Mr. Scale waited in the dim, lemon-scented office, perched in the middle of three leather seats placed in the shape of a U. From where he sat, he could barely make out the desk in front of him. He sighed, wringing his hands, and kept his gaze focused on the imposing chair behind it. He wiped his sweaty palms on his simple suit jacket and fidgeted as he waited for the man behind the desk to acknowledge his presence.641Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjFjSWFlxva
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There were agonizingly long minutes of silence as the sweating man waited, but once his confidence grew, he found the nerve to speak, “I-" he started but stopped abruptly when the person in the swivel chair spun around to face him. That person was a teenager. He had tanned skin and brown hair that fell into deep, dark eyes, boring into Mr. Scale.641Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmThw04bgxe
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The teen placed his elbows down on the desk and made a steeple with his fingertips, studying them as he spoke, “Look, I’ve got business to attend to and I don’t care to waste time. State your reason for this interruption and leave.”
Mr. Scale straightened in his chair. This was a teen. A child even. There had to be a mistake, a misunderstanding. The secretary cleared his throat. “I am the secretary for what's left of our nation's leaders and I’ve been sent by the members of Congress. Am I in the correct place? Is this James Henry Matthews the...Second?"
The teen's eyes grew darker, and he replied, "Yes, you are in the correct place. And I am he that you speak of."
Mr. Scale frowned and leaned forward in his seat. “Is there anyone else I could talk to about this matter? This is about the terrorist.”
James sighed. “My father has retired from this business and my team and I are the best team in this whole facility. So no. There is not.”
Mr. Scale nodded once. He'd have to keep note of that and let his Congressmen know who they were dealing with. Later. He smiled, smug, and raised his voice. He might not have anything to worry about at all. "Congress has agreed that we need to hunt down the people responsible for such a violation of our country. We want them brought back alive, so that they may be punished publicly for what they’ve done. How you do that, we do not care. We just want it done.”
James' eyes narrowed. “Sir, I'll have you know that I am the best assassin in the northeast region. Possibly the best in America. I assure you, I am not some ordinary kid. I could kill you, your wife, your daughters—your whole family for that matter—and there wouldn't be any evidence to prove it. We are here for strictly business, so stop wasting my time by sizing me up incorrectly.”
Mr. Scale swallowed hard. “H—how do you know about my family?” Many more questions popped into his head. Who told the assassin? How could the teen research who he and his family was on such short notice? It couldn't be possible. Or was the assassin really that good?
James smirked. “Like I said, I am the best assassin in the northeast region. My work is good, Mr. Scale.”
Suddenly, Mr. Scale didn't seem so confident and his face dropped.
“Yes, I've done my research. Now, may we continue, or else I'll see you out.” The teen waved his hand toward the door and his expression hardened.
Mr. Scale bit down a retort and the whirling questions and let the subject matter drop. “Yes, as I was saying earlier, Congress—”
“—Wants the terrorist captured alive. Correct?”
“Yes, we do. Americans want us to kill, and that's what we're going to do.”
James nodded and opened one drawer and pulled out a thick stack of paper, muttering, “Hmmph. Just like Osama bin Laden?”
“No, we want the terrorist to be punished far more severely than that. They’ve immobilized the United States and tore us down to the core,” Mr. Scale explained. A grim expression had taken over his features.
“Then you should gather your military and find the terrorist cell, instead of asking me. That is what you did last time, isn’t it?” James asked, his eyes darting up to meet the other man’s gaze.
“That is the method we employed in the past. However, the people are too agitated to accept the time it would take for such an attempt. It took years after 9/11 to finally find Osama bin Laden and—”
“I know as much. So, you’ve come to me because you want them caught immediately, is that it?” James asked, cocking a brow.
"That is what we want."
“The fee for a live capture will, of course, be quite large, as I’m sure you’re aware,” James said, flipping through the stack of paper. When he finished, he turned it to the secretary, then relaxed back in the chair, resting his hands behind his head.
"Yes, yes. You will be paid greatly for your services," Mr. Scale answered, waving a hand in dismissal as he took the papers.
“Then we are agreed. Just sign there. Everything is already prepared, your Congressman called and already made the terms.”
Mr. Scale nodded, pulled a pen from his pocket, and signed his name. He handed it back to James.
“I will begin immediately…if you would be so kind…” James broke off and eyed Mr. Scale pointedly, his grin elongating as his guest's discomfort grew.
“Of course. I’ll be leaving then.” The secretary rose from his chair and briskly walked toward the door, until the teen’s voice interrupted his escape.
“The check should be made out to James Henry Matthews, the second, and I trust that you will not renege on our terms, Mr. Scale?”
“Yes, we will surely not,” Mr. Scale replied.
“Shut the door behind you. I don’t like a draft,” James instructed, nodding toward the door.
The secretary didn't reply and hastily reached the exit, quickly shutting the door.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Mr. Scale heaved a sigh. He continued to hurry down the long hallway, glancing make to make sure the teen wasn't behind him. He wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn there had been an evil, cold prickling along his neck during the time he had been in the room with James. The sensation was gone, but the impression made by James and his thinly veiled threats lingered in his mind, causing an involuntary shiver. There was something wrong with that boy, the secretary thought as he hurried down the hallway. The sooner he got home to hug his daughters, the better he’d feel.
On the other side of the door, James chuckled. He spun his rolling chair to another desk, hidden from view against the corner of the room. James eyed the open laptop on the desk and clicked a file in the right-hand corner. A file opened to show an image of a girl.
The picture was of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, fifteen year old. She was one of the most well-respected masterminds on Earth. The image was of when she had entered in the International Science Convention. She held a large trophy in her hands, showing she had won the top prize with her scientific contributions and research. Her name was Lucy.
With ease, James leaned back in his rolling chair, resting his chin in his palm, studying the profile. Though he knew how dangerous the girl was, he couldn't connect her to the terrorist attack, no matter how much evidence piled against her. Lucy was just a little girl, hardly a teen, and yet she caused so much damage to her own country. He wondered how a girl her size and age could do such a thing.
Though, he couldn't say much himself. Being raised and taught the way he was, ordered to kill on the spot, told to not feel any sort of remorse, he wasn't any better than the younger girl. He, himself, was an assassin, targeting and killing, and training since the age of seven.
Underestimating him according to his age would be the worst mistake anyone could make about him, and he had the feeling it would be the same way with his new target. Though, he planned on not making the same mistake as the many others did to him.
“Well, little Lucy, you might be one of the greatest masterminds on Earth, but you are not, and never will be, number one.” James smiled. “I’d be watching my back if I were you. But then again, I'm not.” He closed the file.
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