TWISTED ꜜ LOUIS PARTRIDGE

⟾ 1 | THE ASH FAMILY

LOUIS 🗡

Sunday, 8:57am

_

DAMN, I'M TIED TO A CHAIR.

It's not even a good one—some rusty oak-wood seat that creaks when I shift to the left—and it's also not the most ideal of situations. Well, it's not the worst. Regardless, I'll give you the brief rundown of what's happening, because I've got at least thirty-seconds before I lose my chance to escape.

Let's begin.

30 seconds—five weeks ago, the SIS (also known as the British Secret Intelligence Service) caught wind of a cartel smuggling home-grown leeches through the canal tunnels. I was assigned the case because of my unblemished track record, and I spent the past three days working undercover.

15 seconds—thanks to my blubbering mission partner (who is probably dead at this point), I got exposed and caught.

14 seconds—they tied me to a chair.

10 seconds—however, I'm in this job for a reason, and silly squanders like this one are basically meaningless. Here's why: my days undercover told me everything I need to know about the inner-workings of the cartel. Three security guards, five handlers, and one mean ol' boss.

They deal in leeches, not money, so they keep their staff small.

5 seconds—in a few seconds one of the guards will walk through that door, and I will be able to escape. How? After some intense thinking, I've determined that they'll send the tallest man in first. I noticed that he smokes at least five times a day and does not eat healthily, so he's bound to have a weakness in his lungs.

3 seconds—jab to the left of his chest, enact an Omoplata to trap his arm, and then follow suit with a Choke Out. Simple.

2 seconds.

1 second.

Show time.

As if on cue, the door to the room swung open, and the shadowy figure of a muscled man stepped in. I didn't hesitate. Propping myself onto the balls of my feet, I spun around, ramming the back end of the chair into man with as much force as I could muster.

It split at the impact, freeing my hands from the binds and eliciting a groan from the guard. I didn't even try to hide my smug grin as I socked him in the gut, twisted his hand behind his head, and wrapped my arm around his neck until he was left gasping for air.

"Hush, hush, now," I whispered in amusement, "when you wake up, they'll have a nice cell for you in prison."

He was knocked out seconds after.

Dusting off my hands, I stood up, striding out of the room with no pain on my conscience. This was part of the job, okay? I didn't join the SIS at eighteen to feel bad about taking down criminals—so pity was out of the question.

They kept me hostage in one of their abandoned train-cars on the outskirts of London, meaning it only took a few steps out of the door and I was already hopping onto the barren ground beneath me. If they were any good at being criminals, they would have had more than one guard on me—but as I said before, they deal in leeches, so the staff is small—and I didn't blame them for underestimating me.

I was working my way up the SIS chain.

Arguably, they'd call me the best agent since Bond (and yes, he actually did exist).