Neither of us have said anything in about 15 minutes.
After that awkward meeting, I think we're both trying to avoid making it more awkward.
I just froze when I saw him. I never just freeze. What the hell is wrong with me?
I give myself five minutes before I fall asleep if he's not gonna talk.
As if he heard me, he finally says something.
"So what's your name? Brady didn't me tell anything, just that you're a new recruit," he says while not looking at me. His voice is deep and sends shivers down my back. I shift in my seat a little before I respond.
"Cameron. And yours?" I ask, grateful for finally being able to speak.
"Cole," he replies.
"How long have you been in the program?" I ask.
It seems like this guy is just as good at hiding his emotions as I am. We're both answering in flat, bored tones, not looking at the other.
"I joined last summer," he answers.
That's surprising, considering he looks like he's been doing shit like this for years.
Before I can continue the conversation, my phone vibrates with a text from my mom saying she loves me and good luck.
He glances over at me as I type a reply and scoffs before facing front again.
"Do you have a problem?" I ask bluntly.
He shakes his head while running his tongue on the inside of his cheek, which, damn me, but I find really hot.
"This is why I hate picking up new recruits," he mutters, more to himself, out of nowhere.
I raise my eyebrows at that. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?
"Care to elaborate," I say as my temper is starting to rise.
"You new recruits are always the same. Never having to actually work for anything and getting into the program by connections alone. You know, some of us were picked because of our achievements and hard work."
I genuinely cannot believe what I'm hearing. I met this guy fifteen minutes ago and he's blatantly insulting me, and failing because that shit isn't true.
"You don't even know me. Who the fuck are you to talk," I say.
He looks at me with a slightly confused face, like he didn't expect me to talk back.
"Darling I'm in the FBI, it's kind of my job to be observant. And I've got you all figured out," he responds cockily.
"Please, do tell. Give me the rundown of who I am if you've got it all figured out," I say with feigned interest.
He rolls his eyes. "You're the preppy girl. The girl that always follows rules, gets good grades, and whose only concern is her social life. You're wearing leggings and a sweatshirt which means you're trying to act laidback and nonchalant. But at the same time, you probably have two pounds of makeup on your face. Your sweatshirt says you go to UCLA, which tells me you're like every other California girl and are, most likely, getting a degree in nursing.
You smiled slightly at your phone earlier, proving my point that you only care about your social life since it was probably someone liking a post of yours. And to top it off you don't look like you've worked a day in your life, telling me that the only reason you're even in this program is probably daddy's connections and money," he states like he knows everything.
How arrogant is this man? I wish I could say that his ego makes him less attractive, but it doesn't.
I let out a small laugh at the last thing he said before saying, "First of all, daddy's dead." I have a mocking smile on my face when he glances over at me. His face still gives no emotion away but he looks back at the road, no meeting my eyes. He's embarrassed. Good.
"Next, let's just address a few things. I am definitely not preppy, I'm actually a bitch and you can ask anyone I know. You're right, I do get good grades but it comes easy to me as I'm sure it does for you too. I'm wearing this outfit cause I don't give two shits about what you or anyone else thinks of me, and I'm going to wear what I'm comfortable in. I'm not wearing makeup so thank you so much for the compliment. I do go to UCLA, but I'm majoring in dance. Most of the 'California girls' hate me and I hate them because, apparently, I'm too mean. I smiled at my phone because it was my mom texting me. Oh, and my dad died when I was thirteen," I inform him while keeping that mocking smile on my face.
"Although none of that shit was your business anyway," I continue.
He shifts in his seat, probably uncomfortable after I told him all of his thoughts of me were wrong.
"So how did you get into the program then?" He asks, trying to divert the conversation.
"I've been training in multiple types of fighting since I was seven. My neighbor works for the FBI and told Mr. Brady all about me, not knowing he was recommending me for the program. So Brady staged for three guys to jump me. I had them all on the ground in under five minutes," I say, a tad arrogantly.
He looks at me then, with a surprised and confused face. I meet his stare with an indifferent face. He turns back around when he realizes I'm not going to say anything.
We go back into silence for a while before I decide to break it this time.
"How did you get in?" I ask.
He's quiet for a moment before he responds. "Three guys came into where I work threatening to have a shoot-out. I know how to disable people with weapons, so I did. I took all three out and got everyone in the building to safety,"
Wow. So he's a goddamn hero too? This man would be perfect if he wasn't so arrogant.
"So, tell me about the program," I say, trying to make small talk.
"We don't have to speak to each other," he replies, bored.
"God, you're right. What was I thinking? Let's just sit here in silence for two to three hours. Listen, I try to be civil when I meet new people..." I stop and think about what I just said. "Ok, that's a complete lie. I'm never civil if I can help it. So be grateful I haven't tried to kill you yet. I don't like you either, quite frankly, but I don't want to sit in awkward silence for the whole drive," I finish.
"Please," he scoffs. "Number one, you could never kill me." How is that the only thing he got out of that speech? "And number two, you're probably going to cry the first time you kill someone."
"Who's to say I haven't killed someone before?" I ask while smirking.
He doesn't say anything after that but I see his grip tighten on the steering wheel. Does he believe me?
This guy needs to be put in his place.
"Since you thought you knew everything about me, I think it's only fair I get to make my assessments about you. Don't you think?" I ask.
He doesn't say anything but I can tell he's pissed off. I don't think he's used to people standing up to him.
I take his silence as my cue to go on.
"Considering I got offered this job, I'd say I'm pretty observant. And what I've observed from you so far isn't great. Let me guess, you're the program's brooding 'bad boy'." I put air quotes around the last words. "You keep to yourself, you don't have many friends, and you keep all of your emotions bottled up. At least that's something we have in common.
You have this egotistical, arrogant sense about you that tells me you think you're the best and that no one can compare. The all-black and the tattoos are an intimidation technique, but they also represent your personality. You definitely have anger issues, considering it looks like you're trying to choke the life out of the steering wheel. Oh, and you're really pissed that I'm one of the few people who won't take your bullshit," I ramble off.
I see him clench his jaw so hard I think it might break. I'm right about these things. He's just pissed I figured him out and he couldn't figure me out.
"We're evenly matched. So don't fuck with me," I say when he doesn't speak.
We're plunged back into silence and I'm grateful for it the time. I don't want to talk to him. There's just something about him that makes me want to argue with him. It's like just his presence next to me makes me feel challenged and ready to fight.
I feel powerful knowing I can handle him. I think he's used to people backing off whenever he insults them or pushes them away. That's going to be his first lesson about me: I'm not fucking intimated by him.
____________________
About an hour passes of both of us not saying anything. I stare out the window, lost in my thoughts.
What's it going to be like? Will the other people be like him? Will I be considered inferior to the rest of them?
While I'm stuck in my own head, the car makes a turn. I'm snapped out of my thoughts when I see the car behind us make the same turn.
Something's not right about this. I wouldn't question it if it was just one turn, but they've been behind us for a while now. We would have been separated at some point if it was just a coincidence.
The car is all black, like ours, with tinted windows that are so dark you can't see anything beyond them. Yeah, something's up.
"Cole?" I ask while staring in the side mirror still.
He doesn't respond.
I turn my head to him this time. "Cole," I say louder.
"What?" He snaps. He turns to look at me.
I roll my eyes at his tone. "Look behind us," I tell him.
He looks in the rearview mirror, narrowing his eyes to see the car behind us.
"What about it?" He asks like I'm stupid.
"Well Mr. FBI, if you're as good at your job as you act like you are, you would've noticed that the car behind us has taken every turn we have for the last 20 minutes," I say mockingly. "And since those windows are definitely illegal, I'd bet good money they're not friendly people."
He narrows his eyes at me, considering my statement. He looks back in the mirror at the car for a second before taking a sharp turn down a random road.
"Hold on," he says as he accelerates. He takes more random turns, zigzagging through the city we're driving through. The car behind us speeds up as well and takes every turn we do.
He notices this and floors the accelerator even more.
"Shit," he breathes. "Congratulations, you're in your first car chase," he says sarcastically.
"Great," I say turning back towards the front.
"I'm gonna try to lose them. There's a bag in the back seat with different weapons. Grab it and hand me a gun. Don't touch anything else in the bag, you're not trained and I don't need you blowing us up," he tells me sternly.
Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it.
Damn, he's hot when he takes charge.
Dammit.
I unbuckle and step on the center console to get in the back seat. When I pass him I hear him take in a sharp breath. I'm confused for a moment before I realize my ass was just right next to his face. I roll my eyes at that. Men.
I see a black duffel bag on the floorboard and pull it up on the seat next to me. I unzip it to see all types of weapons. Guns, knives, bullets, daggers, axes, bulletproof vests, and basically anything else you can think of. There's also a first aid kit I see and I hope we don't have to use that. I know how to stitch up wounds and clean them, but I can't promise I won't try to kill him if I have a needle near him.
I grab a standard handgun and load it before clicking the safety off. He watches me in the rearview mirror, probably shocked I know what I'm doing. I hand it to him wordlessly before sitting back in the seat.
"Ok, now turn around and keep your eyes on the car while I drive. Tell me if they do anything," he rushes out.
I nod and do as I'm told because he has more experience than me.
The car continues to follow us, both cars going at ridiculous speeds. I'm thankful it's late at night so there's no traffic and other people getting involved.
As we turn onto a bridge, I see the passenger window of the car roll down and an assault rifle is held out of it. Pointed at us.
"Got to be fucking kidding me," I say, grimacing.
"What? What is it?" I hear Cole ask from the front.
"Our little friends definitely aren't nice people. There's an assault rifle currently pointed at us," I say blandly.
"Dammit," Cole exclaims. "Fuck, ok. I need us to somehow switch places so you can drive and I can take them out. But we can't slow down or stop."
I stare at him like he's crazy even though he can't see me. "Yeah, I have a better idea," I say.
I start rifling through the duffel bag looking for what I need.
"Cameron, you can't fucking shoot a gun, you don't know how. It's more dangerous for you to try using one without training than it is for us to somehow switch," he says, raising his voice.
"Can you shut up, I'm not using a gun," I say, exasperated. I keep digging through the bag until my hand lands on a bundle of throwing knives tied together with a small cord.
I pull them out and untie the cord. I then lean forward and push the sunroof button.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Cole yells at me.
"My job," I yell back.
I step on the center console with both feet and get into a crouch. I tuck the knives into the waistband of my leggings so they're at my disposal.
"Just stop questioning me and keep driving," I demand.
He sighs angrily. "If you get killed, it's not my fault," he says.
I roll my eyes at him. This boy has no idea what I'm capable of.
I pull out a knife and rise in the crouch so my upper body is sticking out of the sunroof.
I don't hesitate, because if I hesitate I'll get shot. I aim for the front right tire, cocking my arm back. When I release the knife I immediately duck back in the car. I can see through the back windshield the car skidded to the side a little. I hit my target.
"What the fuck did you do?" Cole asks, alarmed at seeing the car behind us keep skidding.
"Threw a knife at their tire," I say like he should know that. It's pretty obvious.
He looks at me, surprised, right as bullets start hitting the car.
"Fuck," Cole barks.
"I hope this car is bulletproof," I say.
"It is, now got any other bright ideas," he says mockingly.
I think for a second before an incredibly reckless idea comes to mind.
Bullets continue to rain down on us and it's only a matter of time before one of them hits our tires.
I climb back into the passenger seat and roll down the window.
I look in the mirror and see the man holding the gun has half of his body out of the window to get a better aim at us.
The plan formulates in my head and it better work or we're both dead.
"Roll down your window," I tell Cole.
"What?"
"Roll down your window," I repeat louder, accentuating each word.
"Why?" He asks.
"Just do it. I have a plan. You need to roll down your window and hold your hand with a gun out of it," I explain.
"What? Are you insane? I'll get fucking shot before I even press the trigger," he says looking between me and the road.
"I'll make sure you don't get shot, just do it." I express the truth in my eyes, trying to get him to just trust me on this.
He looks at me and holds my stare. He's breathing heavily and so am I from adrenaline. He looks into my eyes for a second longer before turning away and rolling down his window.
He grabs the gun in his right hand and holds the steering wheel with the left. He looks back at me waiting for me to tell him what to do.
"When I say now, you have to put your hand out the window," I tell him. He just nods once and gets ready for my signal.
I look back in the side mirror and start figuring out where I'll need to aim. I turn in my seat so my chest is facing my chair and lean against the door. I grab a knife from my waistband and start cocking my arm back. I have to time this perfectly.
I take a breath before screaming, "Now."
In a single second, Cole holds his gun out the window.
In the next second, the man holding the gun aims at Cole's arm.
In that same second, I lean out the window releasing the knife and throwing it with all my strength.
Before the man can push the trigger on his gun, my knife embeds itself to the hilt in the center of his chest.
Fucker shouldn't have been leaning out the window.