Authors Note * : This is really short and It's been a long time since I first posted this story. The wait between chapters will be long, because right now I'm more focused on my Blainchel fic but I'll continue writing. Especially chapter 3 Enjoy and R&R please!
Santana had been staring at the photo for hours, running it through every software she had on her computer trying to find a distinctive enough landmark to find the location of the building Sebastian was standing on. She was convinced the building didn't exist and the photo had been fabricated until she noticed a small speck in the background. Zooming in she was able to see it was a helicopter with Channel 8 on the side.
Santana grinned to herself and closed her laptop. She knew the routes of that exact helicopter and with her knowledge of Washington's layout she was able to narrow it down to one building that just had to be the one Sebastian had been in a couple days ago. She formulated her plan as she changed from her work clothes. She swapped out her blazer and blouse for a tank top and a slim leather jacket with the vest underneath. Her work slacks turned into dark-washed denim jeans that were just loose enough for her to run in them and move well. Santana kicked off her heels and pulled on her knee high boots that had a flat surface. Santana was confident in her abilities enough that she could wear heels during a mission like she preferred, but it was required not to.
She placed her weapons in their appropriate spot, a knife in each boot, one gun in her waistband and another in the inside of her jacket. Santana didn't expect any trouble but she knew from experience that it could come at anytime.
Locking all her stuff away, then exiting her apartment and locked that as well, Santana went to her car and began to drive downtown. She found the building, recognizing its structure and easily parked her car down a few blocks away. Strutting down the street, Santana made her way, slipping inside the revolving doors.
She recognized the inside as a sort of law firm. Walking up to the secretary, Santana leaned across of the desk. "I'm looking for a man; he came in here not long ago. The day of the bad storm that happened in this area about two days ago."
The secretary was a man that looked around 25 years old, and he looked at Santana with interest. "I wouldn't know. I wasn't working that day,"
"Who was?" She asked.
"A woman named Irene," The man responded, looking back at his computer, no longer invested in the conversation. "I'm her replacement."
"Oh, no, sorry wrong word," The secretary chuckled, glancing up. "It's her day off. You'll have to come back tomorrow."
Santana looked closely at the secretary, searching his face for distinct clues to whether he was lying or not. None of the signs she was taught to look for appeared, so Santana thanked the man and walked out of the building. Instead of heading back to her car, Santana ducked around the corner to the side of the building. There was something off about the secretary, he was lying about something and Santana wasn't about to let it slip by her.
She found the maintenance entrance in the back, unlocked and she shook her head at the carelessness. Santana pressed her palm against her concealed gun and slowly made her way through the halls in the lower basement. If she needed it, she'd be able to draw it just in time. She held the record at the Academy for fastest-draw.
As Santana walked further down the hall and into the building she began to smell something that was definitely out of place. Drawing her gun, Santana mentally blocked out the smell, telling herself not to process it, and held her weapon with two fierce hands.
Rounding a corner, Santana found a utility closet where the smell was stronger. Scrunching her nose, knowing what she would find, Santana kicked the door, busting it. She pulled it back so it fell and lay horizontal with the floor. Walking on top of it, Santana walked into the room and found something she was expecting but not hoping for.
A woman, in her late twenties or early thirties, was lying on the ground. Her business suit left no sign of blood anywhere which ruled out being shot, but she was definitely dead. Santana tilted her head curiously, and raised the toe of her boot to nudge the woman's head to the other side. A thin but dark bruise was evident around her neck and Santana was able to confirm that she had probably been strangled.
Santana felt a figure behind her and without hesitation swung her hand, using the heavy of her gun for momentum. The person ducked and Santana attempted to get past them so she wasn't trapped in the closet. But she felt a hand grasp her leg, and though she didn't trip, her gun flew from her hand as she gripped the door frame for balance.
With a grunt, Santana raised her captured leg and slammed it down hoping to have found a target. It had hit the person in the stomach but didn't slow them down. Doing a forward somersault Santana reached for her weapon, but felt herself being pulled back. Rolling her eyes annoyed, Santana turned and threw a punch, landing it on his face. She finally got a good look at her opponent and saw it was the secretary from before.
"I told you, you should've come back tomorrow." He said, smirking even though blood was running down his nose.
"Why? So you could have one more day to live?" Not wanting to talk anymore, Santana raised her knee, kicking his knee harshly. The man groaned in pain, but remained standing. He reeled his arm back but for far too long. Santana was able to block the punch with one arm while the other pushed his on-coming leg down. He tried again, but Santana grabbed his wrist and forced her elbow up to knock his chin. His head snapped back and Santana landed a similar blow to his stomach before kicking him and finally causing him to fall over.
Grabbing her gun, Santana aimed it at his head, keeping the sole of her boot planted on his chest to keep him down. "You try grabbing my ankle and tripping me, you'll be lucky to pass onto the next life with only one bullet hole. I'm that good; the other holes would just be for enjoyment." The main grunted in pain as she applied pressure. "Now talk. Who are you?"
"You should know by now, that I wouldn't tell you that," He spat. "Nor will I tell you who I work for."
"You want to make this difficult don't you?" Santana asked, raising her eyebrow. She changed the angle of her gun and shot. The man let out a cry of shock and pain, looking down at his arm. "A clean shot with the same amount of pain. Next time I'll aim for the artery. Now are you going to talk?"
"No," He said through clenched teeth.
Reaching down, Santana patted the man down and found a gun. Cursing herself silently, she had made a careless mistake. Luckily she had found the gun and tossed it aside before he had a chance to draw. She also found a cell phone and I.D. tag.
"Mark Hewitt?" Santana scrutinized the piece of plastic. "Not your real name I suppose but I bet the fingerprints on them are real. Tell me Mark, do you have a family?" The man remained quiet, staring heavily up at her. "Because I can find them. A wife and one or two little munchkins running around. Wouldn't want their blood on your hands would you? So tell me what I want to know!" Santana made the mistake of leaning down to shout.
Mark, even with his injured arm, grabbed her shoulders, catapulting the young woman over his head. Santana landed with a sharp pain in her side. Looking up quickly, ignoring the wound, Santana him turning toward her.
She recognized the heavy weight in her hand. She raised the gun. She aimed. She shot. And she hit.
Mark fell to the ground, a single bullet in his head.
Panting, Santana stepped over the man and leaned down to check that he was for sure dead. A bullet to the head wasn't always a guarantee. Santana had seen some weird situation in her few years at the Academy. Once certain that he was for sure dead, Santana lifted her shirt and checked her side. She let out a shaky sigh of relief to see nothing embedded in her skin. Instead it would just leave a nasty bruise.
She cast one last look at the man below her sadly. There was no doubt in her mind that the man probably did have a wife and children somewhere at home however Santana didn't dwell to long it. The children, eventually, would get over it. Yes, it would hurt and haunt them for a long time, she knew that personally, but they would soon learn that everyone had to die at some point. Maybe for a good cause, maybe by accident, or maybe, like Santana's parents, it wasn't their time, but there's nothing anyone can do to change it.
"Better have made it quick then letting him bleed out," Santana muttered to herself.
"Don't know if I'll be able to say the same for you, sweetheart."
Santana spun, shocked at the sudden appearance of another person. Normally she would've swung her hand up to knock the gun out of her opponents had, but this specific opponent had always had his own way of stunning here. It was a bad sign that Santana wasn't concerned with the barrel of a gun staring right at her. Instead her gaze had landed elsewhere, on the man who was holding such a weapon to her face.
His famous, personalized smirk grew on his face as he gazed at Santana.
Then he shot her.