operations. After that, he joined the French Foreign Legion, where he spent six years as a sniper for a paratrooper commando unit.
Then came the seven years with Mossad as a special agent, where his operational focus remained classified. Whatever he had done, it had been enough to make him a ghost after leaving their service. For the past five years, Cohen had worked as a freelancer—an independent contractor specializing in clean, high-profile assassinations.
Phoebe leaned back in her chair and rubbed the bridge of her nose. This wasn’t just a dangerous target. This was a target who could potentially predict her every move.
He must be one of the most lethal and dangerous people on the planet, she thought grimly, scanning the folder again. The sheer breadth of his combat experience felt suffocating. And she was expected to bring him in. Alone. No backup. No tactical team waiting to intervene.
It sounded like a suicide mission.
She turned another page, her eyes narrowing as she examined the section on Cohen’s current residence.
According to the CIA, Cohen owned a high-security villa just outside Nice, France. Perched on the hillside overlooking the Mediterranean, it was surrounded by lush vegetation and high stone walls. The villa itself was fitted with state-of-the-art surveillance systems, motion sensors, and a perimeter that was reportedly guarded 24/7.
The words on the page seemed to taunt her.
Absolutely impossible to get inside.
In addition to the CIA’s intel, the folder included a few other essentials—one of which made Phoebe raise an eyebrow: a French passport with her picture but belonging to Nadine Diarra. The name sounded convincingly French-African, which fit her cover well enough. There were also two first-class train tickets: one departing from London to Paris and the second for a night train from Paris to Nice. The first ticket was stamped with a departure time just four hours from now.
And tucked between the documents was a small handwritten note: Quartermaster. Don’t forget.
Phoebe exhaled slowly, her mind racing. A part of her wanted to march back into Whitaker’s office and tell him outright that this mission was absurd—borderline suicidal, even. But she wasn’t trained to complain. She was trained to adapt, to survive, and to execute.
She slipped the folder into her purse, checked her watch, and began walking briskly toward the part of the building occupied by the Quartermaster’s division.
The only time she had been here, she’d collected the essentials: her service phone, laptop, and standard-issue Sig Sauer P365. This time, she was hoping for something more creative, something that wouldn’t leave her feeling exposed against a target like Cohen.
The room she entered was vast and cluttered, a maze of metal shelves and workbenches piled with half-assembled gadgets, weapon prototypes, and equipment that looked both experimental and decades old. It had the chaotic charm of a place where things were built, tested, and occasionally exploded.
After a few moments of awkwardly standing in the middle of the room, waiting for someone to notice her, an older man emerged from behind a stack of crates. He was grey-haired, bespectacled, and had the kind of academic aura that suggested he could just as easily be lecturing at Oxford as running an MI6 equipment division.
"Lawson, I assume?" he asked, his Welsh accent gentle but unmistakable.
Phoebe nodded. "That’s right."
He adjusted his glasses and smiled faintly before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a sleek, black pen. "I have something very special for you," he said with a hint of pride. "This, my dear, is no ordinary pen. It contains a finely tuned mixture of anesthetics, powerful enough to knock someone out cold for at least twelve hours. Simply press this button at the end to activate the spike, then press it through the skin. Quick and clean."
Phoebe stared at the pen in his hand, her stomach tightening as the implications hit her. She was expected to get close enough to Cohen to stab him with a pen? Close enough to a man who was not only sniper-trained but had years of close-combat experience?
A flicker of unease passed over her face, but she quickly masked it. The Quartermaster was still holding out the pen, waiting patiently.
Phoebe took it, weighing the slim object in her hand, and forced her voice to remain neutral. "Hmm, don’t you have anything more effective from a safer distance? The person I’m expected to bring in is… extremely dangerous."
"I understand," he said, folding his arms over his chest. "But this pen is the most effective tool we have for such cases. Silent, discreet, and guaranteed to incapacitate without making a scene."
Phoebe felt the weight of those words settle on her. No backup. No scene. Just her and this damn pen.
The Quartermaster continued, a faint glint of amusement in his eyes. "Besides, I would think a sturdy woman like you wouldn’t have much trouble getting close. Whoever your target may be."
Oh, you have no idea, old man, Phoebe thought. She slipped the pen into her coat pocket and nodded. "Is there anything else you have for me? Perhaps a more powerful firearm than the P365 I’m currently carrying?"
The older man chuckled softly and shook his head. "Unfortunately, I’m not authorised to issue you anything beyond what you’ve already been given."
"Of course not," she muttered under her breath, though she managed a polite smile.
This was bad. Not just bad—this was terrible. She thanked him quickly and exited the room, her heels clicking softly against the floor as she made her way back upstairs. As she stepped into the cold London air, her thoughts were a flurry of doubt and strategies.
Her next stop: her apartment in Lambeth. But as she walked, she couldn’t shake the nagging thought gnawing at her mind.
This is not good. Not good at all.
As Phoebe zipped her expensive leather weekender bag closed, she exhaled sharply, the sound lingering in the quiet apartment. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being an imposter.
Not just because she was the youngest active MI6 field agent or one of the few women on the roster. It was her background. She wasn’t the polished Oxford graduate or ex-SAS veteran that others seemed to be. She had fought her way here through sheer grit. But tonight, with only her second mission ahead of her, the doubts pressed harder than usual.
Her gaze flicked toward the massive seven-metre-wide window that overlooked the darkening Thames River. The view was stunning, nothing like the concrete walls and broken stairwells of the council flat she had grown up in. The divide between past and present couldn’t have been wider.
France. Her first time. And her first time on a night train. She had studied the country inside and out—its language, its history, its wine. The academy had made sure of that. But knowledge and preparation only went so far. Now, it came down to execution.
Imposter or not, Whitaker had given her the mission because he believed she could do it. And now, she had to believe it too.
She slung her coat over her arm, grabbed her bag, and glanced at her Blancpain. If she hurried, she’d make the train. With one last glance at the apartment, she shut the door behind her and stepped into the cold evening air.
It was time to go.