I glance down the hall, seeing Hannah choking out on the floor. I quickly make my way to her, sliding down to her side. Toro stumbles over to the wall, killing the lights. He's been shot in his right arm. He can't fire with his dominant hand.

My eyes adjust to the dark, regaining my bearings where everything is with the trickles of light that come from the setting sun. I put my gun back in my holster and place my hands on Hannah's stomach, the warm blood seeping between my fingers. At my touch, Hannah flinches, weakly swatting at my wrists. "Hey, hey, it's okay." I gently start applying pressure. Hannah starts shaking her head. "No, no, you're okay," I say calmly. "Look at me, you're okay."

"I'm hit-blood," she wheezes. "Oh god, oh god, I'm going to die, I'm-"

"No, you're fine," I tell her. I hold her wound down but the blood isn't stopping. "Stay with me, don't worry, Hannah." She can't see the concern on my face so it makes my words sound more convincing.

Her soft cries turn to panic. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't apologize, it's not your fault. You're okay."

"I'm sorry you got me," she grunts, straining to take a breath to speak. "I know you think I'm stupid and an amateur and you hate me. I'm sorry I-I replaced Brendon."

"No, I don't hate you," I quickly say. My tear ducts are still active and watering but I don't let her hear the worry in my voice. "You're my partner and we always got each other's back. You're not going to leave me, Hannah." Her breathing becomes fainter. I give her a shake and press firmer. "Agent Reeves, you stay with me. You got my back?"

"You didn't want me," she moans, her head falls to the side, her words getting more incoherent.

"No, that's not true," I tell her. "I just didn't want you to end up like my last partner. He was a friend and...I didn't want to lose another friend."

She's not wheezing anymore but she's barely breathing. So much blood. It's not stopping. "I don't want to die," she says. She's a kid. She's too young. "Oh, god, I don't want to die."

"You're not going to die," I tell her. She chokes out, whimpering softly. "Tell me about your mom. Okay? Who's your mom?"

Hannah reaches down, gripping my wrist tightly, holding onto me as her way of holding onto life. "She's a pilot, lives in Virginia," she whispers. Her voice is easing up, not as afraid thinking of her mom. But her grip is loosening on my wrist.

"What about your dad?" I ask. She starts exhaling. "Hey, where's your dad?"

Her eyes glance to the side and the fear washes off. "Right here," she breathes out. Her hand falls off her side.

I close my eyes and tense up. She didn't have to die. I glance at her hip. She didn't even have time to draw her gun. I haphazardly wipe her blood on my pants and then quickly untuck my shirt. I take her gun out, tucking it behind me in my belt and pulling my shirt over to conceal it. I pat her jacket pock down. Rectangle, left side. She also has a phone on her. I give Hannah one last look. She was so eager. So much hope. A bright future. Had. Her eyes are light brown. I reach up and gently close her eyes.

"Toro," I whisper, "what happened?"

His voice comes from behind me, where he's still heavily breathing. "Shots came from the walls, sprayed the room but hit her. Reeves went down." The shooter hit them through the walls. There aren't any windows, no way to see us from outside. But they knew where to aim. Heat vision scope. And to get through the wood of the cabin, heavy caliber gun. "I called for backup, they're on their way."

"That's not quick enough," I mutter. Agents can't get here fast enough. If they took a jet, they still wouldn't get here fast enough. Our best bet is local reinforcement. But with the equipment the shooter has, I don't think a sheriff will do much use. Still, it's better than nothing if worse comes to worst.

Gunfire echoes again and Toro and I get down as the bullets tear above us. We lay on the floor, pressing down to become one with the ground. Splinters of wood blast off the walls, the bullets losing force and embedding into the wall behind us. The torn up wall grants visibility to the outside. Bright flashing of the guns firing become visible. Then I hear glass shatter. The ceiling light fixture cracks, the glass cracking and falling down. They're shooting way too high. They hit Hannah and Toro before, they knew how to find the targets. They're not trying to hit us now.

Toro peeks his head up, raising his gun. He starts firing back through the holes of the cabin. "Stop!" I cry out. He can't hear me over all the gunfire. "Hold it!" I cry out. He clicks empty.

Moments later, the gunfire stops, my ears ringing in the horrible silence. The door starts shifting. From the other side, I can make out a silhouette of a person through the bullet holes. The door opens and I reach for my gun.

A woman steps through with her weapon drawn. "Don't think about it," she says. She takes two steps to the side, swatting the light switch on without taking her eyes off us. The lights come on except for the ceiling fixture above us and one of the lamps damaged behind us. She smirks at me, raising an eyebrow. "Don't test me." I glare at her, slowly bringing my hand in front of me. Copper hair, tied back in a ponytail, brown eyes, tan skin. A several strands of short hairs rest at the side of her head to conceal the earpiece she has on. But I notice the black gadget. She has a slim frame but a strong build, wearing a work suit but has hiking boots on. "Up." I glance at Toro. I push myself off the ground, rising to my knees and then to my feet. "I said up," she snaps at Toro.

"He can't," I say, glaring at her. "You shot him."

"No, I didn't," the woman chuckles. "Do you see the size of my gun?" she says. There's more of them. Hence the earpiece. Toro groans as he lifts himself up to his knees. He leaves his gun on the floor since it's empty and uses his hand to apply pressure to his arm. "See? I knew he could do it."

He stares up at her. "Who are you?"

"Brooklyn Chase, NSA," she says.

"A likely story," he mutters. Brooklyn smiles at him, with her free hand, takes out a wallet and tosses it to him. He fumbles with it then opens it, blood smearing over the leather. It's her NSA ID. "This is fake."

"Oh, trust me, it's not," she says. "I worked for that. But you don't have to believe me. I'm not here for you." She glances at me and smirks. I glare at her. "I'm here for an old friend."

"What are you talking about?" Toro asks. I stare at her confused.

"My, my, it's been quite a long time. I can hardly recognize you," she says, completely ignoring Toro. "Your face...it's still so pretty."

"I don't know you," I say. There's something missing in her eyes. The brown color. It's not like Brendon or Sarah or Hannah. It's lacking something. Emotions. Sanity. Humanity. She doesn't stare back at me. She stares through me. It's haunting yet...familiar. And almost welcoming. Almost. I take a step back.

"Ah, tsk, tsk, don't move," she says, aiming the gun at Toro. I freeze in my tracks. Brooklyn clicks her tongue twice. In my peripheral vision, I see Frank come out of the room.

I glance at him about to yell when I see someone else. Male, stocky build, 6'0, ashy hair slicked back, five o'clock shadow. He's not wearing a suit. Jeans, steel-toed boots, windbreaker. And he has Frank in a headlock. How did he get him? "Let him go," I say. I glance back at Brooklyn. "He's done nothing wrong. Let him go!"

"You know what he's done," the guy says. His voice is husky. He repositions his arms and Frank's eyes widen, a small squeak escaping his throat.

"Gerard," Frank croaks. His hands paw at the arms locked around his neck. I look at him. The second wave of bullets was too high. It wasn't to hit us, it was to distract us. But not to return pointless fire and waste ammo. So he could get in through the second door and grab Frank.

"You," I growl. I take a step over but the guy squeezes Frank's neck tighter. I go back to where I was, glaring daggers at him. Frank's eyes roll shut and he starts twisting around in the guy's grasp, trying to get loose.

"Even if you don't remember us," Brooklyn says, "you should know what would happen if Frank tried resisting more."

"You're going to break his neck, please, stop," I beg. "Frank," I whisper. They're hurting him. They don't care if he dies. They want me. Why do they want me? Frank stops squirming but he's still shaking. I don't think it's voluntarily though.

Brooklyn tenses up, her face dropping to completely blank. She lowers the gun and stares at me. What is she doing? Her voice is deeper when she speaks. "Mat' govorit, chto nuzhno prosypat'sya."

Click. A lock with the bolt unlatching. Click. A dial to a safe turning to the last digit. Click. The alarm goes off. I am awake.

Everything shuts down. All the tension in my body, all the feelings in my heart, all the thoughts in my head, it all shuts down. I exhale, emptying everything inside me.

I close my eyes as old memories flash through my heads. The rows of bed with the wrist shackles at the headboard, the guards with heavy boots scuffling along the icy tiles, all the rooms for our lessons. The room with seats and desks where we learned ten languages besides Russian, our mother tongue. The narrow hallways with silhouettes of people at the end for target practice. The Discipline Room. Where we trained. And fought. And killed. The weaker children would fight each other, only one allowed to live. I was only considered weak once and I had to kill a girl. Marie. I didn't want to kill anyone else again so I got better. I became the best. And I didn't have to hurt anyone else in that orphanage.

"What'd you say?" the agent on my left asks. Brooklyn doesn't acknowledge him. "Agent Way, what'd she say."

"Yes, what did I say?" she asks me.

I let my natural voice speak, losing the American accent I've been holding onto for 20 years. "Mother says time to wake up."

"Huh?" the agent asks. Brooklyn raises her gun and aims at him. I don't react. She maintains eye contact with me as she fires three times. Two to the heart. One to the head. As it always should be.

She fires three times. Bang. Bang. Bang. Her wrist flicks up for the third shot. It happens too fast for the agent to make a sound. Frank cries out at the sight but his scream muffles into a gag as the other man chokes him. Brooklynn lowers her arm and smiles at me. The agent's body slumps to the ground with a thud. "Dmitry Vasilyevich," she says, stepping toward me. It's been a long time since I've heard my own name. 20 years to be exact.

"I do not remember you," I say naturally. I glance up at the guy. "Or you."

"Peter," he says flatly. I vaguely remember a Peter. We never interacted.

I look back at the woman and she softens up, tilting her head to the side. "It is me," she whispers. She drops the American accent as well, speaking in the same manner as me. "How could you forget?"

"It has been 20 years. And that is not your face. Who are you?"

She smiles. "Zoya Smirnov."

"Zoya," I whisper. I stare at her amazed. She looks nothing like I remember her. Obviously, since they changed her face to look like Brooklyn Chase. But her eyes. It makes sense now. "I did not think you would make it, not going to lie."

Zoya glances down. "Mother saw me as weak and punished me. But being weakest taught me no mercy most of all." No weakness. No mercy. The rules we lived by. She was the weakest, had to fight to the death the most. But she survived it all. No mercy indeed. Zoya gestures her head at Frank. "Why him?" she asks bitterly.

They had the file. They know everything. There's no point in playing dumb or denying it. "People think less of homosexuals," I say.

Peter drags Frank over toward us. Frank's feet skid across the ground. I refrain from wincing at the sound of his retching and choking. There are tears rolls down his cheek, dripping on Peter's sleeve. He's shaking. He's so scared. But I don't react. I can't. I swallow and suppress everything deep down and stand unmoved, unaffected, indifferent. "Is that so?" Zoya asks, switching to Russian. I don't move. She narrows her eyes and smirks.

"Who is he?" Peter asks.

"Just photographer, no threat," I say. I refuse to look at Frank. I can't. "Do not bother wasting bullet."

Peter tightens his grip, Frank desperately trying to breaking free but he's getting weaker. His face is so red and flushed, his eyes bugging out of his head. "He is witness," Peter points out. I hold my breath and Peter glares at me disappointedly. "Or are you vulnerable."

I chuckle, trying to remain cool. "You think little of me."

"Then shoot him," Zoya says.

"Now?" I blurt out.

Zoya grabs the front of my shirt and yanks me down. My knees buckle as she lowers me, forcing me to stare up at her. "Who are you loyal to?" she demands.

I was impulsive to say that. "Not what I mean," I correct with a heavy breath. "If I shoot him now, bullets go through and hit Peter." Not good but the best I could make it. Zoya narrows her eyes at me. I was taught how to lie but so was she. But the only true way for her to tell if I am lying...is to make me shoot Frank.

It'll be okay. I have to do this. And if I don't, then they'll kill me and Frank. I pull Reeve's gun out from my belt behind me and turn to face Peter. Frank stares at me petrified. I raise her gun and take aim at Frank. He can't speak, no sound comes. But I can see his lips mouth a name. "Gerard." That is not my name though. His jaw trembles, his whole body shaking. I swallow everything inside me. I wish I didn't have to look at him and see the look on his face but I need to focus on my target. Frank stares at me helplessly. It'll be okay. There are worse things than getting shot. I told him that. I hope he remembers. I hope he can forgive me somehow. But this is how things have to be.

Peter gives a look at me and then throws Frank to the side, shoving him away. I don't even think about it. I can't. I just let the reflexes take over and pull the trigger. I shoot Frank three times.