Chapter One

I found myself sitting patiently in an empty, quiet waiting room, waiting for my interview to begin. Wanting to impress the person interviewing me, I followed the requested dress, which was fairly clear and not specific. Having some freedom with the dress code, I decided to dress in dark blue denim jeans, a gray button-up shirt, and a black denim jacket. In addition, I wore a beautiful black-and-gold watch on my right wrist, admiring a possession of mine that I had bought with my own money. Everytime I look at that watch, I think about what happens when I follow my daddy's advice.

If you want something, you have to work for it.

My daddy always gave me and my siblings some reliable words to live by, but I just seemed to take them more to heart than they did. I looked up to my daddy, who perfectly balanced his work, social, and family lives as if it was too easy. He never showed fear, even though I knew he was scared out of his mind, and that's why I admire him. My momma said that I was always a "daddy's girl" since day one, and it definitely showed. Despite her also saying that I looked a lot like him, I see myself as the perfect blend of my mother and father.

My patience paid off when the person interviewing me stepped into the room. He was a fairly elderly gentleman who looked to be in his mid-forties. He was wearing a formal suit and tie, with a golden Amuda watch gracing his left wrist. I could tell right away that he was a man of business who disliked injustice in the world of politics.

"Are you my ten o'clock interview?" he asked.

"Yes I am," I answered, rising from my seat quickly to face him. "Pleasure to meet you face-to-face, Mr. President."

"It's a pleasure to meet you. What is your name?" he asked.

"Veronica. Veronica Crawford," I stated. "But everyone calls me Rocky."

"Nice to meet you, Veronica. Welcome to the Statesman Agency. This is just the main headquarters, and there's a lot more secret headquarters all across the United States. Now tell me, for secret agent purposes, what is your codename?" he asked.

"Agent Blackjack."

"Agent Blackjack, huh? I like that. Has a nice ring to it," he said, gesturing for me to come with him. "Now, come. Let's go get you set up."

I was confused because this wasn't a typical job interview. "Don't you need my resume and reference letters?" I asked.

"Those aren't required, but I'll take them for future reference," the president said. "I can use these when I'm looking for agents to go on dangerous missions."

There was a short silence that cut through the air faster than a hot knife through butter. I panicked on what to say next because I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of the most revered person in the country. One slip-up in words, and I risk losing any future jobs I have the chance at getting in the future. Only if that happens will my world start to crumble down. I don't want that to happen.

"When can I start?" I asked. "I'm available right now if you need me."

The president then beamed with great joy and hope. "I'm glad you asked, Agent. We've got a mission on our hands that I think will establish you as a Statesman."

"What does this entail?"

"You'll be paired with a higher-ranked agent to accomplish this mission. That way, you can learn what being a part of the Statesman Agency is like," the president said.

We arrived at a large conference room that looked as though it was from a movie. With beautiful mahogany walls and low, calming lighting, my feeling of uneasiness and debilitating anxiety went away as fast as they came. Only the president and I were the ones in there, but that changed rather quickly. As I stood frozen in front of the large rectangular table, the president went to the farthest head on the table and pressed a button to project a live, holographic image of a fellow agent. Apparently, he's the agent I would be paired up with for this mission. Keeping true to myself, I crossed my arms across my chest with confidence, showing that I was confident and tough-looking. No, I wasn't trying to intimidate the agent whom I'd be paired with. I was just trying to show this agent that I am a tough, hardworking individual, and that I was ready for whatever came my way.

"We have quite the dangerous mission on our hands, so we paired you up with the highest ranked agent in the Statesman Agency. Right now, he's at the headquarters in Lynchburg. Blackjack, meet Agent Whiskey," the president said, directing me to the live, holographic image.

The agent saluted a two-finger salute at me, to which I acknowledged with a simple nod. I do have to say that it was a pretty damn good holographic call. From what I was seeing, I could tell that Agent Whiskey was definitely the western cowboy type, which apparently is typical for the Statesman Agency. He looked like a refined gentleman, with brown eyes, which were covered by thin, rectangular, gold-rimmed glasses, black hair, and a black mustache just below his nose. He was wearing a black cowboy hat and a black suit and tie, with a pristine white dress shirt to complement it. However, I cannot confirm this appearance because his image had a blue tint. I guess that's typical for a holographic conference call.

"Kid, this mission we're on is a dangerous one. More dangerous than a thousand poison-

ous snakes waiting to pounce on ya. It's also so complex that the higher-ups won't get all of the information until a couple hours from now. There's a lot of information to take in in regards to this mission," he said coolly yet seriously in a southern accent.

I nodded and allowed Agent Whiskey to continue on because he clearly had more to say. "I suggest that we meet up at a rendezvous point to try and earn each other's trust before going head-on into this dangerous mission. If we're going to be working together, I might as well build a connection with the agent I'll be partnered with. How about, say, we meet up at the local distil-

lery here in Lynchburg. It's a perfect time for you to get adjusted to the headquarters and to get to know how I operate this headquarter office here. What do you say?" he asked.

I nodded. "Sounds like a plan to me."

"I'm sending a ride to come pick you up. It shouldn't take too long. Only twenty minutes should be the wait," Whiskey said, informing me of the new development.

"Great. I shall see you soon. Until soon, Agent Whiskey," I said.

"I'll see you shortly, Agent Blackjack," Whiskey said, signing off.

I acknowledged Whiskey signing off and turned my attention back to the president. "Ag-

ent Whiskey is a great agent to learn under. I have faith in you two. If this mission doesn't get accomplished, then the world will be no more. It's up to you two agents to make sure that the world stays intact."

"You can count on us, Mr. President," I confidently declared, saluting him.

"The whole world is counting on you two," the president said confidently.

Not too long after, I ventured out to the exterior of the headquarters, where the driver that Agent Whiskey sent to pick me up patiently waited for me. Seeing me, he immediately made no hesitation to open the back passenger door, enhancing his gentleman qualities. It saved me some hassle of opening the door myself, but it definitely was nice of him to do that. I have to appreciate him for that.

"Thank you so much," I said to him as I slid inside the back seat of the black 2023 Chevy Escapade.

"No problem, Agent Blackjack," said the driver as he made haste in hopping into the driver's seat and driving away.

Whiskey was right. It was only about a twenty-minute drive from the main headquarters to the Statesman Agency headquarters in Lynchburg. My patience paid off throughout that entire ride, but did I really have to exercise that much patience for such a short ride? No. No, I did not. I mainly kept to myself and kept fantasizing about this mission I got roped into with Agent Whiskey. I knew it was considered extremely dangerous, but was it so dangerous that I sacrificed my chance of living a full life? Was it so dangerous that I risked dying? I wasn't old enough, nor was I ready, to join my twin brother in heaven since I hadn't left my mark on the world yet. I have to establish my legacy and live a great life first before even thinking about joining God and my twin brother.

I arrived at the rendezvous point after just a little while. Looking out the window and try-

ing to take in my surroundings, I immediately became shocked at how large and modern this he-

adquarters was. The exterior had a taste of rustic and modern chic, which I found quite appealing to my eyes. It made me wonder what the inside of this facility looked like.

"Thank you," I said to the driver, as he opened the door and allowed me to slide out.

"Of course, Agent Blackjack," the driver responded, shutting the door and pressing a button on his watch. "I alerted Agent Whiskey and told him that you arrived. He should be out to greet you shortly."

"Thank you," I said, thanking the driver graciously.

As the driver drove off, I decided to take action into my own hands and walk inside the facility. Of course, I was scared out of my mind, but I knew that I had to have courage. If I didn't march into that facility with bold pride and confidence strapped onto my shoulders, then I'd be a wuss for the rest of my life. If I didn't march into that facility and decided to turn back, then I wouldn't have come face-to-face with the man I'd be tied to for the rest of my life.

I entered the facility and shut the door behind me, exercising my habit of politeness that I've had ever since I could walk and talk. It wasn't even five seconds after I shut that door when Agent Whiskey appeared in front of me. He was exactly how I thought he'd look if I met him in person; he was a charming, gentleman cowboy whose eyes and smirk brought a sense of warm-

ness to my heart.

"Hello, gorgeous," he coolly said, trying to charm me under his spell. "I'm Jack. What's your name?"

I remained silent, as I quietly tried to suppress my feelings for him. I resisted his urges because there was a bigger mission on our hands that needed to be handled first. I felt that the bigger problem in my work should be handled before I even think about having feelings for someone.

"How would you like to ride home on a real cowboy? I got a six-pack of cold ones in there all nice, and my roomie'll be out all night. So you can scream my name as long as ya need to, sugar," he said loudly, trying to seduce me.

That didn't work for him, now did it? I'm too strong-minded to be seduced easily. Plus, there's a bigger mission on our hands that needs to be dealt with first before I think about having a relationship with anyone.

"Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast, cowboy," I said in a playfully defiant tone, raising my hand and stopping him from getting any closer into my personal bubble.

I guess you can say that he was quite shocked with my reaction. Perhaps he's always used to charming women under his spell right away. Not me, buddy. I'm much more tough-minded like that. You'll have to work for it in order to get me.

"I got a few ground rules for the both of us to follow," I declared. "They're fairly simple to follow, but they're complicated if you break them."

"Run 'em down, sugar. Whatcha got?" he questioned, eagerly awaiting for what these rules were.

"Ground Rule Number One: If we decide that we're going to sleep with each other, then we have to make damn sure that we won't be interrupted. I don't want to have to stop a pleasur-

able—and hopefully, decently long—experience with something that requires more of my attention. Ground Rule Number Two: If we, at one point during this mission, fall in love with one another, then we have to keep our cover in the public eye. Once we're in private and are damn sure that no one will find out, then we can act on our feelings. Only after the mission is done will we be able to allow our feelings to show, no matter the environment we're in," I explained. "And last but not least, Ground Rule Number Three. Please treat me with some respect. This is my first mission, and I'm just trying to learn the ropes of the Statesman. I can guarantee that I'll treat you with the highest respect, so there's nothing wrong with anything on my end. You treat me right, I'll treat you right. Then, everything will be fine. Any questions?"

"Is Ground Rule Number Three based on how you were raised? Just curious," Whiskey asked, being genuinely curious about the background of my third ground rule.

"Yeah. My momma and daddy raised me well, but I mainly stuck to my daddy. He had some wise words that I generally followed. What can I say? I was always a daddy's girl," I explained to Whiskey, who carefully listened along.

"All right, sugar. I dig that," he said. "Come. Let me show you around the headquarters here. It's a lotta land to cover, lotta land to get used to."

I then followed Whiskey around as he showed me every square inch of the facility, mak-

ing sure that I know my way around. I mainly kept to myself and actively listened to Whiskey describing to me the different places at this facility, so I could get around relatively easily.

"Come on, sugar. Let me treat ya to a drink," he offered graciously, leading me to a bar where he's able to create several cocktails and alcoholic beverages. "Important question for you, though. Are you the legal age to be drinking legally?"

"Yeah. I just turned twenty-one in August," I confirmed.

He ventured behind the bar and prepared to make up some drinks for the both of us. "Have you started drinking yet?"

"No," I said simply.

"I got ya, sugar. I'll start ya with somethin' easy first. Whatcha thirsting for?" he asked.

I had to think about the answer to that question for quite some time. I hadn't started drin-

king yet, mainly because I hadn't found the time, and I also followed the laws as a true goody-

two-shoes. I was initially afraid of breaking the rules, but since I turned twenty-one, I realized that some of the laws I avoided breaking in my youth did not apply to an adult like me.

"How about some of your finest whiskey?" I suggested.

"You got it," Whiskey said, winking and immediately making up a drink for me.

I sat at the bar, patiently waiting for my drink to appear in front of me. I kept thinking to myself about Whiskey and his undiscovered habits. Was he secretly a bad guy? Was he trying to use me for his dastardly scheme I knew nothing about? He has yet to earn my trust as a person, but as an agent…he's got very little time to do so.

"So, Rocky. A little birdy told me that you're from the Tennessee area," Whiskey said, finishing up the drinks and taking a seat on the barstool next to me.

"I sure am. Born in Nashville, raised in Chattanooga," I confirmed. "Pretty great western life, if I do say so myself."

"And I assume you didn't get into a farm lifestyle," Whiskey asked.

"Nope. Never got into it."

"Kept a pretty quiet life, huh?" Whiskey asked.

"Kept busy with school and my part-time job," I answered. "Wanted to earn my own way through life. Plus, I had a gym membership that I had to pay for."

"Part-time job? What was that, sugar?"

"At the police station in Chattanooga," I answered. "Mainly worked right alongside the officers to learn how to keep the peace and protect the people. Paid great money, though."

"And what's your actual name, then? I kinda told ya mine. Never got to learn yours," Whiskey commented.

"Veronica."

"Veronica," Whiskey repeated. "Nice name. Hadn't heard one like that in a while."

"Don't ya need to know my last name? In order to find out more about me?" I asked in confusion.

"Nah, sugar. I'll find out eventually," Whiskey answered boldly.

A short silence cut through the air, and all that was heard was the sound of me and Whiskey regularly breathing. I struggled with trying to find the next bit of facts about myself so I could push the conversation forward. I figured that by showing Whiskey the tattoos I possessed, then he'd finally see how I stay motivated to keep going.

"You wanna see my tattoos?" I asked him.

"You have tattoos?" he asked in disbelief. "To be honest, I didn't see you as a girl who would get tattoos."

"Only two. They're decently sized. Not full-sleeved."

"Can I see them?" Whiskey asked, seeming very interested in what my tattoos looked like.

"Of course," I answered, hopping off my barstool quickly.

I proceeded to take off my left boot, using my right leg to balance effortlessly. I wanted to show Whiskey the tattoos that are part of my personality, as well personal motivators for me. Every time I look down on them, it's a reminder for me to keep going. The tattoo dedicated to my brother, especially, is a reminder for me to keep pushing forward and to never give up. It's like having my twin brother right there with me.

I kicked my leg up onto the counter, hopping on my right leg to keep my balance. I showed Whiskey my ankle after rolling up my left pant leg, showing off my decent-sized tattoo. It was four cards—all aces, all are the different suits—on top of one another, showing their suit. It was outlined in black ink, which made it have a cartoon look to it; personally, I loved it because it paid homage to my code name: Agent Blackjack.

"That's nice. Looks almost realistic," Whiskey commented. "Why the cards?"

"Pays homage to my codename Blackjack," I added, rolling my pant leg back down. "I have another tattoo, as well."

"Another one? Damn, sugar. You surprise me every day," Whiskey exclaimed. "Where is it?"

"On my right forearm," I replied simply. "This one, though. It hits closest to home for me. It carries an emotional meaning for me."

I then removed my leg from the counter and resumed my position on the barstool next to Whiskey. Thinking about the best way to show my special tattoo, I decided to remove my jacket so I could display my forearm tattoo in its full glory. Whiskey, in my effort to show him the tattoo, seemed extra quiet. Maybe that was because he was being extra patient and taking me in in my full glory.

"See it?" I asked.

"You said it had an emotional meaning behind it. Who's it dedicated to?" Whiskey asked. "Is it a boyfriend or something?"

I chuckled. "God no! Never had a relationship before. I've just been busy with school and work. Paid off because I graduated from both high school and college with honors."

I paused for a moment, trying to gather the strength to talk about this tattoo I dedicated to my deceased twin brother. "It's for my twin brother. See?" I said, showing Whiskey every component of the tattoo.

"Here's his full name, his birthday, his death date, a couple crosses, and a couple baseba-

lls, since he loved baseball. He got a full-ride to the University of Tennessee to play it, too. I was there for every one of his games, supporting him in the stands. Now, I can't do that anymore. Granted, it's only been a year, but it still hurts me."

"What happened to him?" Whiskey asked.

"Well, to put it bluntly, he died. He was murdered by members of a mafia known as the Petronella family. He was twenty years old," I answered somberly, trying to wipe away the tears that were slowly welling in my eyes. "Sorry."

"Sugar, don't be sorry for expressing your emotions. It's a tough experience to handle," Whiskey said. "I'm glad that you're handling it like a soldier."

"Thanks," I said somberly.

I felt sorry for Whiskey. He was listening to my sad sob-story about the meaning behind my forearm tattoo and didn't even ask for it. I barely know Whiskey, and it seems like I'm laying all my cards—no pun intended—on the table. That act is usually reserved for those who are in a solid, romantic relationship, and I'm not sure if I'm even fully ready to be in a relationship. There's a bigger mission on our hands, one that has the fate of the world hanging by a small thread. I want to be able to focus on that first rather than my feelings.

"Come on, sugar. We got the mission briefing," Whiskey said, helping me down off the barstool by grabbing my hand.

I followed Whiskey to the wooden wall closest to us. It was the wall that we faced when we sat down at the counter. As Whiskey moved to the shelf, I became confused. How the hell does he suppose we get through the wall?

"How the hell do you suppose we're getting through?" I asked Whiskey.

"Simple, sugar," Whiskey confidently answered. "There's a camera at the top of this wall. All you gotta do is stare at it for five seconds, and it'll do a face recognition and ring you in."

Whiskey stared into the camera's soul for about five seconds, allowing it to see his eyes and facial features clearly. The camera, recognizing Whiskey's face almost immediately, appare-

ntly approved of his appearance.

"Welcome, Agent Whiskey," the camera's voice said out loud in an almost monotone voice.

"See?" Whiskey said. "I'm sorry. I might not have you into the system yet. I'll have to program you in whenever I get the chance."

I remained silent as Whiskey and I ventured into a secret conference room, with the intention of getting all the information we needed for the mission briefing. Being the determined person that I was, I wanted to get all of the information I could in order to get this mission done as soon as possible. This extremely dangerous mission had the fate of the world in the balance, and if I mess up, then everything goes to shit. I don't want that. That's not going to happen on my watch.

I watched as Whiskey pressed a button, and the president came online in a holographic video call. It was like Whiskey was when I first met him. The secret room, in observation, looked very modern and high-tech, making me think that I was in an actual movie. It felt weird, but I had to suppress these feelings. I had to deal with a bigger mission on our hands.

"Here we are, sugar," Whiskey said. "Our secret conference room."

I took a few moments to stay silent and take in my surroundings. "I guess this is where we get all of our mission briefings."

"Mostly," Whiskey answered. "Whenever we're here at this headquarters, this room is where we get our missions. It gives us agents a sense of security that no rats or spies from enemy lines are gonna find out about our plans to ruin them. You get what I'm saying?"

"I sure do."

Agent Whiskey and I turned our attention to the president, waiting for the mission briefing. I knew that this mission would be dangerous, but how dangerous was this mission in de-

tail? How much risk will I have to put up with when I go through with this mission? Of course, I intend on going through with this mission. There ain't no turnin' back for me. I intend on staying with this as long as I'm needed, and I'm keeping to my word. I'm a woman of my word. Agent Whiskey can count on me for that.

The president then started on his mission briefing, as I crossed my arms across my chest and paid attention to all the information Whiskey and I were being given.

"Here it is, agents. There's a new terrorist empire that has risen in prominence again. There are many divisions of this empire, all of which are based on different crimes. One division, the Hellhound Corps, is the division that poses the biggest threat. They're the reason behind sev-

eral deaths and terrorist attacks so far, and they don't plan on stopping there. Nipping this threat in the butt will most undoubtedly help us neutralize future threats to our country and the world. Their latest threat, however, is endangering the entire world. This organization is threatening to destroy the entire world with a weapon in order to achieve their ultimate goal of world domina-

tion and genocide on the global level. Your goal, agents, is to destroy this weapon and take down the Hellhound Corps. Good luck."

The president signed off from the call, leaving me and Whiskey to decide how to success-

fully accomplish this mission. What was the first step? How are we going to successfully take down this insolent jackass trying to take the world down? It was a difficult process to comb through, and with one wrong move…our entire plan, everything we fought for, goes to shit. I don't want to be the reason the world dies. I wouldn't be able to live with myself after that.

"So what's the first step?" Whiskey asked.

I covered my hand with my mouth to try and think of a logical first approach. The silence was deafening between Whiskey and I, making the atmosphere all the more awkward. This killed me. The whole point of me being paired up with Agent Whiskey on this mission was to learn the ropes of the Statesman Agency and make a future connection to him as a mentor and close friend, and staying silent as I thought up a logical approach to a dangerous mission definitely contradicts to what I've been trying to do.

"If we're going to take down one dangerous division out of several in a crime empire, I think we go straight at the leader. Take him down, then it's a domino effect from there. He goes down, everything and everyone else that were associated with him goes down as well."

"That's awfully risky, sugar," Whiskey commented.

"I know," I added, "but it seems logical. We find the leader, we take him down first. Going at the head of an empire is always dangerous, but if we take him down, anything below him goes down after him. You have to take risks in life, no matter if they're dangerous or not, and if we don't go after this guy, then…we might as well kiss our asses goodbye because they're making it sound like he's extremely dangerous."

"We have to be damn sure, sugar, that what we're doing is the right choice for us in this mission. Remember, the fate of the world is in our hands. One slip-up, and we might as well dig our own graves," Whiskey said.

"Don't remind me," I said to him, rubbing the front of my head. "I think—I think it's the right choice. It's risky and dangerous, but it's the most logical."

Whiskey ultimately agreed on the decision to go straight at the leader, but deep down, I knew he had hesitations with it. He probably thought that I was a psychopath with the way I wanted to go straight at the leader. "We have to find him out almost immediately, though. Who knows if and when he'll run again."

After debating it for only a short bit, I then got an idea. What if I can find his profile on the internet? Surely, a terrorist responsible for multiple attacks and deaths has to be somewhere on the news and all over the internet. "I mean, I may or may not be able to hack into the govern-

ment's secret database that has tabs on the world's most wanted criminals."

"You're good at that?" Whiskey asked.

"Course I am! I'm good at that type of shit," I said boldly. "Where's the closest and most powerful computer?"

"This way," Whiskey said, showing me a whole computer room where its purpose is for secret intelligence and spying on the federal government level.

Once I entered the room, I immediately got onto the closest computer I saw and started frantically and intensely hacking into the secret government database. I was like a cheetah on speed, going as fast as I could to get into the database as quickly as possible. The quicker I got in there and found information on the leader, the quicker Whiskey and I could nab him. As I contin-

ued to scour, I noticed Whiskey started pacing back and forth in front of the giant screen at the front of the room while talking on the phone with the president. My gut instinct told me that he was anxious about getting the information needed, but once again, I had to have the power to suppress it. There were bigger problems that had to be handled first.

"If he's plannin' to go on the run, then we have to be able to track him. Mr. President, it's gonna take us some time to find him. We need his name and stuff. That's gonna take some time when we go through the endless database of wanted criminals," Whiskey said.

I clicked the enter key on the keyboard in heroic fashion. "Done!"

Whiskey whipped around to face me, who was beaming with pride. I had just managed to hack into a top-secret government database with ease, so I was rightfully proud of this accompli-

shment, despite the action possibly being considered a crime. But at this point, I didn't care. Wh-

iskey and I were facing a bigger problem. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and in this case, it was committing a crime to get information on a bigger threat.

"You got it?" Whiskey asked, finishing his call with the president.

"Yep," I said, as Whiskey looked over my shoulder with intent.

That's when I started on giving the rundown of the threat Whiskey and I were facing. "His name is Balor Devlin. He's thirty-seven years old and was born in Monroe, Louisiana, one of the most dangerous cities in America. Mom was Hispanic, Dad was Irish. However, he looks more like Italy and Spain had a baby. He doesn't exhibit any Irish qualities at all, other than his last name. Both of his parents are deceased, and so are his nine other siblings. Two older brothers, seven younger siblings. Not sure how many total brothers and sisters he has, since they have such fucked-up names, but I do know that he had a lot."

"How did his parents and siblings die?" Whiskey asked.

"Not sure. Government prolly wants to keep that under wraps. I'll find that out eventually. Don't you worry."

I continued looking at the information the database provided. "Looks like he also has a big influence in The Secret Ring, another division within the Rings of Hellfire. That's the empire the government is concerned with. However, we're most concerned with the Hellhound Corps, the most dangerous division out of all of them."

"The Secret Ring?" Whiskey asked.

"Yeah. That's the empire's drug division. It deals with all crimes that are drug-related. They sell, consume, make, and ship all types of drugs to all types of places. Looks like their only purpose of existing is to serve as a distraction to what Balor is actually doing behind the scenes," I added.

"Lordie! He's a bad one, ain't he, sugar?' Whiskey exclaimed.

"He sure is," I sighed. "What's the next step?"

"Well, we don't know where he is, sugar. Going after him right now will be like going into a wild goose chase with no goose to chase. It's a lost cause, and we can't afford lost causes right now, sugar," Whiskey said.

"So we have to track his location somehow," I assumed, getting a rough idea of how we can manage to tag this terrorist's location. "If these drug shipments are shipped to almost every-

where across the world, that will most likely include Balor's main headquarters. What if we man-

age to tag one of those drug shipments that are going directly to him? That way, we can get his confirmed location, which makes it easier for us to nip him right then and there."

"Yeah, sugar. That sounds like a good idea. But where is this drug shipment line?" Whiskey asked.

I then went back to the computer and pulled up a map that showed the drug shipment lines that The Secret Ring had. It was a map of the United States that showed the different road routes for drug shipping by this drug division. Bright white dots were scattered all over the map, which made me think that they were shipping hubs.

"These lines? These are all the shipping routes that the division has in the United States. They cover every single state. Might as well be almost every square inch of every state. Look how much these routes cover," I explained.

"What are all these dots?" Whiskey asked.

"These are shipping hubs. The main ones are near the big cities, but there are others scattered all over the place," I explained, pointing to some of the dots. "See? Some of them are located not too far from major cities. Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, DC…you get the idea."

Whiskey pondered for just a bit, trying to find out what words he would say next. He had to think of our next set of action steps in our plan. It was a tedious process to comb through. A dangerous one, indeed. He had to think of an action that would be the best to push this crusade

forward, since I don't have enough experience to even logically establish plans.

"What do you think our next plan is?"

"You're asking me that?" I asked in disbelief.

"Well, yeah, sugar. The whole point of you being on this mission is to establish yourself as a Statesman Agent. Gotta get your input once in a while," Whiskey answered with reassurance slipping from his tongue.

I inhaled sharply and prepared myself to give an opinion on the next action phase. "If we're gonna find this guy, we have to confirm his location. If we go and tag some shipments that are going directly to Balor, that's our best bet in finding him."

"And while we're at it, we can raid and take down a hub," Whiskey said.

"Exactly!" I exclaimed. "The problem is…which hub should we shake down?"

"The one in Kentucky seems the most logical," Whiskey suggested.

I looked back over my shoulder to look at him straight in his eyes. "You talkin' 'bout the one in Harlan? Just outside of Middlesboro?"

"Yes, ma'am. I am," Whiskey confirmed. "Close to my home roots, and it's a hub close to the Tennessee border."

"Perfect for them, I guess. You can smuggle drugs very easily over state lines nowadays, unfortunately," I said. "Raiding that hub disrupts the route that runs to Tennessee and any other border states in Kentucky."

I nodded my head. It was a very well thought-up plan by Whiskey, not gonna lie, and I was willing to follow up with that plan. It seemed like the most logical. "So we're going to Harlan to raid a drug shipping hub?"

"We sure are," Whiskey confirmed, giving me his hand. "Come on, sugar. Can't waste no time, can we?"

"Are we gonna suit up with weapons? Maybe I can change?" I asked.

"Of course, sugar. I got some weapons in my hoop-ty," Whiskey replied.

"Might I suggest driving to Chattanooga, so I can quickly stop at my parents' place and snatch up some of my clothes?" I asked.

"Sure. We can do that," Whiskey answered.

"You can be my getaway driver. I'll only be about five minutes," I said.

"Sugar! It's fine. Sure, it's about an hour-and-a-half away, but it's not a problem for me. I got you!" Whiskey reassured.

I was shocked by Whiskey willing to do that for me. Driving an hour-and-a-half to my

hometown, just to turn around and get to Harlan is quite the haul. For Whiskey to do that, it shows how much he cares.

"Now, come on, sugar. We gotta refuel and hit the road. A little birdy is telling me that the hub is about five hours out from the hub in Harlan," Whiskey said. "Gotta get movin' if we're gonna slow down the shipping right away."

Whiskey and I packed up the essential resources needed and ventured off to my home-

town of Chattanooga. Of course, I was designated to be the passenger princess, despite my constant attempts to persuade Whiskey to let me drive. I didn't mind being the passenger princess, but it would be nice to drive around once in a while. Maybe I'll do just that on the miss-

ion. Do I care that I'm taking the reins, even though the higher-ranked Agent Whiskey should? Absolutely not! Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I fully intend to do anything humanly possible to prove myself as a well-established Statesman agent. At least Whiskey might appreciate that I'm taking action as an independent individual.

We drove along the road for about ten minutes to visit a gas station and refuel Whiskey's "hoop-ty" before the long trip to Chattanooga, then Harlan, Kentucky. We might have to refuel once or twice during the trip, but lucky for us, gas prices are low as hell at this time. Then again, it all depends on where you go, and as far as I know, the Tennessee gas average is about a dollar-twenty-five, if we're lucky. It might not be a big deal now, but it is considered expensive over a long period of time.

Whiskey refueled his ride at a gas station about twenty miles outside of the agency, and I sat in the passenger seat, keeping to my "passenger princess" title in an adamant manner. With my sunglasses on, I basked in the warm Tennessee light as it showed from high above. After filling up his ride on gas, Whiskey jumped into the truck and started it up.

"Before we go any further, sugar, take a look in the glove box," he said.

I opened up the glove box to find a small, black, high-tech earpiece, and I examined it carefully out of fear that I'd break it. "What's this?" I asked.

"It's an earpiece. It allows you to communicate with me, and I can communicate with you. Those who are manning the computers back home also have the ability to talk to you," Whiskey explained.

"So it's like a Bluetooth earpiece?"

"More or less," Whiskey answered simply. "Keep it in your ear. It's very important. Otherwise, who knows what could happen."

"Every wrong thing, I guess," I answered. "We don't want that to happen while we're on this mission."

"Exactly," Whiskey said. "No room to make a mistake while on this mission. It's too high-risk and dangerous. One fuck-up, and we might just bite the dust."

After what seemed like an eternity of traveling, Whiskey and I had finally arrived safely to Chattanooga, specifically in the suburbs where I lived. As we passed the "Welcome to Chattanooga" sign, I couldn't help but develop a new feeling of guilt and anxiety. No, I wasn't guilty about coming back here to grab a few resources, but I did feel guilty when I remembered that horrid night of when my twin brother was murdered. I felt like I could've done something to prevent it. Maybe if I responded to the commotion sooner, then my brother might be alive today. I'll never get rid of that guilt that's been residing in the depths of my heart for the longest time, but I just might keep it under control if I had someone who helped me suppress it…and so far, the one I trust with that high duty the most is Agent Whiskey.

He pulled up along the curb that was in front of my house and parked, waiting patiently for me to do what I needed to do and get out.

"I won't be long. I promise," I said.

"Take your time, sugar," Whiskey responded. "Make damn sure you have everything 'cause we ain't turnin' back."

"Trust me. I will," I said, slamming the door shut and dashing up to the house.

I got out our "emergency key" from underneath the doormat and let myself into the house. My parents and siblings weren't home at the time, but they said that I could enter whenever I wanted; I just had to make sure I knew where the emergency key was and put it back once I was done with it. Continuing on to my room upstairs, I only was able to catch small glimpses of the rest of the house, remembering the memories that happened here in the past. Still, that persistent feeling of guilt and shame riddled me, but I didn't let it break me down then and there.

Going into my room, I took one quick glance around, trying so damn hard to fight off the guilt that had the great power of making me emotionally vulnerable. I marched toward my closet, where I kept one of my most prized possessions that I received as a gift on my twenty-first birth-

day. A gift that was presented to me by my father, who knew very much that I always wanted such a gift. Desperately needing this gift for the mission, I grabbed it tightly within my hand, being careful that I don't use it to hurt anyone, including myself. I also grabbed clothes to change into, some food, and some other essentials—including cash—that were necessary to survive on this mission.

Trust me. It's better if I have more resources to stay prepared rather than less.

Once I got all of my resources, I got out of the house, making sure that the mess I left behind was carefully cleaned up. I locked the door calmly and then made a mad dash out to Whiskey's hoop-ty with my prized possession in tow. I could tell by Whiskey's terrified look that he was afraid that I'd hurt him. I knew how to handle my prized possession very well—my very own sniper rifle—and knew that I needed to be careful in order to keep myself and everyone around me safe.

"Whoa there, sugar. Please tell me that thing ain't loaded," he shouted.

I gave him a stupid look. "Does it look like it's loaded? Trust me, Whiskey. I ain't that stupid to run with a loaded gun unless I was in pursuit of a criminal."

"Well, okay then," he said, starting up the truck again. "Toss it in the back, and then, we'll hit the road again."

Like he said, I carefully set my sniper rifle and large bags in the back of the vehicle and hopped into the passenger seat. Whiskey hit the road again as he put the car in drive, while I finished fastening my seatbelt. From that point on, I sat prettily in the seat, once again embracing the "passenger princess" title that I'll hold onto so dearly.