The rumbling whine of a powerful engine. A torrid wind whipping through her hair, brand new cropped, black leather jacket flapping in the breeze. The mostly open road which stretched for miles on out in front of her. It curved unnaturally in the reflection of her dark sunglasses. The old people liked to joke that you could drive for miles in any direction and see nothing. This was that famous Texas wilderness, the endless abandoned prairies. It reminded Ayda of her birthplace, in a weird sort of way, right down to the comparable level of gun toting lowlifes.

Idly, it dawned on her this was the farthest she'd been from town in quite some time, and most certainly the greatest distance she'd ever driven herself. Part of her regretted this, but a much larger portion cared little. There really was absolutely nothing out here, except for the occasional tiny settlement, random old house, or isolated small business.

Not in the mod for music, and nothing else better to do, Ayda reflected on the circumstances which led her to this point. It had been eleven days, almost two weeks since the office job, two weeks of information gathering. In that time, Ayda and Elliot watched the tracker she'd placed in the El Puerto Delivery Service van, observed as its driver made stop after stop, both within and without the city.

Eleven days may seem like a long time, and Ayda agreed. It was Elliot who suggested the lengthy wait. In an operation of this size, caution was paramount. This was a big move, and they had to be absolutely sure. Messing this up could mean an insurmountable setback. To that end, Elliot advocated to collect as much data as possible, and that meant waiting. He wanted to waste even more time, but Ayda wouldn't have it. One-and-a-half weeks was the compromise they reached together.

The teenager did not simply rest on her laurels during this time, either. The deep cut wound from her last encounter with Tahoe had more than healed, and dealings directly with the enemy resumed. Disrupting them posed no danger to the mission at large. That meant it was time for a return to form, to continue fighting the good fight. Ayda continued her operations against the Triad drug dealers. Her methodology was much the same, set up a fake meeting and then crash it.

But the gang had not grown complacent in her short absence. They still used the method of keeping the product in a nearby vehicle on the off chance she showed up. This meant, more often than not, Ayda's busts ended with a car chase. Once again, she was glad for her choice of vehicle. Small size and maneuverability allowed her to chase down her prey with minimal difficulty, even if the cars they drove were occasionally faster and more powerful. Speed meant nothing if they couldn't turn properly.

All of that was the past. Although successful, these events were just echoes of previous happenings. Ayda had much bigger problems to worry about, and they required her full attention. According to the GPS on her phone—which she was amazed still worked out in the boonies—she was close, within a few miles. Soon, it would be time. Everything the team had been working toward was about to come to a hopefully violent and irreversibly destructive end. She needed to focus, to make sure everything was perfect.

Which reminded her, she hadn't done an equipment check in quite some time. This particular job called for a certain specialist tool. Ayda reached down with her left hand to grab her staff. The next required taking her eyes off the road. Grip tight on both the handlebars, Ayda twisted around in her seat just long enough to lay eyes on the second piece. Where her right saddle bag normally would have been was, instead, a jerrycan. Finally, both both eyes locked on the path ahead, Ayda lifted two fingers to her right ear, much like a stereotypical secret serviceman.

"Can you still hear me, El?" She asked, speaking into a black earpiece hanging from her right lobe.

"Loud and clear," said the disembodied voice of Elliot.

"You're still a little bit too loud, actually," Ayda said with a quick wince. "I'll have to turn you down again when this is all over."

"Hey, you just focus on getting out of there in one piece."

"I'll be fine," dismissed the teenager. "You worry too much."

"No, no, I think I worry just enough," argued Elliot.

The conversation died down after that. Neither one of them really felt like talking, although for different reasons. Elliot really could be a worry wart at times, but he had every reason to be. The things Ayda did were insane, and this one definitely took the cake. The girl herself, however, experienced only anxiety. Every bone in her body ached to get this started, like that jittery feeling right before riding a roller coaster.

But the silence suited her just fine. It calmed her down, which she realized was pretty well opposite to the majority of people. Ayda never liked to talk through her anxieties. Doing so made her think about them, which which made her even more anxious. Most of the time, it was better to just keep her mouth shut.

And that's what she did. Throughout the entire rest of the trip—which, admittedly, wasn't all that long—she uttered not a sound. The only ambiance to keep her company was the engine, and the occasional bird.

In time, Ayda arrived at her destination, or as close as she dared bring her bike, anyway. She parked the motor vehicle a little ways down the road, far enough to be well away from whatever action transpired, but not so far that she'd have to hike. This way all of her equipment was well at hand, yet her precious steed stayed well away from the conflict.

Ayda made the short walk over to what she assumed to be the place. A swift look down at her phone confirmed this was, indeed, it. Not much to look at, though. Sitting before her on an unnatural expanse of dirt and bushes was a dilapidated old farmhouse. Specks of white paint remained, but mostly the boards had turned a dull grey color. A simple deck allowed entrance to the beaten up door, despite the hole in its middle The shingles sagged dangerously in the center. The roof would give way at any minute. The windows were absolutely impossible to see out of. Finally, the remnants of a shed lay in a heap to the right a short distance in front of the house, having collapsed long ago.

Ayda sighed. "Here goes nothing, right?" She asked of herself.

The teenager approached the house. She continually looked left and right—head on a swivel—but there was not a single person around. For all intents and purposes, it was completely and totally abandoned. Anyone driving by would believe nobody had set foot on this property in maybe decades. She was alone, and that was even more suspicious.

She stopped several feet away from the porch stairs. Again, the girl looked around. Still no people, still equally as fishy. This was definitely the place, but why would the delivery van come out here on a daily basis if no one was around? What was he possibly doing?There had to be an answer, and her patience ran thin. Time to make something happen.

"Hello?" She shouted at the house. "Anyone home?" Predictably, no one answered. "Hey, assholes, I know you're in there. I'm already getting bored." For emphasis, she stabbed her staff into the ground, holding it not unlike a walking stick. A blast resonated from it, digging a small, shallow crater into the ground.

She paused a little longer this time, hoping a little provocation would perhaps draw them out. However, it did not. It had to be pretty obvious who was knocking at their door. If the accent didn't give her away, then the miniature explosion most certainly would. But still, not a creature was stirring. Ayda needed to draw them out. Fighting them inside would not end well for her. Distantly, this scenario reminded her a little bit of a scene from a movie. She smirked.

"Oh Triaaads, come out to plaaay!" She mocked, realizing she didn't actually know what movie that was from.

In an absolutely astounding and almost feasibly impossible twist of fates, the front door flung open, followed immediately by the the exit of several gangsters, who spread out the moment they passed the precipice. But these weren't the only men. People came around from behind and the sides of the house as well. There obviously was a back door, but the west wall must have sprung a leak, based on the angle the thugs from that direction curved around.

"I can't believe that worked," Ayda breathed in shock.

"You're telling me," Elliot spoke up randomly.

"Shut up, I need to concentrate," chastised Ayda quickly.

"Right, sorry." With that apology, Elliot shut his mouth.

Ayda observed as the Triad gang members poured out of the building. There were already well over a dozen, and more continued to join the fray. These men fit an archetype Ayda hadn't seen yet. Every one of them wore blue denim jeans and most sported t-shirts, although some were bare chested. Not a one of them wore a jacket or had long hair. While mostly Asian, they were a much more diverse group than she expected. Instead of thugs or professionals, they looked like blue collar workers, which Ayda saw as a positive thing, a change of scenery.

After a short moment, the gangsters quit appearing. Ayda observed them in turns, flicking motions of her eyes. She hadn't the time to count them, but there were a considerable few. They did not surround her, but instead gathered in fragmented clumps, groups of three or four, spread out all along the property between the house and herself. They at least knew how to form squads.

Several pairs of eyes bared down upon her, some tense, others just plain curious. Ayda never made a hostile move, but returned the stares in kind. They didn't like her, and she didn't like them. They had an agreement of mutual hatred. The air sat in layers thick enough to be cut with a knife. Ayda decided to lighten the mood before it led to a possible loss of initiative.

"Hello, boys," she mused. "Do you recognize me?"

At almost the exact same moment, every single one of the Triads produced weapons. The vast majority hauled handguns from their pants, but some brought out knives or baseball bats, one even donned a pair of spiked knuckles. The guns were pointed at her, while the melee weapons assumed various ready positions. Instinctively, Ayda did the same, left foot forward, knees slightly bent, staff held out in front of her at an angle from right shoulder to left hip; her favorite fighting stance. Her weapon glowed purple.

"I'll take that as a resounding yes," she quipped. "So, if you know who I am, then you must know why I'm here," Ayda paused to let them speak but, of course, they did not. "I bet there's a pretty big bounty on my head. Which one of you thinks you can take it?" She said with a sinister grin. "I'll even let you have the first shot."

Straightaway at her behest a shot rang out, solitary and sinister. Ayda pivoted just slightly to her right. A quick upward stroke and a blast intercepted the projectile. It shattered into metal dust, rendered inert under the weight of her powers. Ayda locked eyes with the man who had fired it, betrayed both by the stunned look on his face, and the steam rising from his handgun. Their moment, while shared, could not last.

Spurred on by this bout of heroism, the other gangsters opened up in relative unison. A hail of bullets rained down upon Ayda. She met them with equal bravado and overwhelming force. Although it had been a very long time since she'd had to defend against so may bullets, the teenager remembered the skill quite well. With her power, what would have been a deadly encounter for a normal person became mere child's play.

Of course, that's not to say a few random dealers hadn't managed to get off a potshot or two during some of her many drug busts. While noble, these attacks always ended the same way, with the projectiles deflected and the dealer in custody. Doubtless, the men firing at her right now heard the stories. One would think they'd have learned by now, but apparently not.

From where she stood, Ayda saw all. Every leaden projectile which sped at her appeared clear as day. Her movements were fluid and precise, light years ahead of any and all threats. The attacks of the Triad were utterly useless. They could never pray to thwart her defenses. Ayda was infallible. She was in control. This fight was hers to lose.

The metal maelstrom lasted until, gradually, the gangsters ran out of ammo. They carried a wide array of makes and models, so some went dry at different times. But, before long, each and every man ceased firing, although not for lack of trying, of course. Many hollow clicks were heard in a vain attempt to carry on the assault. When the proverbial dust cleared, two men were on the ground. One lay motionless on his back, the other sat nursing a ghastly leg wound. Likely, both took shrapnel instead of redirected bullets, but that would be cool.

A stagnant silence hung in the air, an unsettling contrast to the violent cacophony of gunfire which preceded it only moments before. The men wore terrible expressions, most of them somewhere between shock and fear. Ayda chuckled at their dismay.

"Is that all?" She addressed a captive audience, which did not speak nor interrupt. "Alright, then. My turn."

Without warning, she kicked off the ground. A blast propelled her figure to the right, and drove shoulder straight into the chest of a Triad. He stumbled back in both pain and surprise. He was part of a trio. Ayda quarter turned and laid into the second member of this little group. She struck up with the fore end of her staff, spun it around her head, and then came down from the same direction, each hit accentuated by a blast. The target crumpled in a heap.

The third combatant finally caught on to the danger. Ayda jabbed him in the sternum with her staff's back end before he became a threat. With the other side, she sliced up at the first man, who was just beginning his recovery. A blast under the chin lifted him up off the ground. Ayda brought the weapon high above her head and smashed it into his collar. Bone audibly snapped as he hit the dirt. Finally, as almost an after thought, she finished off the third man with a simple back kick to the stomach. A burst sent him flying.

There would be no rest for the girl. One of the Triads again opened fire on her as soon as this little group was dealt with. It seemed some of them remembered to bring extra clips. Of course, his efforts meant nothing. Ayda blocked his projectiles and again propelled herself. The man hadn't enough time to react. An explosive swipe from her weapon tossed the gun away. A push kick got rid of him.

Two gangsters attacked her from either side, having abandoned their guns for fists. Ayda turned and toppled the one to the left with a blast to the head. As he tumbled, Ayda continued her rotation to strike the right man's knees. His feet swept out from underneath him. While he was in midair, Ayda struck upward from the opposite direction. A powerful burst lobbed him into the roof shingles.

One of the combatants touting a melee weapon chopped straight down at Ayda with an aluminum baseball bat. She widened her grip and blocked above her head. Using his weapon as a pivot, Ayda rotated her own around to smack him in the temple. An accompanying blast sent the poor chap face first into the ground.

A chorus of gunfire filled the air. Three thugs managed to line up and start shooting, not unlike the British soldiers of yesteryear. Although they probably thought this allowed them to more easily concentrate their fire all it really did was make them an easy target. Ayda blocked the first few bullets, swatting them away as if they were mosquitoes.

With an annoyed snarl she once again dashed forward, but this time stopped short. The men ceased their joint attack, expecting to enter close combat. Instead, Ayda smacked the ground with her staff. A shockwave emanated from it, consuming the lot of them. All three men flew backward, one of them colliding with the house, while the others landed somewhere in the field. Ayda straightened with a stifled groan. Although effective, those kinds of attacks required a lot of energy. She tried to avoid them whenever possible.

There wasn't time to worry about any of that now, though. She still had a fight to win. A Triad came at her with a knife. She dodged the slash and knocked him away like nothing. Ayda then transitioned to another group, dashing in to hit them with her weapon. Four strikes for an equal number of simple knockouts.

The enemy numbers were thinning now, and those left standing knew they had little chance of victory. A few ran. They were the smart ones. Ayda had no intention of chasing them down. Her objective right then was to clear the area. If they did so themselves, well that just saved her the trouble of doing it.

Whether subconsciously or otherwise, the remaining six grouped together. Some kept their pistols trained, but a few others at this point realized it was no use, and opted instead for little pocket knives. The gunmen opened up, for what little good it did. Ayda deflected their projectiles but did not dash toward them this time. She walked at a normal pace. They would reflect on the error of their ways, before the end. They would know fear.

The girl approached her victims, moving with the cool calm of an assassin. She withstood the leaden tidal wave, not a scratch on her body nor falter in her step. Closer and closer she came, a menace to all foolish enough to stand in her way. Again, the gangsters slowly ran out of ammunition. Those who ran dry bothered not with reloading, as it would provide little assistance. The final man ceased his attack just as Ayda reached the group.

The front-most of them took the initiative with the most telegraphed punch in human history. Without slowing an inch, Ayda batted him away. A blast into his ribs sent him into the field somewhere. With his failure, three men attacked in unison, standing in a skewed inverted triangle. Staff held horizontally in both hands, Ayda punched forward. Each end of her weapon collided with the face of a Triad simultaneously. Blasts sent them reeling, but not down or out. In their stead, the third came up. A front toe kick doubled him over. The girl whipped her weapon around, smacking one of the first two upside the head. She spun into a low strike to the knees of the second. Both crumpled to the ground. Ayda rose up, adding momentum to the strike which caught the bent over bloke in the forehead. He uprooted and crashed backward into the dirt, head over heels.

At this point, the last couple of men finally joined the fray. One of them cut at Ayda, a very good strike with great power, but not fast enough. Ayda slipped back, out of the way. She could not, however—even with all her speed—dodge the attack from the other person. A left hook rocked her. The punch turned her face away. She took a step to maintain her balance. Rage boiled inside her. This man just signed his final will and testament. For him, mercy was forfeit.

Understandably, the gangsters pushed their offensive. Ayda jabbed the knife-wielder in the throat. He dropped to his knees, instantly descendent into a sputtering fit, labored hacks through a collapsed windpipe. Unable to bring her weapon around in time, Ayda dropped it and caught with her bare hands what would have been another left hook from the final fighter. She held him in place, despite his desperate attempts to be free. Ayda leveled a vicious punch into his stomach. While he still cried out at the pain of bruised organs, she smashed and overhand fist straight into his forehead. The girl released her captive.

He stumbled back. Ayda finished him off with a jumping, spinning hook kick. She did not hold back. A loud blast filled the air. Red mist sprayed from cracks in the man's skull. He fell. His blood painted the soil. As Ayda walked away, she recovered her staff. Her final act was to kick the coughing gangster still on his knees, just to keep him from getting back up.

"You still there, El?" Ayda asked, idly fingering the headset miraculously still in her ear.

"Yeah," he barked through the device. "Yeah, I'm still here."

"I took out the Triad here, so I'm moving on to the next step."

"Alright, just tell me when you do," Elliot requested. "I don't feel like blowing out the speakers on my phone."

"Sure, I'll let you know," agreed the teenager.

She allowed the conversation to die after that in favor of the task at hand. Ayda made the trip back to her bike which—according to plan—was completely undamaged. There, she retrieved the most important part of this entire operation, the bright red jerrycan. Without it, all of this meant absolutely nothing. Luggage in her right hand, same as the staff, she walked back to the house.

Once back, Ayda took a quick moment to survey the destruction, just to make sure none of the defeated cronies had awoken. They remained in a state of forced slumber, exactly where she wanted them. With the coast currently clear, Ayda approached the house.

This was where she sort of lost the plot, just a little bit. She wanted to make sure there was enough time to get away, but too much time increased the chance of failure. Where best to start? In the end, she decided on a point which was about three quarters of the distance between the road and the house. Ayda placed her free hand on the bottom of the jerrycan and tipped it up. Gasoline spilled onto the dirt.

Slowly—great care taken to form a consistent line—Ayda worked her way into the old home. Fuel splattered onto her shoes and jeans as she trailed it up the stairs and onto the porch. This feature posed the greatest obstacle. Getting the flame to travel up them could potentially be a hassle. She made sure to oversaturate this area, just to be safe.

But, that was a bridge she'd cross only at the right time. Right now, the bigger issue was just finishing the job. To that effect, Ayda proceeded through the conveniently open front door, trailing gas behind her all the while. The smell of it stung her nose. All the more reason to be done with proper haste.

The ancient house opened up immediately to a long, narrow hallway, stairs to the second floor against the far wall, and four rooms—two on either side—which led to areas she didn't care about. Whatever color the walls may have had faded long ago, replaced by various shades of dull grey. It smelled of heat and mold. Breathing this kind of air for too long probably wasn't good for her lungs.

A few feet through the door, Ayda paused pouring. She had no idea where the target was, and only so much fluid to spare. No need to waste it while wandering aimlessly. She did have a rough estimate, though, as to the location of the finish line. She'd bet half of her considerable inheritance it was in the basement, if this house even had one.

So, her current job was to find the descendant stairs, and the natural place to look was near the steps going up. Ayda kept a brisk pace toward the end of the hall. The men outside, while incapacitated, could wake up at any moment. A sneak knife to the back would really kill the mood. The quicker she could get in and out, the better.

Everything looked fine. The coast was completely clear as she approached ever closer to the corridor's end. Her progress, however, would be suddenly and stupendously impeded. From the left walked a hulking figure, a tall man broad and the shoulders and bristling with muscle, a single-edged shortsword in each hand. Donned in grey and black urban camouflage, he was a little bit hard to see in the dimly lit house. A harness hung from his shoulders; a pistol firmly strapped to his hip. Dim light reflected off his silvery skin. He stood at the mouth of the hall, menacing down upon her. Ayda stopped in her tracks. Suddenly limp fingers lost their grasp on the jerrycan. It fell to the rotten floorboards with a loud metallic clang. Tahoe.