HUNTER

18

Having a letter posted through your door addressed to Angie Hunter is kind of surreal. Normal people get married to change their name, but not me - oh no - I killed a guy and suddenly I'm taking over his life. I own his cars, his gear, his beach house which is where I now live, and have training with Agents Wolf and Black on a daily basis in the basement of my home which is a training ground. The Agency, as it likes to call itself keeps in touch through my new company phone, laptop, and have informed me that my contracts will be emailed to me promptly. Good to know. The beach house looks out onto the bay in the main centre of Whitby, has three bedrooms with en suites and a decent sized living room and kitchen. The larger house that the former Agent Hunter owned I sold and used the money to purchase an easel and new paints to relax on the balcony of my new home when I'm not working.

The training was fierce and Black and Wolf knew how to get the best out of me. I've done endless hours of gun safety and, after a serious conversation about my hatred of guns, I decided that I would prefer a more hands-on approach. So now I'm learning how to pick locks, use a bow and arrow, and how to take down a target silently. Which is more my style. I thought I was ready so I informed the boss. But when a ding alerted me to an email confirming the details of my first target I became nervous. I felt out of my depth, over my head, like everything I've learned was peanuts compared to what I might encounter out there. Before I could protest I was gathering my gear, packing my clothes, grabbing my passport, and booking a taxi. All the way to my hotel in London's west end, I was telling myself I shouldn't be doing this. That it wasn't me. But as I unpacked my things and fingered the sharp, curved blade of a throwing dagger the doubts seemed to drift away. I was a killer. I'd killed twice. I only needed to kill a few more times to be a serial killer. Why turn away now?  I thought. Besides the Agency had a contingency clause. If you refused or left the target alive you would be killed and someone would just take your place. You were expendable. It just depended on how much you wanted to stay alive. And I wanted to live. I'd earned it.

Pulling out the red tight bodysuit, red hooded cropped jacket and black boots I'd chosen as my badge, I fight my way into them and tell myself that I would be the fucking best.