"No time for chit-chat! We gotta move, NOW. Step on it, every second counts! There are already some road-hogging jerks trying to cut us off, and this time, I swear, we're not letting those losers steal our thunder!"
"You got it!"
"Right now, ASAP, in three seconds flat—get me a plane. We’re going in stealth mode, sneaking in like ninjas, no shooting, just a straight shot to the target!"
"On it!"
The sound of marching boots was like a river, flowing through the pitch-black night. The white-haired witch led the charge, calm but fierce, barking out orders and making her crew scramble like headless chickens.
"Hand me some paper." Jill Young fiddled with her gear on the left, while Bobby Brooks, the chubby sidekick, passed her a plain old sheet of A4. Jill grabbed a pen, her hand moving like a blur—before anyone could blink, she’d sketched out a lifelike portrait in ten seconds flat. The pen zipped and scratched across the page, her speed so insane it looked like a printer on turbo mode. Nobody could even follow her hand.
Ten seconds later—bam! Jill slapped the pen onto the paper, poking the freshly drawn face for emphasis.
"This is our target—Kensington L. Orland." She shoved the portrait into Bobby’s arms. He snatched it up and saw an old white guy, maybe seventy or eighty, skinny and ordinary at first glance. But his eyes—deep, mysterious, and sharp. You could tell he was the type who’d dodge all social events unless absolutely necessary, a total brainiac lost in his own world.
The wild thing was, this drawing didn’t even look like a sketch—it was so spot-on, it could’ve been a black-and-white photo! Seriously, you could run it through a face-recognition system and get a million hits in a heartbeat.
"Bobby, we’re keeping it lean this time—no extra baggage. You’ve got a heavy load: guard the house and be my intel guy at lightning speed." Jill strapped on her wrist computer, turned, and gave Bobby a hearty slap on the shoulder. "If I’m the secret agent, you’re my operator. Got it?"