Alana O’Conner           Ally O’Conner

 Alec Peterson             Nathan Jensen     

Sheila O’Conner         Adam O’Conner         

Wilbert O’Conner        

Denise Vincent                      Thomas Cain 

Director James Kirksville

Prologue

Thomas Cain looked out at the beautiful black skyline sipping his vintage scotch, a gift from the director. The Plaza lights twinkled like stars. Stars that paid homage to him as he thought everyone should. His apartment sat on the fifteenth floor, of a twenty-story building, on the corner of the historic eighteenth and Vine Jazz District. In larger cities, this would not mean much. Many living structures went higher than fifty floors, but this was Kansas City and this building belonged to the anti-terrorist organization, Section. It extended thirteen levels beneath the surface. So really, he was on the twenty-eighth floor. It was a very impressive start for a young man from the slums of Brightington, Scotland.

The cavernous red and black brick building occupied most of a city block. The first floor held the gym, pool, lounge, security, and salon. From the second to fifth floors, there were twelve units for the workers. Janitors, securities, mailroom personal, all of the support staff who preferred, could live rent-free in the one or two bedroom apartment. Medical personal and trainers occupied the next four floors. Those apartments were three bedrooms; of course, injured agents housed with the medical professionals while they recovered. Handlers or managers, like himself, resided on the remaining levels. The floor you occupied allotted you more square footage.

Thomas had four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a third of the entire floor. After this mission, he would be three floors up and occupy half of the floor. It was more space than one man needed, but this wasn’t about the space. It was about power. He wanted it and she would give it to him.

There was a smaller apartment building on the northeast corner. The modest red brick abode only held twelve units. Clossen’s bakery sat on the southwest corner of the block. He ordered his breakfast from them every morning. Scones and tea were his favorite meal. He liked the elderly English couple they reminded him of his protestant parents. His massive building dwarfed the tiny stone structure. Yes, he was king of the block.

His apartment was simple. Pristine white walls, tan hardwood floors throughout, matching wainscoting, beautiful granite counter tops, and stainless steel appliances. He had the best. It was everything he deserved. After a year, the apartment finally reflected him. Treasures from his homeland were scattered throughout his home. The paintings he purchased from the Glasgow arts center he mounted above the three fireplaces. His mother’s quilts covered the beds. His infant blanket lay over his favorite leather chair. His sister’s sheet music rested against the piano he could not play.

He was the perfect image of the quintessential Scottish gentleman. His perfectly trimmed brown hair gave him an air of elegance.  His thin frame, sharp nose, and pensive lips gave him the air of a youthful, polished schoolboy. Tonight, though he was staying in, he wore a dark blue exquisitely tailored velvet suit with a severely starched white shirt and red necktie. On anyone else, it would have looked ridiculous, but he was not just anyone. Of course, he was a stunning man. Gods” perfect specimen.  Women…

“Mama…Thomas…Nathan…It hurts!!!” She cried out again. He should be entertaining but he was babysitting the artificial assassin. He wished he could smoother her with the ridiculously expensive down pillow she was sweating on, but she was the Director’s pet project and he would obey any order he received. Impatiently he sat down the crystal glass and began collecting the oils she liked for her massage. He wished they had left her on that bloody, marble slab. The dead should stay dead.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Breathe.

Her chest hurt.

Like someone was crushing it.

Light.

Too much light.

Pain.

It hurt so bad. Why?

No, no, no, she’s dead.

She died. She remembered.

Thomas.

Voices.

Can’t see.

Too much light.

O.K. breath.

Listen.

Machines …hissing?

Heart, lungs, tubes.

Life support?

People.

Whispering.

No.

Muffled voices.

Ears covered.

Can’t move.

Paralyzed?

No. Feels wrong.

Crying.

Was she crying?

No.

 A child crying?

Why was there a child?

Pain.

 Why was there pain?

God!

Mama!

Thomas!

It hurts!!!

Alana woke drenched in sweat. Her thick black curls stuck to her brown neck. Her heart pounded. Her body shook. She could not breathe. The dull tan room was spinning. She forced herself to relax. Focus. She’d had these nightmares for several weeks, since they had revived her. It was bizarre to wake from her death without any memories of the events that preceded it. It was more than bizarre it was a living nightmare. She needed information. No one was being honest with her. Her hands began to tremble violently. She could not lose it. Not now. The former assassin closed her eyes.  Focus.

She had always been in control of every aspect of her life. Had not she? Yes. Alana shook off her doubt. She planned every move, directed the people around her even when they thought they had her contained, she out maneuvered them. The assassin had always been in control. Her schedule. Her training. She managed her life flawlessly. Her death should have been no different, but nothing was sacred in Section not even death.

Alana smirked at her naiveté. She was a highly regarded assassin and she could not even kill herself. The next time she signed a contract she would be sure to read the fine print.

Her door burst open. She instinctively reached for her weapon, an impressive Glock 22 Pistol with black polymer finish.

“I removed it.” Her handler, Thomas, stood next to her bed. He held several bottles in his left hand and a towel in his right. His wiry frame was a shadow in the hall light. “You put a hole in the wall last night, a rather large one.”

“I remember. I’m not thick.” Alana struggled to sit up but her weakened limbs prevented it.  “What do you want?”

“I thought you might need a massage. Your muscles are still constricting. You must be in a great deal of pain.” She stared at him. “Please, allow me to help you.”

Alana heard the plea in his voice. He had used the same tone when she had first woken up. He looked at her with those soulful brown eyes and swore he had not had anything to do with her return. How could she have trusted him? Maybe he spoke the truth. Maybe he was sorry for his part, no matter how small, in her restoration. She was not sure she could believe this man.

Thomas had been everything to her. The friend. The advisor. The confidant. She’d had absolute confidence in him. Know she doubted him when he said the sky was blue. He should have taken her body and destroyed it as she had asked. 

A small spasm shook her from her thoughts. Fuck. Her legs did hurt. She was in constant pain thanks to those bastards.

Their little experiment did not work as well as they had hoped. She was not whole. Her body was broken. After a month of therapy, her movements were still erratic. She was confused. She had lost a large chunk of her memory. This was her punishment for doing their biding. Karma.

She would not show weakness. She could not. They would crush her and Thomas would help.

“Lie back. You have no one else Alana. Trust me.” Silently, she closed her eyes and laid back into the pillows.

She always did what Thomas suggested. He was her handler. He was her protector against Section, as long as it served his purpose. He said he was her friend. He was not. He was a liar. Her handler had become the trickster in her drama. She was sure about that one thing. Sometime after she had died, he had become the enemy.

Alana O’Conner would wait for him the slip up. She had infinite patience. When she found her equilibrium, she would discover what he was hiding. She was intelligent. She was shrewd. She would wait. That is what they trained her for wasn’t it?

“You think too much. Relax. Enjoy. You should be feeling some relief now.” Thomas’ strong hands ran over her weakened muscles methodically lulling her into a gentle sleep.

She saw his face again, as she did every night, his beautiful loving face. 

“Nathan.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“He is smart, my Thomas. Most of the other agents call him beautiful. I guess he is if you were attracted to skinny, pasty, arrogant men.  I should have killed the little worm.” She smiled as the handler touched the woman. Standing in the darkened room, the statuesque woman watched the scene unfold. The elderly doctor felt a chill rush over him as the woman smirked at the monitor. Even now, Doctor Mitchell could feel her power. Thomas never appreciated it, but he could. It had kept her alive longer then she had the right to be.

She had tucked her long thick black into a demure ponytail. The beauty wore a pair of loose blue jeans that were a size to big for her. A red cotton tee shirt peaked out from under the blue work jacket and badly scuffed black work boots. The yellow hard hat, she had removed just minutes ago, sat on his pristine desk next to a metal clipboard. She was a chameleon. Just three months ago, she appeared at a fundraiser for one of his charities in a sleek black designer gown with a short bob.  She offered him a way out of this dreaded organization. To his shame, he took it. All she had asked for was information and the opportunity to view the subject.

“It is amazing how perfect she is. The loss of memory and confusion were a surprise, but we did anticipate a few minor difficulties.” The young Doctor Mitchell handed her a thick folder. He nodded to his father. “Are you sure we will be safe?”

 “I’ve relocated you before.” She waved a dismissive hand as she scanned its contents.

“Yes, but you had the power of Section behind you.” The elder man said hesitantly.

“I still have Sections power, just not the headache. How long will I have?”

“The last two survived for six weeks, but her metabolism is out of control. She will need transfusions every five weeks.” The first Dr. Mitchell replied.

“I won’t need her for that long.” She took her ear and opened the laboratory door. “Gentlemen? Are you ready to begin your new life?”