❝ YOU KNOW, YOU'RE RUDE. ❞
❝ WOW, YOU'RE LIKE A DETECTIVE OR SOMETHING. ❞
Scout Wiley has two sides. The loudmouth mailroom girl who hates coffee, and the trained assassin who never misses her target. Thanks to years of training, these lives hav...
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SCOUT TUGGED AGAINST the tight grip of her father but whatever feeble attempts she tried, she just wasn't strong enough.
"You know, I've always hated that nickname."
A strand of her brunette hair fell into her face as she struggled before giving up and trying to blow it away. She had to save her strength for when it really mattered, there was no point in fighting a losing battle.
Clarke tutted, clicking his tongue and making a small noise in the back of his throat, "That's not what I remember, little bird. What happened? I thought you'd be excited to see me. It's been so many years since I've seen my daughter. Did you not miss me?"
"Oh yeah, I definitely miss the same man that shot me with a laced bullet. Who also sent an assassin to kill me. And let's not forget about that time you set me up and gave an FBI agent my location. Fun times. Right, Pops?"
"I have my reasons for doing the things I did. You've gone soft over the years."
The older man chuckled, loosening his grip on her before forcefully pushing her body away from him. Scout stumbled from the momentum and slightly tripped over her own feet, but then straightening out. Noticing how Clarke hadn't taken her pistol away, she snaked her arm around and pulled it from her waistband, pointing it directing at him.
"Didn't I just say that you would regret doing that? You never did listen. I supposed you got that from your mother." He hummed while wiping his mouth.
Clarke Wiley looked much older and beyond his years: the wrinkles along his face were deepened, the blonde hair was faded and receding, but his piercing blue eyes still remained the same. They were as striking and as cold as she remembered them to be.
Scout flickered her eyes towards her still unconscious mother that sat in the chair behind him, "You leave her out of this."
Her father smirked a soft, quiet little snort at that, hanging his head a second or two before looking straight forward like she was - like he was taunting her - like he wanted her to shoot.
"You wouldn't shoot me, Mockingbird."
"Wanna bet?" She answered, looking squarely at the male and didn't once remove her eyes from his when he stole a glace at Harper.
"I would, actually." Clarke hummed, "Cause if you kill me, then who's going to tell you the truth?"
"Xander already told me everything. I know what you did and I know why you've held a grudge towards the FBI all these years. There's nothing you can tell me that I don't already know."
