There were no windows at all, no light from the sun to warm the chilled metal of the bleak and hollow corridor, plates of thick, military grade steel that housed within them a mass of wires and circuitry designed to counter any sort of surveillance from the outside world. While it was a cool seventy five degrees outside on this beautiful March afternoon, the halls were as cold as a morgue…and just as dead, save for the two men who stood at the door locked with a seven figure security code, both dressed in all black fatigues with no patches or insignias adorning them, no affiliations whatsoever, the same with their black kevlar helmets and modular plate carriers. The two stern looking, muscular men stood erect, each gripping in their leather gloved hands American made M4A1 assault rifles. At the other end of the corridor, there stood two elevator doors that soon opened with a light hiss of air, followed by the clacking of high heels across the barren steel floors.

The person who had just left the elevator, a brunette woman around her mid to late thirties, walked briskly and with an authoritative fervor to her stride down the hall. She had on her typical shade of rose red lipstick along with just a hint of Jadore perfume, and just as typical, she wore her short sleeved white button blouse and black pencil skirt, along with her designer high heels and reader’s glasses. Behind the woman followed a man with buzz-cut slightly graying hair, a rather burly figure masked by his sharp navy blue jacket over a black and grey pinstripe shirt and matching black slacks. Both gave a curt nod to the guards, which they replied back with, one of them turning towards the keypad on the door and pressing in the cryptic set of numbers. Within seconds, there was a beep, a click, and then the swish of the door sliding open, revealing to them an even drearier room than the frigid corridor. She had finally arrived, Jocelyn Ambrose Valentine, director of the Central Intelligence Agency, along with her second in command, Special Agent Johnathan Starker.

There they sat at a table, four women in uncomfortable metal chairs in the midst of a dark and empty space, their hands bound behind them with plastic zip ties cutting deep into their wrists, manacles constricting their ankles, and over their heads a black bag woven of thick cloth, so thick, not even the glow of the fluorescent bulbs outside could permeate the thick artificial darkness these four women were engulfed in. She nodded to the guards to remove the bags, and as they did, one by one the women made some sort of gasp for air or a jerking motion, a curse or two muttered under their breaths towards the guards.

“Good afternoon, ladies.” Jocelyn spoke, her voice smooth, sultry almost, but still quite punctual and commanding of respect. “We apologize for the rough treatment, but given your current circumstances, you’re probably used to it by now. You’re all scum, terrorists, murderers, traitors, the lowest of the low, yet each and every one of you possess skills that have made you valuable to this agency. It is for this reason we extracted you from your respected prisons. In turn, you work for us now. Welcome to Task Force: Banshee.”

Suddenly, the concrete wall behind her sprung to life with a blinding flash, upon it a computerized screen teeming with several satellite images of various locations, classified documents and photos, and a strange spinning logo, some sort of military insignia of two silver assault rifles crossed under the grinning skull of a woman, clenching in its teeth a Kabar knife. “You will be assembled together as an elite special operations group for the CIA, conducting missions around the world of the utmost secrecy. These missions will range from hostage rescue to assassination and even sabotage. Make no mistake, ladies, your skills will be put to the test, but what you possess now won’t be enough. You will need further training before I even consider sending you into the field. Once your training period is up, you will then be assigned to your first task. Until then, you will remain here in our top secret facility. My associate, Agent Starker, will show you to your living quarters, after you have undergone a mandatory psych evaluation. So girls, any questions?”

“Hold up.” One of the women managed to speak, her voice hoarse. Jocelyn looked to the woman, noting of her toned, athletic build, but the most striking feature was not her muscular physique, nor the piercing ice blue eyes that glared at her intensely…but a scar, a jagged mark stretching from the woman’s cheek all the way to her forehead…cutting across her left eye. “Miss Hunter.” She whispered the name.

Hunter replied, her glare sharpening along with the other women captive, “What’s in it for us?”
“Simple.” Answered Jocelyn, speaking to all four. “You get your lives back, or rather, you get to start over anew. Your records have been erased. None of you even exist anymore….which also means…if you refuse to join Task Force: Banshee…then I’m afraid we’ll have to kill you.”

“Heh…so we have no choice.” Evelyn huffed. “Fine. When do we start?”

Jocelyn smirked, “Right….now!”