The last thing I expected when I woke up this morning was this. I thought the mission would go as planned, seeming as it was so simple. Even went out drinking last night with Ang and Wrigsby as a presumptive celebration. Just goes to show: expect the unexpected in this line of work.

We’d been tracking the target for months. He was a real bad dude. Probably went around kicking puppies in his spare time, not that he had much spare time what with all the weapons he was dealing. Countless white supremacists and coke cartels had been his customers over the years, and we’d finally captured enough of his minions to know where he was residing. And I’d be damned if I said his castle didn’t make me question my career choice.

We’d set up surveillance (under the guise of electricians and plumbers thanks to Wrigsby’s talent for fashion) and were ready to move in. The sonofabitch was hosting a ball of all things and it was no issue to sneak onto the guest list. Ang was wearing a bulletproof cocktail dress and her blonde hair was curled to within an inch of its life. Wrigsby and I were wearing the finest suits- sewed with Kevlar, of course.

We had managed to corner our target. Ang had caused a fantastic distraction by putting laxatives in the chocolate fountain and Wrigsby had seduced our guy into his office. I was about to sedate him for transport when something stopped me. He was begging.

I mean, all us agents are used to begging, but this guy seemed sincere. He swore up and down that he was no criminal; he was an art dealer. I told him he’d made a serious spelling area, but he was in tears. He told me to look in the safe and I did. Filled with paintings. Not even counterfeit ones. “But- we’ve been tracking you? For months!” I screamed. Wrigsby was looking uncomfortable and confused. “I assure you, you have not!” cried our ex-target, “I’m innocent!”

“He’s right,” said someone from the doorway.

Said Special Agent Angela Carr from the doorway. “Ang? What the fu-“ before Wrigsby could finish his sentence Ang had knocked him out. “I never liked that nickname,” she smirked.

Like I said: the last thing I expected was this. To be stabbed in the back by someone I’d worked with for years. Not just the betrayal. The actual dagger she’d decided to stick next to my spine. I screamed at her; “how could you?! How could you?!” Over and over. She just looked into my soul and twisted the knife.