One

Five months ago. Somewhere in East L.A.

The last thing Tony remembered was a pair of eyes.

Doe-like.

Innocent.

Shimmering like they’d never seen war.

Then pain.

Then nothing.

He woke up coughing.

Heat licking at his skin.

He was inside the warehouse.

The same goddamn warehouse he and his team had been investigating—for three fucking whole months.

Now it was burning.

The air was thick with smoke and ash.

Flames chewed through steel beams like they were made of paper.

His ears rang like hell.

His wrists were zip tied.

And his face?

Pressed to the cold concrete.

A brutal contrast to the firestorm around him.

‘It’s not been burning for too long then..’ Tony thought, mind racing.

He could still smell the perfume on his nose.

Faint.

Sweet.

Burning.

“Fuck,” he spat, rolling onto his side, eyes stinging from the smoke.

His head felt like it came from being grounded like a beef.

He tried to move.

Slow and deliberate.

Taking a good look around with little movements that he could.

And assessing his body for more injuries.

He was alone.

No.

Worse than alone.

His team was dead.

All of them.

Six of the best operatives the CIA had on payroll.

They are ghosts.

Men and women who didn't officially exist.

Gone.

Dead.

‘Shit. They would never let this go. Six is a lot of manpower.’

How was he so sure?

He didn't need a pulse to check.

He can spot them.

Fresh blood still oozed from Max, Jessie and Olivia’s head—

One bullet each.

And the other three?

Peter. Calvin and Diane.

Based on their unnatural body angle and the blood pooling beneath them—it was very highly likely that they’d already gone to meet their maker.

And it's all because Tony had let his guard down.

Because he let some pretty girl come close—close enough for someone else to hit his head.

After the girl keeps on whispering some nonsense.

Asking for help. 

‘What bullshit,’ he cursed.

‘Fuck fuck fuck! This one is on me.’

He never saw it coming.

She’d been so convincing.

Too convincing with her crocodile tears.

Showing her full cleavage.

Flawless cleavage.

And soft.

Deliberately sticking it to his chest.

‘Fuck fuck fuck..!’

And worst of all?

He hadn't even gotten her name.

And that pissed him off the most.

‘Why did they leave me alive?’ he wondered after a while.

They should have killed him too.

That would've been cleaner.

And they are making the world safe by killing the likes of him.

A cold bastard.

Now he was a liability.

A loose end.

Alive and responsible for six deaths.

He can already picture how the CIA will sack him.

He started to crawl, dragging himself forward—using his front body toward the exit.

His eyes are peeled open for any enemies that might be still lurking nearby.

And once he had regained a bit of his strength, he snapped the zip ties behind him.

‘It’s too late to get their bodies out.’

He looked back one last time.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I really am.’

Then he walked out.

His whole body feels heavy.

Once he was outside, he patted himself down for his satellite phone.

‘Gone.’

Shit.

He staggered, felt the warm blood sliding down the back of his head.

From the hit.

‘What did they hit me with? Gun? Pipe?’

Does it matter?

His eyes drifted one more time in the warehouse.

It continues to burn.

Like a hell’s gateway.

Orange flames almost reached the sky like throwing hands.

Spitting smoke and ash into the air as if trying to erase the sins committed inside.

Sirens howled in the distance—too late.

As always.

The fire was greedy.

It consumed everything.

Then an unexpected explosion.

Tony was thrown back from the impact.

Coughing.

Clothes scorched.

Skin stinging from the blast debris.

He did not move and stayed on his back.

Staring up.

The sky was already dark.

Warm blood continued to drip from behind his head.

‘I thought I was cold blooded,’ he thought.

‘Not warm.’

His ears were ringing more loudly now.

Somewhere around him, metals screamed.

They were coming.

Tony let his head fall back.

Tension was leaving him.

And in its wake, reality is settling in.

His team. 

His elite team—was gone.

Reduced to corpses and charred bones.

All six of them.

Max. Jessie. Olivia. Peter. Calvin and Diane.

He had trained them himself.

He remembered their laughs.

Their bickering.

Their goddamn loyalty.

Now they are gone.

Because of him.

‘Because I can't keep it in my pants.’

“Fucking bitch,” he cursed under his breath.

“Fucking pretty bitch!” he snarled. 

He slammed his fist to the ground.

The other hand covered his face.

Fighting back his tears.

**

Three days later. CIA’s Manhattan field office.

“You’re suspended, Santa De Leones.”

Tony sat stiff in the office chair across from Nick Gates—the deputy Director.

His head was wrapped in bandages.

His hands too.

His knuckles split.

His jaw was also patched with bandages.

One of his eyes was swollen shut.

Not from the incident, but from one of the agents—Diane’s husband.

He let the bastard hit him.

He wasn't sure why.

“You mean fired,” Tony muttered, voice dry.

“No, suspended. Pending internal investigation. The fact that you’re alive makes this worse,” Nick exhaled.

“You’re the only witness—and the only one who screwed up.”

Tony laughed bitterly.

“You think I don't know that?”

He stood.

Ignoring the pain that flared down his spine.

He started to limp towards the door.

“You sent me and my team to handle a black ops arms deal in East L.A. You gave me intel that was useless,” he stopped limping and tried to stand up straight.

He did not look back at Nick.

“We had to investigate for three months because of it, to make sure. To make sure that there are no mistakes,” Tony exhaled then gritted his teeth.

“And then blame me when the whole place goes up like a bonfire?”

Nick didn't flinch, one of his eyebrows was rising.

“You’re the best we had Santa De Leones. Were.”

Silence.

“And I know you personally. You have a weakness for pretty faces. You screw up because of that.”

Tony’s head turned to his right.

Sensing that there is something that’s not right with what Nick said.

“Don't be dramatic. Unless there is no pretty woman involved, you don't mess shit up.”

Silence again.

Then, “Turn in your badge. Take some fucking time off. Lose that penchant of yours for pretty things. I suggest going to Europe or Zimbabwe.”

Nick’s eyes are dead serious.

“And, you look like fucking hell itself.”

**