Jemma: Chapter One
Jemma got the text at half past midnight. In the pitch black darkness of her room, she silently read the words. As usual, the message was from an unknown number. It was a simple, innocent text, yet it held so much meaning.
> Don't forget your archery meeting at one o'clock today!
From this message, Jemma understood five things.
1. She would have to get out of bed.
2. She would not get to sleep in like she originally planned.
3. She would have to sneak out without waking her flatmate.
4. She would have to get the job done is less than four hours.
5. She would have to do the job without her favorite knife.
Sighing, Jemma quickly dressed in the darkness of her room. The simple black outfit may not have been much to look at in a fashion show, but it was comfortable and allowed her to move with ease.
After doing a desperate search for her knife, Jemma was forced to grab her gun for backup. She silently padded to the closet in the living room and hesitantly eyed Elena, her flatmate, who was snoring softly from her place on the couch. She gently ran her finger alongside a familiar ridge on the closet's back wall. Using the edge of her nail, she pried open a small compartment. Situated inside the small area was a simple keypad. Jemma silently typed in the password, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds to check on Elena.
Click.
The soft sound of the panel was barely audible in the quiet room. Jemma pulled open the slim panel from the wall. Fitted into the soft velvet of the drawer-like compartment was a slim, metal bow.
The bow and arrow had always been Jemma's weapon of choice. She could've chosen something smaller, easier even, to carry. But something about the weapon just felt right. Maybe it was the reminder of the life she used to have. The life she barely ever let herself remember.
Sliding on the bow, she retrieved her quiver and arrows from the hidden compartments in the kitchen. Standing in front of the living room window, she glanced at her watch.
12:37
It had taken her seven minutes to get ready? Jemma shook her head. She was getting slow.
Sliding out the window, Jemma began her descent down the fire escape.
By the time she had reached her bike, her phone was pinging with more information.
> Let's meet up @ four! How does Starbucks sound?
Jemma began to mentally decode the messages as she drove.
Don't forget your ARCHERY MEETING at ONE today.
- Archery Meeting = A.M.
-One = 1
Let's meet up @ FOUR
- sector four
Something in sector four at 1 a.m.
Jemma's brow furrowed at the missing information. It wasn't unusual to be given partial information, but it didn't mean she had to like it. She thought back through the words in hope of some clue or hint but came up with nothing. Frustrated, she accelerated, speeding down the eerily empty road.
***
Jemma paused a few feet away from the shed, ducking behind a rusting car. She'd hidden her bike about a mile away when she'd received a text warning her to stop. Walking had seemed like a major pain at the time, but the second she'd seen her target destination, she knew she was better off without it.
Doremey's Junk Yard was a seemingly lifeless area. A literal square of wasteland situated in the middle of nowhere. As far as Jemma could see was an ocean of scraps. The only thing that looked even remotely maintained was the shed.
It sat at the edge of the yard, towards what Jemma guessed was an exit. The shed was painted a bright sunny yellow on only two of its four exterior walls leaving the other two to display the original burgundy color. It's lone door faced toward a series of dead and broken cars.
Jemma examined the layout before her. A minefield of broken glass and metal scraps littered the area surrounding the shed. The only way to enter the building safely was through the main pathway which lay in the direct light of a nearby lamppost. Jemma wondered if it had been set up that way purposefully to keep people away.
She gently inched out from behind the car. Leaping over a car hood, Jemma began her trek to the shed.
Suddenly, car crashed through the gates and onto the main pathway. Jemma had barely ducked behind a splintered door when a yellow light washed over the yard. Jemma' heart hammered as she heard the sound of glass crunching under someone's feet.
It wasn't until the car engine turned off that Jemma calmed. The darkness was her cloak. Without it she would surely be found. She peered around the door, her training kicking in.
A stout, barrel chested man leaned on the hood of the car, a cigarette pinched between two of his middle fingers. His hair was a light golden with the first signs of gray pushing through. He wore a faded blue polo shirt accompanied with khaki pants. Jemma guessed he was probably in his late thirties.
Raising her right hand ever so slightly, she took a picture. Almost immediately, her phone began to analyze the man's features. Moments later her phone gave a soft buzz and a simple black box with green text overtook the screen.
TARGET CONFIRMED:
Harold Leavitt
Jemma displayed no outward reaction but inside her stomach flipped. She had performed countless missions in her life but couldn't stop the small hint of nervousness she experienced whenever she confirmed her targets.
She rapidly began to type on her phone, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds to check on the man. Finally her phone gave her the information she needed.
Name: Harold J. Leavitt
Age: 37
Occupation: CEO of Stirling Enterprises (Weapon Manufacturing Company)
Other Businesses, Jobs, or Affiliations: Drug Dealer
Additional Information:
Recent Known Transactions:
June 24th---Mr. Bronston---$300---Product Type: Drug
June 27th---Ms. Arakawa---$4,000---Product Type: Drug
July 4th---Stirling Enterprises Party---$10,000---Product Type: Drug
July 7th---Blue Ghoul----$64,000---Product Type: Unknown
It was a frowned upon practice to check your target's background prior to killing them. It was considered an unnecessary act, possibly because it could compromise the mission. But Jemma did it anyways. She'd always wanted to make sure that there wasn't a mistake. The last thing she needed to worry about was the extra paperwork and explanations accompanied with that mistake.
She compared the man in the photo to the person who stood before her. It was her target, no doubt about it. Her nervousness was soon drowned out with the excitement of the task before her.
Jemma glanced at the man's most recent transaction again. The Blue Ghoul was a local gang that caused plenty of crime in the nearby cities. Sixty-four thousand dollars... she mused. Looked like someone had been supplying a little more than drugs.
She removed the bow from her back and set an arrow in place. She took one more glance around the door and froze, her eyes darting left and right. Where the man had stood moments earlier was no one.
A blow from behind caught her off-guard. She rolled over and let loose an arrow without taking time to register her assailant. It should've been a perfect hit, but the man managed to stumble out of the way with only a slight graze to his arm.
Aw, sugar honey iced tea.
Jemma hated hand-to-hand combat. It made things messier with cleaning up.
She tried to aim another arrow at the man, but he knocked the bow out of her hands and the arrow flew wide. Jemma growled in frustration, before drawing her gun.
The man swung a knife through the air in a wild arc as though trying to fend off a pack of wolves. "Who sent you?" He snarled.
Jemma said nothing, dancing out of reach and trying to aim her gun. Unfortunately for her, the man seemed to know what he was doing. He ducked, rolled, hid- whatever it took to avoid her shots.
She clenched her teeth, sorely missing her knife. She aimed again and attempted to shoot. She was met with an empty click.
She threw the gun aside without a word. This was taking too long.
It was time to finish this.
She plucked an arrow out of her discarded quiver and rolled to her feet. She slowly advanced to the truck where she'd last seen the man.
Without warning, the man leapt from his hiding position. Jemma side stepped and he sprawled into the dirt. He brought up his knife and jabbed upward. Jemma bit her lip to keep from crying out. Without looking down, she stabbed the man with her arrow.
The man howled as Jemma rolled away. She yanked out the knife from her upper arm, wincing slightly at the pain. It wasn't a deep cut but already it had started to bleed. She'd have to finish this job quick if she wanted to get it fixed.
She padded up to the man. He held a cupped hand over one eye, her blood-covered arrow at his side. A grim, determined look overcame Jemma's features.
Raising her hand, she threw the knife. Almost immediately, the man's cries silenced. Jemma didn't have to look to know that he would soon be dead. It was the way the knife had felt as it left her hand, the practiced angle of her wrist, that told her it would be a perfect hit.
She retrieved her bows and arrows and pocketed her gun. She surveyed the area once more before leaving.
The police wouldn't receive the call until late into the next morning. By then, all they could do was retrieve the body. There was no evidence to find the killer.