#wargames.

NAME: KANOA AMIR NANAI  ALIAS(ES): NOA, NOAH KELLY, MALIK MALAITAI APPROX. AGE: 38. (CURRENT) OCCUPATION: OPERATIVE ALLEGIANCE: UNKNOWN. LOCATION: UNKNOWN.

she met him in CAIRO, knee-deep in an infiltration, one that went tits up before she even made it out. she met him during the escape, met him when she threw a solid punch at the man rounding the corner and found her fist planted harmlessly in his chest, a child’s attack against a giant. he’d GRINNED at her, all white teeth in a tan face, and promptly flipped her over his hip into the sand and dust at his feet. she rolled immediately with a dancer’s grace, with an acrobat’s instinct, coming up on the balls of her feet, palming a knife from her back to -- 

and she found the muzzle of his GUN pressed against her temple. she never heard the hammer being cocked back, and didn’t expect to -- he’d come in to this place prepared to kill, just like her, but where she was unhesitant in making a move for his femoral artery, he seemed RELUCTANT to pull the trigger. she almost curled a lip in disdain -- men who couldn’t put down a woman were the worst kind of opponent -- but she doesn’t pass up opportunities. she lifts her chin ( ignores the pressure of the gun against her skin ) and fixes her gaze on him, lets it spit the fire for him that he ( him, them, every man ) loves to see from a woman on her knees. he’s big, looms over her with his gun in his hand; she doesn’t simper. she shifts her weight, shifts the knife in her palm, but doesn’t speak; she waits him out, and pretends HER BACK IS TO THE WALL.

a man like this should know better to than believe a woman like her is ever HELPLESS.

it takes a moment, it’s not instant. she watches him WATCHING her; his eyes are dark, fathomless, set beneath a brow that is smooth of concern, of consideration; he’s not worried. ( fool, fool, you’re a fool, is the chant in her head; it doesn’t show on her face. ) the gun’s muzzle doesn’t waver from its position, doesn’t show indecision; one moment it’s there, the next it’s not, and then he’s hauling her to her feet -- with one STRONG hand ( immense, unshakeable ) wrapped around her wrist. it’s not a mistake he grabbed the hand she’s wielding the KNIFE with. it’s probably a concession to self-preservation. even a reckless agent can’t be stupid enough to trust a pretty stranger with a knife up close.

and she is -- up close. he HAULS HER TO HER FEET, and standing in front of him ( shackled by his grip on her ) she is only as tall as his shoulder, and only just that. he uses that to his advantage when he pulls her around, shoves her back -- PRESSES HER TO THE WALL, her wrist trapped above her head, no doubt in an effort to minimize her lethality. ( he let’s her keep the knife; she refuses to be grateful for it; she uses it. ) she drops the knife deliberately, and when she catches it with her free hand, she moves to strike, -- 

but he’s FAST -- faster than she expected -- and he smacks the knife out of her grip, then takes that hand too; he hauls it up over her head to join its twin, both held tight in one oversized fist. 

she thinks, he’s enormous, and when he pins her body to the wall with the weight of his own, she is suddenly so AWARE of it she’s FURIOUS.

“who are you working for?” he asks, low and polite, as if it were a conversation and not an interrogation. and he asks in arabic, the syllables leaving his tongue in a smooth flow that speaks of fluency. if he is not native ( and he can’t be, look at him ) than he’s very good.

she tips her head up, says ( just as smoothly, in that mother-tongue ), “you first, goliath.”

and he LAUGHS like lions purr, his voice is that deep. he leans low over her, breathes his laughter into her ear as somewhere in the distance a small explosion rocks the building; beneath her skin a sizzle of heat curls around her bones. 

“does that make you david?” he murmurs, all masculine amusement. it sets her teeth on edge. his thumb tracks a caress against the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. his mouth brushes the curve of her jaw and she feels his smirk. “where is your slingshot, giant killer?”

she makes a sound in her throat that she intends to be derisive, “wouldn’t you like to know.”

he laughs again, says, “anytime”, and he says it in english, his breath bursting against the shell of her ear as he buries his face in her hair. she doesn’t stiffen, keeps herself still but firm. she knows this game. she waits.

he breathes her in ( it’s a strange sensation, knowing someone’s taking in the scent of you ) and she hears him say, as if it were a secret, “death shouldn’t smell so sweet.”

she thinks, la manzanita de la muerte, and brings a knee slamming up toward his groin.

he catches the blow in a palm, his fingers wrapping under her knee, immobilizing her. she refuses to be cowed. she tips her chin up, puts her head back against the wall, and stares him down. “go to hell.” she spits it, in english, because it really is the best way to say it, and ignores the way his fingertips slide up the back of her thigh. he’s inching toward her thigh holster, obviously, but it’s intimate-seeming enough to piss her off.

his smile is handsome and she wants to kick holes in it, “only if you promise to send me there yourself, muñeca.” her flicks the release on her holster strap and it clatters to the floor beneath her. “or do you prefer manzanita?”

“i’d prefer if you’d get your hands off me.”

“stop trying to kill me and i’ll consider it.”

“sure,” she says, smiling, “no problem. i won’t kill you.”

he lifted one dark brow at her. “entirely unbelievable.” he manages to make it sound like he’s disappointed, the crook. “the second i let you go, you’re going for it.”

“making a run for it,” she corrected helpfully. “it’s not worth the time i’d lose here, trying to slay a giant with a slingshot.” she watched his grin reappear, just a brief flash of white teeth in his dark face, and ignored the spark of interest that bloomed in her chest. “what do you say to a truce?”

“i could be persuaded. our objectives here aren’t so different.”

“excellent.” she offered him a wide, dazzling smile. “practically partners, then. now, if you’d please--”

another explosion rocked the building. closer. 

he looked down at her, sounded exasperated when he said, “did you rig the entire complex?”

she maintained her smile and let that be her answer.

he released her with a low curse and stepped away to give her some space. 

she was half-bent, reaching for her fallen holster, when he kicked it out of range -- kicked it back behind himself, actually. she lifted her head to raise an eyebrow at him, a look that said really? with as much clarity as the verbal word.

he tipped his head toward the exit. “you’d better get going. you gave yourself -- what? -- two minutes?” he made a show counting under his breath. “yeah, you’re running out of time, princesa.” 

“i like that holster. and the knife that’s in it.”

“i’ll get it back to you.”

she straightened, “what do you propose? air mail?”

“i’ll settle for a name, and a dropsite.”

“if this is your idea of flirtation--”

“it is.”

“no.”

he whistled a note under his breath. “forty seconds.”

it would take half that to clear the route she’d planned. damnit. she grit her teeth momentarily, then pushed her name between her lips like a bullet.

“sorry, what was that?”

“nicole.” 

“nice to meet you, nicole.” he didn’t offer her a hand, but the smirk was back. 

“and you’re suicidal!” she shot back as she urned, giving the knife up for a loss. it was a good weapon -- a favorite -- but not worth her life by any means. she started away from him, headed down the hall at a brisk pace, careful even in her escape. it took her seventeen seconds to make the entryway to the complex, and another ten to achieve minimal safe distance from the blast zone. 

she didn’t look back to see if he followed her out. 

( but when she made it back to base in turkey, there was a package waiting at her desk, overnighted airmail -- from cairo. )

( she knew what it was before she ever opened the envelope. )

the blade has been cleaned, the holster too. and tucked down behind the blade in its sheath there is a note that says, “for the slaying of things other than giants. - goliath.”