Hey! I know it's been a while, but with school and everything, it took me some time to write this chapter. BUT IT'S FINALLY DONE! Sorry for having you wait for so long. So now I will stop talking and let you carry on with your reading.

Special thanks to Darks00 and starfish saver for reviewing!

Disclaimer: As I have said in the previous chapter, I do not own any of these characters. Except for Mr. Simmons. He's all mine.

5:30 am. After hours of trying to sleep after waking up, I finally decide to give up. Getting out of bed, I made my way to the kitchen for some reviving liquid: coffee. After brewing myself a cup, and one for Scarlett for when she would wake up, I sat at the table, grabbed a leftover piece of pizza from the night before for my breakfast, and thought…

It was my remedy for such nights. I would just think of every moment that we ever spent together. Every life-threatening mission, every near-death experience, every successful getaway, every hyper smile, every hug…

I know it seems weird, and that it sounds like I'm adding more pain. But truthfully, these thoughts put me at ease, and remind me that Julius wouldn't want me to live angrily for the rest of my life. And I respect those silent wishes. I plan on living angrily for some time, then live the rest of my life honoring Julius's memory.

It was while I was in my own land that I heard a beeping coming from… a beeping? That beeping noise sounded strangely like a pager. But what was a pager doing here, considering that we can't afford a phone.

"That's mine, sugar," Scarlett called from her room.

She's up? Kinda early for her to be awake.

"Why are you up so early?" I hollered from the kitchen.

"Same reason you're up. Couldn't sleep," she hollered back

The beeping stopped.

"What was that beeping? As far as I know, we don't have a fire alarm, and if we do, I didn't burn anything," I asked, taking a sip of my coffee.

"That was my pager. The boss gave me one last week, instead of having someone from the office come here to tell us he wants to see us."

Answering the next question I was gonna ask, which was where she got the pager, I asked instead: "What does old Simmons want now?"

It's not that I don't like my boss. In fact, he's the only one that understands my situation, other that Scarlett, of course. It's just that he's old, is all. Don't get all hostile because you think I just insulted my boss.

(A/N: You may have noticed that Delilah has an attitude in this story, and I'm sorry about that. It's just the only way I could think of making 'the accident' change her. Once again, I'm sorry for her hostility. But I find it adds a little more to the story, don't you?)

"He says he wants you to meet in his office ASAP. Something about an important matter that needs to be discussed. Did you forget to file in your paperwork again or something?" Scarlett asked, with a touch of humor in her voice.

"Not that I can think of. And it's not my fault I forget to file in some stupid report. We didn't do that back at the Academy," I responded, with some humor of my own. "Is someone coming to pick me up or do I have to walk halfway across town?" because, obviously, I don't want to.

"He says for you to be ready in half an hour and a car is going to take you to the office," coming into the kitchen, Scarlett took the mug of still-hot coffee and sat next to me. She took one look at my face and asked: "Same dream?"

Sighing, I nodded.

"Are you gonna let go any time soon? You know it's killing you in the inside, and, honestly sugar, seeing you at this state is killing me."

"It's not that easy, Scarlett," I said, preparing myself to tell her something I should have said long ago: "I loved him, I still do."

"I always suspected. And I know that makes it even harder to move on, but promise me you'll try?"

Letting another sigh out, I replied: "All right, Scarlett, I'll try for you."

Mr. Simmons, my boss, beckoned me to a chair in front of his desk. As much as I liked the old guy, his office was a place I didn't like to visit often. The walls were as all the other walls in headquarters: metal. Odd, I know, don't have to tell me. These walls were cold and uninviting, giving a false sense of security, much like the people in this building. Except for Simmons. He's a nice man, which kinda balances the coldness of his employees. I don't know how he works among such mean-spirited people.

"What can I do for you today, Simmons?" I asked while sitting down and crossing my legs. "Did I forget my paperwork again? Because if I did, I have a reasonable explanation."

Laughing at my approach at the subject, he shook his head and said: "No, there is no forgotten paperwork from your part, as far as I'm concerned," the humor was suddenly drained from his face, replaced by seriousness. "This is about you. I have noticed that you have become more aggressive and hostile since you came to me. I know you're still grieving over what happened two years ago."

Leaning back against my chair and crossing my arms, I asked, rolling my eyes: "Is everyone on my case this morning? Am I suddenly the 'Psychology Challenge of the Week'?"

"See? That is the exact attitude that I'm talking about," a triumphant Simmons said, looking at me straight in the eyes. "But I didn't call you here to tell you to get over it. No, I have called you for matters, believe it or not, much more delicate than your grief."

Suddenly interested, I leaned forward, not breaking away from his gaze, and asked: "What delicate manners?"

A pleased smile stretched across Simmers face. "I'm very glad you asked," and with that, he took a remote from his desk and clicked three buttons. One to turn off the lights, one to lower the shades on his windows, and the last one to lower a screen against the wall on my right.

"I have been laid upon a mission which I think you could do really well," with that, he clicked yet another button on his remote, and a projector from the opposite wall of the screen lit, filling the screen with the picture of a man in his late fifties, grey hair thinning on the top of his head. But his piercing green eyes are what got my attention. They were a shade of green that I thought were impossible to have in eyes. Next to his picture was some information on the guy.

"Bernard Murray, 57 years old, born in London. He was a former assassin, top-ranked at his job too. Stopped at the age of 45 and opened his own agency. We…"

I cut him off before he could finish: "Believe that he is training a new generation of assassins and you want me to stop him."

"Not necessarily. We honestly don't think Murray is lying when he says that his agency is 100 non-assassin."

"Then what do you need me for, if this guy is on the 'okay list'?"

"Well, one of his so-called students…" Simmons pressed yet another button and the image of Murray changed into that of a man who looked about my age, dressed entirely in black, including his face, which made it impossible to see his features. "…was caught loitering around the houses of rich people, presumably looting the house. But here's the thing: the owners of those homes all turned up dead in the morning."

"So you are telling me all this because…" I stretched the last word while motioning Simmons with my hand for him to finish my sentence.

"We analyzed the houses that were raided and found that there is a pattern. They all knew Murray in some way or other. With that, we were able to locate the next person on his list. A certain Louisa Toledo, rich and successful designer, with an expensive habit. She spends most of her nights gambling at casinos all over the world. Tonight, though, she'll be in her home in Argentina, and we believe that our 'student' here will strike."

Bewildered by what I just heard, I asked: "Let me get this straight. Some ex-assassin with a skillful apprentice is out murdering people from his past for their expensive objects and now he's after some gambling-obsessed designer?"

"We don't know it's only for their things that Murray is on a killing rampage, or if we have anything to do with it. All we do know is that there is a dangerous man out there that needs to be stopped."

"So you want me to go to Argentina and capture our murderer and bring him back here to later hand over to the police, right?"

I didn't like the smile on his face when I said that.

"Not capture him, pray tell, but… rather…"

I gaped at him, hoping he was not thinking what I thought he was thinking.

"You want me to… do him in?"

"Well, that's one way of putting it. But yes," he said, speaking in a tone as if he had just asked her to do something normal, like stopping a bank robbery. Well, normal for an agent.

"No way! No! I will not murder that guy! No!" I yelled, outraged that he thought I would ever do something like that.

"Delilah, be reasonable…"

"BE REASONABLE! You want me to kill someone who needs to be stopped for murders, and you're asking me to be reasonable? Do you realize that by doing this, it won't be any better than what this Murphy guy is going?"

"It's Murray…"

"I DON'T CARE IF IT'S MURRAY OR MURPHY OR SON-OF-A-BITCH! I AM NOT GONNA ASSASSINATE THAT GUY!"

"Need I remind you that if you decline this mission, I will toss you and that little black friend of yours into the streets?" the nice, smiling, inviting man I thought was my boss was replaced by a cold-blooded monster in a matter of seconds.

I lowered my head and stared at my feet.

If I had to live on garbage scraps instead of doing what he wanted me to do, I would accept the first choice any day. But I didn't want Scarlett to live under the same conditions because of me. She always did her best to keep me healthy and not go hungry. It wouldn't be fair if she got tossed in the streets because of me.

Sighing, I asked: "Why do you absolutely need me to do this? Why don't you ask one of the other agents?"

If I said I didn't like the smile he gave before, I absolutely hate the one he gave now.

"Because you are my only agent with so much anger bottled up, it needs to be let out in rather drastic measures. You must admit that you would feel a lot better if you took that anger out on someone else instead of making you suffer."

As much as I hated to admit it, I did want to take my anger out. Just not like this. But then, if I don't, Scarlett and I can kiss our home, well, our pathetic excuse for a home, good-bye.

"So what will it be, Delilah? A mission that will relieve you of your anger, or survival in the streets of this dangerous metropolis?"

Reluctantly, I raised my head and forced myself to gaze into those once-warm eyes and said: "Do I have much of a choice?"

Peace out!

K.L.