Pearce Hudson: #1 My Italian Devil

6.New and improved

I no longer felt like Pearce Hudson as I walked into Quantico the next morning. I was weak and powerless, like had felt five years ago.

I met up with my team in the conference room. Gibson explained the game plan as I sat quietly, lost in thought.

What are you doing Pearce?

Saving Alessandra.

"Did you get that Pearce?" Gibson asked.

"Huh? Yeah."

"Get your head in the game Hudson."

"Yes sir."

Gibson handed me a small blue thin leather book, a passport. I opened it up, going through the pages.

"The stamps are from Canada, UK, France, Russia, Greece, Switzerland, Argentina, Brazil and Italy," Gibson read off. 

"Do I need a passport?" I asked. 

Gibson looked down, "Just in case."

I went through the passport until I landed on my page. Pearce Demetria Hudson, well the name didn't change.

"You're an private investigator with Terry Price Investigators. Jones is Terry Price."

"How do we know that he doesn't know I'm a FBI agent?"

"We don't."

I gulped.

"Morgan, Ross, Green, Osbourne and Crawford are also part of the company. You're apartment is situated in Prospect Hill. Jake is your neighbor and will be your backup. If Dante knows who you are you takes in alive, the FBI, CIA and DEA will deny your involvement."

Gibson looked at me, his eyes turned cold, "Hudson now would be a good time to speak up. Are you in or out?"

My eyes went around the room scanning my colleagues. They were in heads over heels with this mission. They read the files. They knew what Dante did to anyone who interfered with his plans. He brutally murdered them.

"I'm in all the way," I replied.

I met up with Osbourne later that day. She wasn't present during the debrief, but I didn't care as long as we had a common goal of taking down Dante. I met her in front of a beauty salon named, Je suis belle.

"What are we doing here?" I asked. 

Osbourne was dressed in a gray pencil dress with a white blazer and heels. She carried a designer purse around her arms. 

"Well I read in your file that you spoke French."

"So you bring me to a French beauty salon to do what exactly? Speak French."

"No to give you a full makeover. When was the last time you looked into a mirror?"

I wasn't into makeup, dressing up, or heels anymore. When I was in University, makeup was like oxygen. Now I wasn't bothered by it or had time for it. 

"No thanks I don't need a makeover," I backed away. 

"Yes you do," Jessica insisted. "You're going to be undercover as private investigator not an underpaid cop."

The inside of the salon was pink. Women dressed similarly as Jessica sat in the waiting area, reading the latest scandals about the Kardashians on the tabloids. The salon smelled like shampoo, burnt hair, scented candles and nail polish remover.

A woman with dead straight shiny blonde hair greeted us, "Bonjour et bienvenue. Je m'appelle Chantelle. Que puis-je vous aide aujourd'hui?" (Hello and welcome. My name is Chantelle. What can I help you with today?).

"Désole, nous sommes dans un accident," I replied, glaring at Jessica. (Sorry we came in by accident)

Jessica rolled her eyes and pushed past me, "Ne pas nous. Nous allons avoir besoin de tout faire ici. Elle n'a pas été à la recherche aprės elle-même, vous le savez, aprés le divorce. Je vais essayer de la retrouver dans la mer." (No we didn't. We're going to need everything done, here. She hasn't been looking after herself, you after the divorce. I'm trying to get her back in the sea). 

Chantelle licked her lips and her eyes narrowed at me, like I was a prey. She grabbed my arm, her long neon pink fake nails dug into my skin and threw me into the nearest empty chair. 

"Girlzzzz we got a fresh oan. We are going zeed everything!" Chantelle screeched.

A group of girls crowded around me, armed to the teeth, literally with, combs, hair straighteners and hair dryers. They started probing me with their fingers and pointing out my flaws. They started with my hair. Using a concoction of different shampoos, conditioners and hair oils they brought a glossy and smoothness in my hair. They strapped be down in a white linen covered, ripped off my pants and tore off my shirt and preceded to lathe my body in wax. Before I could protest, they started pulled off the wax strips.

"Fuck!"

"Motherfucker!"

"Son of a bitch!"

"Bitch!"

By the time they were done making my body hairless and my hair shiny and pretty, by body was exhausted and red. I sat in a chair wearing a fluffy pink robe, waiting for the next round of torture. Jessica sat next to me, reading a magazine. 

"Why did you join the FBI?" Jessica spoke up, she set down the magazine and looked at me. 

"For my niece Alessandra. I think Dante kidnapped her 5 years ago. I had to find her."

"You could've done that without being an FBI agent. You went Harvard Law School. You passed your bar exam. You speak numerous languages. You could've been a lawyer. And yet you still become a FBI agent. Why? Don't tell me it's the pay because the money is shit."

I fumbled with my robe, "There's no escape from it. Him. Not even if you change your name. You will always be the girl who married a criminal to your friends and family. When you become a FBI agent you can go undercover, be anyone, save lives and do some good. No one judges, because we all have reasons to be an agent. We all have our baggage."

"That we do."

"What about you? You were the CIAs best clandestine operative. Then you switched to counter-intelligence. Doesn't seem like a win."

"It isn't."

"I read your file. You first mission as a CIA agent was Javier Gomez, a drug lord. You went undercover as Isabella Burke. He fell in love with you. You two were married for 5 years."

"That was my first and last mission of Clandestine services."

"You shot and killed him when the SWAT team infiltrated his villa in Mexico. Was it easy...taking his life?"

Jessica's icy blue eyes had a far away look, like she was remembering a memory. Up close you could see how old she was, she had light blonde and was very tall. A few wrinkles in her face indicated she was in her early 40s. 

"Intel indicated he was smuggling cocaine into America. The SWAT team were on the property, demanding him to surrender. He had an opportunity to escape but he wouldn't leave me behind. He had a gun his hand. I told him I was a CIA agent and to put down his weapon. He was angry. He realized our whole relationship was a sham......He just wouldn't put down the gun."

"But it was easier right? Shooting him as Isabella Burke...blaming the fault on someone else."
The glint in Jessica's eyes were gone. We made eye contact in the mirror. Jessica's eyes were shimmering with tears.

"Isabella Burke didn't shoot him. Isabella Burke loved him. But to Jessica Osbourne he was a mission. And no it wasn't easier because at the end of the day it was your own mind and body pulling the trigger. So if comes down to shooting Dante, who's it going to be? Pearce Hudson, the FBI agent who was haunted by her husband. Or Pearce DeNiro who had no idea who her husband was?"