The partially-hidden moon conspired with softly falling snowflakes to obscure her vision. Wiping her eyes with the back of one hand, her weapon clutched in the other. Chilled to the bone and wishing the job over, she waited patiently for her quarry to appear.

While she waited, the faint sound of Russian Christmas music drifted on the air, as if looking for an ear to listen. Margaret shallowed her breathing, to minimize the fog produced by her warm breath. Waiting was always the hardest part of her mission.

Crouching behind an oversized tombstone, she ran her icy fingers over the cryptic ancient symbols cut into the face of the cold stone. She tried to imagine the long-ago craftsman who carved it. Did he know the thick slab of stone would one day hide the slight form of a woman tasked with murder? Probably not, she thought. By the look of the neat lettering, he must have been a master at his trade.

Glancing down at the weapon held securely in her other hand, the thought ran through her mind that she was now considered a master at her craft as well. Though she hadn’t chosen her current occupation, she had trained herself to a strict discipline. Not having control over pulling the trigger or who she killed, she chose instead to ensure each target got one good clean death shot. It was the only gift of mercy allowed her under the circumstance.

The sound of snow crunching underfoot alerted her that her target had arrived. Gripping the rifle in her hand, she listened to him moving closer. Within moments, the sound of an automobile engine could be heard. It sounded like a diesel vehicle, probably a truck or van. It came to an abrupt stop. Tilting her head, Margaret homed in on the sounds around her, alert for signs of other people. Listening carefully, she could hear the crunching of two sets of feet moving through the snow, as the men approached each other.

One man shouted in Russian and the other answered gruffly. An argument ensued, one that she could understand little of. They appeared to be arguing about money. There was something said about getting paid in euros, not rubles.

Peeking above the stone, she looked through the scope of her rifle. Zeroing in on the pair, she pressed her lips together. It was looking like a double hit kind of night.

Her target, one Mr. Seveal Geleane, was a French national with a long history of brokering hits for everyone from the European elite to multi-national corporations, intent on carving out new territory for mining operations. Putting a bullet in his head tonight would save a lot of lives.

The second man was, unfortunately, a tertiary target. Topping Interpol’s most wanted list, Mikael Darcovolof was worth the trouble of crossing the street to avoid for most normal folks. His own government put a price on his head after he attempted to assassinate a territorial governor. Chances were since he failed the first time, this was his second shot at getting the job done. Dragonfly stood to make almost a million off her target. Darcovolof would be another quarter million and keep their Russian office tight with the authorities.

Taking aim at her target first, she squeezed off a clean head shot in what was now getting to be an everyday job for her. Geleane’s head snapped back and a puff of red mist sprayed out, painting the snow around him.

Darcovolof moved fast once he realized their meeting had gone bad. Taking cover behind his car, he began shouting at her in Russian.

Covering her earpiece with one hand, she called in the hit.

“Dark Knight down. I repeat, Dark Knight down.”

“Roger that, Eagle Eye. Return to nest.”

“Negative. Bear eight, in sight. Over. Permission to engage?”

“No shit? Roger that, Eagle Eye. New target is approved. Move on new primary target immediately. Acknowledge.”

“Roger that, sir.”

Popping up over the headstone, she almost caught a bullet in the head. Who would have thought the bureaucrat would be a sharp shooter? He wasn’t too clever though, ‘cause he was still yammering in Russian. She heard his car door open. Leaning around, she shot his tires out and put a couple of holes in his gas tank for good measure. Pleased to see the gasoline leaking onto the ground, she slid back to reload.

Darcovolof was now cursing furiously. Maybe it was just her, but he seemed tightly wound. Jumpy men were unpredictable. Margaret didn’t much care for not being able to anticipate a target’s next move, especially in a life or death situation. Suddenly, she heard the sound of feet crunching over the snow at an accelerated pace, receding in the darkness.

Jumping gracefully over and dodging around tombstones, she gave chase. One hand clutched her sniper rifle and other was extended to aid her balance as she raced after her quarry. Wearing all white had her nearly fading into the snow-covered background.

Darcovolof was a bit out of shape, which slowed him down. Clearing the low stone wall surrounding the cemetery, she could clearly see him running through an open field. Dropping to one knee, she brought her rifle up.

Time to take the shot and call it a night.

That moment of distraction was all it took for someone to get the drop on her. A dull thud to the back of the head brought her to her knees as darkness slowly closed in. Slick cold snow impacted against her cheek as she hit the ground face first. Blinking once, she heard gunshots and saw dark-clad figures running towards her. The slow fade to black felt like the prelude to a death scene from a scary movie.

***

BLINKING ONCE HER EYES open again, she had the feeling time had passed. A ringing in her ears accompanied by a throbbing headache announced her introduction back into the world of the living. Trying to sit before her eyes could adjust, she found herself already seated. Gone was the chill night air, replaced by the damp stink of mold and decay. A shake of her head brought the room into sharp focus. Only it wasn’t a room. Looking straight up she could see the pale moonlight peeking through battered and rotting boards, hastily thrown in place to cover the hole. Both feet were sitting in cold water, reaching almost to her knees. Instead of walls, she found herself surrounded by dimly lit ancient stone.

Margaret’s stomach dropped, as she realized someone had slid her straight down into a well. Her fear of enclosed areas kicked into high gear as a wave of panic threatened to overtake her. Tearing frantically at the ropes, she felt them tighten around her wrists. Forcing herself to calm, she turned back and forth, gently testing in order to figure out the best way to slip free.

Working one constricting band up her shoulder, she wiggled free. Gasping for air, she leaned forward and untied her legs from the chair. The filthy water had seeped into her boots, and the nastiness of it clung to her skin making it feel disgusting. Panicking always brought on a host of other assorted phobias.

Unable to stand it one moment longer, Margaret launched herself at the wall. Finding a hand hold, she tried scaling up. Since the stones were damp and covered with slime, it was impossible to go more than a few feet. Each try resulted in her falling back into the shallow, murky, sludge-filled water. Growling her frustration, she slammed her fist into the stone.

Turning to lean against the wall, she took a deep breath. There was a way out of this situation; she just had to find it. Searching her person, she wasn’t surprised to find that she’d been relieved of her backup weapons and her cell phone. The Bluetooth headset still connected to her ear was nothing more than worthless ornamentation at this point.

Tearing off her jacket, she began to rip it into long pieces. Knotting them together might get her out if she could find something to use as a hook. The only other item in the well was the metal chair that they’d used to lower her down in. It had some weight to it, proving it was made of solid steel. Bludgeoning it against the stone wall, eventually, she managed to break it apart. The only piece suitable for her purpose was the back, being as it was basically a gigantic oval with lower half cut out. Quickly tying a bowline, she looped the length of makeshift rope through the opening. Bracing her back against the far wall, she threw her best curve ball, angling it up and over the side.

Hearing it land with a thud, she swallowed hard before gently pulling it forward. Each time that it came clamoring down on top of her, a little piece of her hope and determination shriveled and died. Still at it after what seemed like hours, she was having a hard time remembering why she was supposed to keep trying. The answer came immediately to mind. You don’t want to die in a slime-infested well in the middle of nowhere. Tossing the brace of metal again, she was surprised that it finally caught on something. Giving her handmade rope a hard yank, she marshaled her strength.

Cheerfully lashing the free end around her waist, she began the arduous task of pulling herself up. The job was made all the more difficult because exhaustion had begun to set in. Climbing one painstaking inch after another, she forced her way up to the opening. Victory felt certain when she grabbed the top row of stones capping the well. Shoving the boards roughly aside, she clawed her way out and collapsed on the ground.

Standing about twenty feet away was her backup team. Jet glanced down at his wristwatch. “I win. She was out in under an hour.”

Gunther smirked, “Just barely under an hour. Three more minutes and you’d have been forking over your hard-earned cash...”

Hauling herself to her feet, Margaret noticed that she’d managed to snag a piece of broken rock sticking out of the ground. Rubbing her slime covered hands on her now dingy pants, she quelled her rage. “I hate to interrupt your half-assed guy bonding time, but can we get the hell outta here?”

Jet grinned, jerking his chin towards the chopper. She hadn’t heard a chopper. That meant the fuckers had been here since before she woke up, taking bets on how long it took her to find a way out. Stalking towards the bird, she remarked without looking at them, “I really hate the pair of you. Just thought you might want to know that in case the tables are ever turned.”

“Don’t be like that. You weren’t in any danger. Besides, you always find your way out of every situation.”

“Shut the fuck up and get us back to Dragonfly.”

“Don’t you want to know about the dude that almost whacked you?”

“Don’t give a shit.”

“Gunther shot him. We made him bleed just for you, Eagle Eye.”

Totally fed up, she snarked irritably, “I’ve got a goddamned name.”

“Calm the hell down. You get two credits for tonight’s job. That means you don’t have to rotate again for almost six weeks. Chill out, it’s no big deal.”

Folding her arms over her chest, Margaret tried to figure out what part of being held hostage and forced to kill people for a living was no big deal. Granted, she was in the military before Dragonfly nabbed her, and killing was part of the job description there as well. However, that was killing for Uncle Sam, whereas this was just killing for cold hard cash. It didn’t sit right with her, but unless she wanted them to go after her twin sister, she’d have to shut up and toe the line. It was a shit deal, but at least Sarah was safe.