Young Writers Society

The entrance hall of the theater was full of people pretending. In that respect, the young couple fit in perfectly. She was dressed in a moss green gown that swept the floor. Her red hair clearly had a life of its own, but she had managed to tame the flyaway curls into an updo. Upon closer inspection, however, one could see curls pulling away from their bobby pins, and a steely glint behind her soft smile. He looked much more comfortable in his getup. The tuxedo fit him like a second skin, and his smile was guileless. They swept around the entrance hall, earning nods of approval from the older clientele.

“How nice it was to see young people coming to to appreciate the ballet,” they would lean over and say to their companions. “You just don’t see that nowadays.”

But like everyone in the room they were pretending. Some were pretending to like their partners, others were pretending to have money. About half were pretending to like ballet. The young couple was pretending all of these things.

“The people here are obscenely rich,” Bree said bitterly, all the while keeping a polite smile plastered on her face. “I could choose three at random and I bet every time at least one of them is a criminal.”

“I can see why Lindsey likes you,” Khaled chuckled. “You are a ray of sunshine in these trying times. Lighten up a little. Enjoy yourself.”

“Yes, that’s exactly why I’m here,” Bree scoffed. “Now, would you be so kind as to remind me why I have a dart gun waiting at coat check if I’m here to enjoy myself?”

“Why don’t you scream dart gun a little louder?” The communications unit in their ears spoke.

“Sorry Michael,” Khaled said. “Bree here just has some first mission nerves. I’m sure they’ll pass.”

Bree forced herself to smile harder. Being around this kind of wealth made her sick. The cloth around her legs was constricting, creating a nagging sense of panic at the back of her brain. She hated feeling confined. The lights dimmed, and everyone began fumbling in their bags for tickets. Bree took a long, slow breath. It was time to start. As patrons filed into the theater, Bree and Khaled ducked into an alcove, waiting until the hall was empty and the doors had been closed. The marble wall pressed unforgivingly into her bare back.

It seemed to take ages for everyone to make their way into the theater. Bree, who had been forced into wearing heels for authenticity, was regretting not putting up more of a fight. Her feet ached, but the security guards locking up just feet away prevented her from alleviating her pain. Finally, the reception hall was closed. Lights were shut off, and the guards took their positions at the front desk.

Bree immediately pulled off her heels, stashing them in a potted plant. Sure, she might not fit in barefoot, but it was hard to be stealthy in four inch louboutin knockoffs. They felt their way across the wall to the locked coat check room, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dark. The guards out front made flashlights too risky. Khaled pulled out his lockpick tools, feeling for the deadbolt. After a few minutes of fumbling, the door popped open. Bree darted inside and pushed through the long racks of coats. Furs brushed her face and sent goosebumps down her arms. At the very back of the long room, she felt along the baseboard until her fingers collided with a case. She grabbed the handle and pushed back out into the open air.

“I’ve got the gun,” Bree said. “Now get us to the balcony.”

“Copy,” Michael said into her ear. “Make your way to the theater doors and take a left.”

The air was tense between them in the dark as they crept through the dark hallways. Bree did not like taking direction, and it was making her jumpy. It was clear now, in the dark, that they were no longer playing dress up. For days they had been practicing, drilling, going over details and backup plans. While the lights were on it was easy to pretend they were just another couple spending a night together at the ballet. Now, it was clear they were something very different.

Finally, they reached the perch that had been decided upon. Off to the left of the stage, invisible to the performers and most of the audience. A skinny metal ladder led up to a small grate-floored platform. The entire thing looked no more steady than scaffolding. Bree tightened her grip on the case handle and began to climb. The balcony swayed menacingly as Khaled followed her.

Bree clicked the gun’s pieces together with practiced ease. She’d been over it a thousand times, sitting in her room until the first tendrils of sunrise creeped over the horizon, making and unmaking her gun. She knew the piece by heart now, but that didn’t stop her hands from shaking. Khaled crouched beside her in the cramped space, scanning the audience below for any sign they had been spotted. He was fine, none of the first mission nerves seemed to rattle him.

“We have movement, two personal security headed up your way,” Michael said in Bree’s ear. She and Khaled exchanged a look. Though Bree was a better fighter, she was also the one who had been practicing with the specialized gun all week. It would be foolish of her to leave job unfinished. She raised her eyebrows. Khaled nodded, and began climbing down the ladder. Bree swallowed. This was supposed to be an easy job. A test run to see how the team worked together. She wasn’t going to let anyone get hurt.

“Your target is in the second private box from the stage, on your right,” the earpiece crackled to life again. “He is here with his wife. The dart should knock him out until just after the show. If you miss, plan B is to intercept the inspector. And Bree, hurry. Those bodyguards look serious.”

“I won’t miss,” Bree growled. She hiked her gown up above her knees and braced her leg on the flimsy railing. She stabilized the gun. Below, she could hear the muffled sounds of fighting. Bree pushed back the rising panic in the back of her throat and let out a long, slow breath. One shake of her hand and her chance would be wasted. Slowly, she bent her head to look through the sight, keeping every move deliberate. Her finger tightened on the trigger, and she heard scream from below.

“Finish the shot,” Michael said, but Bree could hear his voice shaking. She huffed out her breath, checked her aim on last time, and squeezed her finger closed. The gun recoiled, but Bree wasn’t phased. “Clear hit. Now get out of there.”

“Condition report on Khaled?” She whispered, dismantling the gun and shoving the pieces back into the case. She kept the extra darts, tucking them into the sash of her gown.

“Stabbed. He is losing blood fast,” Michael said. “You need to get out of there. They know where you are, and they are coming fast.”

Bree was already on the move. She could feel the platform shaking as the bodyguards headed up her way. She picked up the case and readied herself, standing just out of sight of the men climbing the ladder. As soon as a head came into view, she swung the case as hard as she could. It collided with skull, giving a satisfying noise. The handle broke from the case, flinging it off the side of the platform. The man fell back, losing his grip on the ladder and tumbling down to land on the ground below. As Bree looked over the edge to asses her second adversary, she caught a glimpse of Khaled’s body.

She had seen plenty of blood before, most of it her own. She had an iron stomach. Once, after coming off particularly bad in a fight, she had set her own broken arm. But the sight of his body, lying in an all too large pool of blood, made her feel faint. There was something about the magnitude of his injuries, the way his chest seems to jump and hitch, that made her sick.

“Bree, you need to move,” Michael’s voice said. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Bree registered that he was crying. But now, in the moment, there was far too much happening for her to acknowledge it.

Bree backed up to the far edge of the platform, as far away from the ladder as possible. In each fist she gripped a dart, hoping beyond hope she would have the chance to use them. The mission was supposed to be clean, she hadn’t brought any weapons. Clearly that had been a mistake.

The man came into view, clambering onto the platform and looking Bree up and down before grinning. He had several missing teeth, and a scar that stretched across his nose. Blood soaked the front of his suit jacket. Bree clenched her jaw, shifting her weight back and forth. The man started to chuckle.

“They send little girls now? That hardly seems fair,” his voice is accented, but nothing Bree can place. “How am I supposed to fight a little girl? This will be no fun at all. At least your friend offered some resistance. Though clearly, not enough.”

Bree screamed and launched herself across the space separating them. She attacked, trying desperately to land a blow, to connect the tip of the dart to his flesh. The man was still smiling, blocking her jabs. He returned her attack with a quick knee to the stomach, throwing Bree back a few paces and tangling her legs in her dress.

She muttered curses and ripped the skirt from the bodice, revealing her black leggings that would have been her attire of choice. The silk skirt fell to the ground below, dancing through the air before landing in a crumpled heap.

She was more careful now, more in control. Her mother always said she was a troublemaker because of her red hair. That hair puts fire in your veins. That was what she’d say every time Bree came home with bruises and cuts from her latest fight. But this time she would be careful. She couldn’t afford to let him land another hit like that. Her stomach was turning, and her breath was coming short. She grabbed onto the railing for support, waiting for her breath to return to her.

“Are you done already?” the man asked, slowly advancing, cutting into Bree’s space. “We were just getting started.”

The man pulled his knife and lunged, slashing at the air where Bree’s face had been. She dropped to the ground, pushed against the railing with her legs, and slid under the man’s guard. The knife stroke changed, slicing downward, towards Bree’s torso, but she stabbed both darts into his calves. She felt the knife slice into her thigh as the man grunted in surprise. Bree struggled to her feet and watched as the man swayed on the spot and fell flat on his face.

“Get to Khaled,” Michael’s voice was saying in her ear. “I’m not sure if- he’s lost so much blood.”

Bree felt blood pouring down her own leg as she clambered down the ladder. For a moment she thought he was already gone, the movement of his chest was so shallow. The knife had cut into the artery under his arm.

“What can I do?” Bree asked, but she already knew the answer. There was no way she could help him now.

Michael was quiet. Bree dropped to her knees and watched, helpless, as Khaled took his last breaths. She felt numbness spreading through her body. Nothing hurt anymore, not the wound on her leg or the burning in her gut. After a few minutes, the voice in her ear began talking again.

“You need to get out,” Michael said. “You can’t be found there. Winona will pick you up at the back entrance in five minutes. Bring the gun.”

Trance-like, Bree retrieved the gun case and scanned the scene. Both bodyguards were still out cold. She placed the fabric of her skirt over Khaled’s body before she left. She didn’t notice if anyone saw her leaving the theater. If they did, they left her alone. As promised, Winona was waiting at the staff entrance in a catering van. She said nothing when Bree got in, only handed her a bandage for her wound. Bree took it automatically, but did nothing. Winona said nothing about the blood staining the van’s seat.

Bree dreaded the moment they reached their final destination. As soon as that happened, she would have to speak. She would have to give a mission debriefs and psych evaluations. All Bree wanted to do was stay in the purgatory of the clunky white van Winona was silently driving. If they were still driving, the mission wasn’t over. If they were still driving, there was some chance she would be able to go back and undo what had happened.