The Undercover Assassin

The boss

Nicki worked as a storekeeper in a rundown factory, her unassuming role masking her true identity as a government assassin. No one suspected the 22-year-old behind "NICKI'S FACTORY" was a CIA operative specializing in eliminating threats and compromised agents. For four years, she'd balanced her deadly duties with factory life, content in the shadows.

With her innocent, doll-like face—wide mahogany doe eyes framed by fluttering lashes, sun-kissed ebony skin glowing under a sheen of sweat, high cheekbones, full pink lips, and a shy smile—she disarmed everyone. Her petite 5'4" frame, lithe and curvaceous with hidden muscle, blended in: thick coiled black hair in simple braids under a plain scarf.

One day, armed thugs hijacked the factory, taking everyone hostage. Amid the chaos, Nicki joined the terrified staff, crying and begging for mercy as the leader laughed. His men catcalled the young women, groping themselves with lewd promises. "That fine one by the machine is mine," the boss declared, pointing at Nicki. To his groaning crew, he added, "Pick from the old lot over there." A glare silenced their complaints.

"Are you questioning my generosity?" he barked.

"No, boss," one muttered, "but they're grandma-aged."

"Deal with it," he snapped, dragging a pleading Nicki toward an office. "I'll give you all my savings—please!" she whimpered, playing her part.

He laughed, hoisting her over his shoulder as his men jeered. "Bet the boss lasts two seconds," the complainer wagered. "A thousand bucks!"

"Two grand—he'll go two hours," countered the second-in-command.

Bets flew as the gang harassed the hostages with glee.

In the office, the boss locked the door, pocketed the key, and flung Nicki to the floor. "No one's coming for you," he grinned nastily. "Soften up, or it'll hurt."

But the "helpless" girl stood, brushed herself off, and sat comfortably, flashing a cold smile. Lust clouded his judgment—he pounced, expecting tears. Instead, her fist cracked his temple, knocking him cold.

He awoke tied to a chair with cutting wire that bit into his skin at every struggle. Nicki loomed, her face emotionless, stuffing a torn strip of his own pants into his mouth to muffle his snarls.

She tapped pliers against her palm, then pinched and tugged his nipples until flesh tore, blood dripping down his chest. He thrashed, tears streaming, the wire slicing deeper.

"Do we understand each other?" she asked coolly.

He nodded frantically.

Peering out the window, she returned. "Nod yes, or I pop your eyes." He nodded. "Did orders come for this takeover, or is it your solo act? Right hand for orders, left for solo."

Left hand tapped weakly.

"Sure?" The pliers bit his other nipple. He switched to right—vigorous taps. She squeezed harder, ripping flesh, then stabbed a pen into his left eye. He convulsed, blinded and broken. "Liar," she snarled, yanking two fingernails from his right hand with the pliers.

Outside, the gang mocked the two-second bettor. "Thirty minutes, fool—no noise!"

"Maybe he gagged her," one leered, cupping his groin.

The skeptic approached the door but was stopped by the second-in-command. "Boss said no interruptions—and you owe on the bet."

"Too quiet. Screw the bet."

Silence fell—a challenge. The second-in-command snarled, "What'd you say?"

"Fuck you and your bet."

The fight erupted, slamming bodies against the door. Bangs grew louder, jolting Nicki mid-interrogation.

She blinked, heart pounding—only to realize it was a dream. Her mother's voice pierced the door: "NICKI, GET YOUR SKINNY ASS DOWN HERE NOW, OR YOU'RE GROUNDED!" 

Oh, damn it was only a dream.