Task 1
      âMom? Mom, are you there?â
Yes and no. She was present, at least. Lying on the couch, hair tousled, clothes rumpled. She didnât answer Frankie, as she suspected she wouldnât. Her eyes were half-shut, what was visible staring, unfocussed, on the wall behind her elder daughterâs head. Good. It was easier this way. Nikki, the younger of the sisters, was tucked into bed, fast asleep, and Mike, Nikkiâs father and their motherâs husband, was working, so the drunken stupor the older woman had fallen in made it easy for Frankie to slip away, with no questions as to where she was headed, why a fourteen year old girl needed to be at eleven at night, dressed in her motherâs clothes, with make up smeared across her features.
She was lucky she lived in Vegas. In no other city would Frankie have grown up with a blackjack dealer as a step father, have been taught tricks of the trade to keep her occupied as a child. And so, she had made it her nightly routine. Armed with a fake ID, a deck of cards, and a pair of dice in her pocket, she knew better than to hit up the bigger casinos just yet, her body still scrawny and childish, but it was not difficult to locate the tourist in a dingy bar, to flirt just enough and bat her eyelashes, to manipulate the situation until the alcohol in their veins clouded their mind. Then, she brought out the games, let them win, turned it into a friendly competition, coaxing them to bet their money on it, and, without them ever quite knowing how, cleared their wallets and was gone again. Sometimes they got angry. Sometimes their anger turned physical. She had, over the past few months, gotten quite adept at knowing when to duck, and when to deliver a swift blow to the head.
It was worth it. For Nikki, it was worth it.
     âYouâre Good.â
Frankie grinned, leaning over the pool table to sink the shot and win the game. âYou promised me double or nothing. Cough up.â She said smoothly, holding her hand out to the man. He laughed, pulling a wallet from his pocket and counting out fifty dollars. She reached for it, and he moved it just out of her reach, a grin playing around his features. He was handsome, she noticed, his eyes a deep grey, and twinkling with mirth. âYâshould be wearing a stripey jumper and carrying a swag bag, yâthief,â his accent was to die for. Irish, an audible rendition of the sparkle in his eyes. She couldnât deny she was attracted to him.
And, if the way his hands circled her waist, or the way he pressed his lips to hers, was any indicator, he was attracted to her, too.
A few nights later, they met again. At seventeen, it was the first time Frankie stayed out all night., the first time she spent the night with a man. It wasnât just a sexual connection. Ronan, for that was his name, told her a lot about his life. He was twenty-one, four years Frankieâs senior, and, she was surprised when he told her what he was: A con man. Not on a small scale, like she was, he informed her, but the bit leagues, and he ran an operation based in the city. But she had managed to swindle him, and for that, he was impressed. He offered her a place at his side and, enamoured with the Irish boy with the beautiful eyes, Frankie accepted in a heartbeat.
     âHow could this happen?â
Mike paced the floors of the apartment Frankie and Ronan shared, lavishly decorated to Ronanâs decadent tastes. Frankie was silent, shell-shocked, because she couldnât figure it out herself. She had been let out of the police station an hour after spending the night in a cell. Despite a list of charges as long as her forearm, the cops couldnât find a scrap of evidence against her, and after questioning, allowed her to leave. Ronan wasnât so lucky. He had taught Frankie everything she knew about scamming and stealing. How could he not have been careful enough to cover his tracks? Because he believed he was invincible, said a small voice in the back of her head. And it was true. Ronan never bothered to be covert, because he was arrogant enough to believe nothing would ever happen to him. Frankie had Nikki to think about. A little sister who loved her and needed her more than anything. All Ronan had was Frankie, and, despite the past three years of being lovers, business partners, closer than she had ever thought it possible to be to another person, Frankie had not been enough.
     âDonât you get it? Itâs over.â
The words were a slap in the face. She had woken to the sound of the door being splintered inwards by a size ten boot, to the sounds of men rushing into her apartment. She recognised them. Collins, Daniel, and Murray, friends of Ronanâs. She hadnât been in contact with him for weeks. He hadnât called, and when she turned up to see him in jail, he hadnât come out to meet her.
She was lonely. Mike and her mother had decided that Vegas had ruined Frankie, and they werenât going to let the same happen to their youngest daughter, and her family had moved away without so much as a phone call back to Frankie. She still ran cons, still organised scams, still put the money into the account she shared with Ronan, waiting for the day he could apply for parole and they could start their lives together.
But now these men were in her living room, helping themselves to her furniture, and telling her that the future she was saving for wasnât going to happen. That Ronan was done with her and never wanted to see her again. That the past few months she had spent waiting for him were for nothing, that losing her family was for nothing.
She thought about lashing out. About punching Collins in the face. About tackling Daniel to the ground. About  hitting Murray with the heavy statue on the end table by the sofa. But, when it came to it, all she wanted was to lie down and cry.
     âIâll ask again. Give me your purse.â
The girl was crying, scrambling around in her tiny clutch bag for whatever she had. Her nose was bleeding, out of place from where Frankie had hit her, disjointed where it was broken. Her dress was ruined. Good, Frankie thought. It was jealousy talking. She had been watching a man, judging whether it was worth challenging him to a game of darts, when this girl, his girlfriend, had sidled up to his. side. She had waited until the girl left to step outside, to light a cigarette, before pouncing on her, striking her until she fell to the ground and demanding her money.
âHere,â she said, pulling a wad of crumpled bills from her clutch and holding them out to Frankie, tear and blood tracks working down her face. She wasnât that pretty, Frankie thought, bitterness flooding her mind. She turned on her heel, and left her, crying on the sidewalk. It wasnât fair, not at all, that she got to be with the person she loved, and Frankie had lost hers.
She had hit a low. She was alone, living in the dingiest apartment, surviving on petty crimes like mugging. It was a miserable existence, but what choice did she have? She was at rock bottom, and she had nothing.
     âDo you think Iâm stupid?â
Frankie reeled back, regarding the man with apprehension. âI know exactly who you are, Francesca Stone. And I know what youâre doing.â Her instincts hit into overdrive, and her mind screamed at her to run, and so she did. Bolting from the room, she found her path blocked by a bouncer. His hands were on her, trying to restrain her. She reacted before she knew what she was doing, slamming the butt of her hand into his face. Despite his size, the force of the blow caused him to reel back. delivering a swift kick to his knees, forcing him to the ground, she continued to run. And then there were hands on her, dragging her to a halt. She tried to turn, tried to attack, but her pursuer seemed to anticipate her every move.
âIâm not going to hurt you,â he said, and she blinked, returning to a form of clarity, the animal ferocity she had been taken over by slipping away. âI canât tell you my name. But I can tell you Iâm part of something special. The Olympus Initiative. And we want you, Francesca.â
She swallowed, weighing her words carefully. She wanted to respond with something witty, but all that would come out of her mouth was âWhy?â
He laughed. âWeâve had our eye on you for a while. Well, technically, we had our eye on Ronan Quinn. But he was stupid enough to be caught. You, on the other hand. You were smart. Youâre meant for better things than what you have here. We thought we could use you in forgery, but itâs obvious that youâre more suited to hand-to-hand combat. With some training, I think youâd be a pretty formidable fighter. â
She didnât respond, just looked him up and down, silently battling with herself. She didnât know this man, didnât know if what he was saying was true. But, even if it wasnât, what did she have? A crappy apartment paid for with stolen money, and not a friend in the world. Slowly, Frankie nodded.
     âWhat would I have to do?â
