An hour.. He thinks to himself as he sits in his home, his hands on his head, an hour until he would begin his double life again. He has never been the same person, his hair color and eye color often change, but his physique never really bothered to shift in any way. He is sittimg on his bed, he looks up at the mirror in his bedroom, studying his new look. His once brown hair had been dyed to a jet black, his eyes changed from their unique green to a soft hazel color, and he hated it.
After this hour of solitude, he would leave everything behind, the FBI had given him a new apartment and a new identity to take down this organization, but the cost of the whole deal is fairly obvious, of course there is a lot of money in it for him if he succeeds. He looks down at the new ID in his hands, the card contains information about a 'Trevor Sanhill', but that's a fake name that belongs on a fake man. He'd been forced to break up with his girlfriend as well, Trevor didn't have any ties. The ID would cover his FBI ID which still sits in his wallet, just in case he needed access to a crime scene or if he gets arrested during his escapades.
His other name didn't matter, only his past. He was raised on the wrong side of town, in the wrong neighborhood, otherwise he could've done something better with his life than sticking his neck out for a bunch of men in suits that sit behind desks all day, all of them silently knowing that at any point they can hop into their private jets and take a tour of Hawaii. Other than the bad side of town, he lived in a house with a kind family, one who showed him love and compassion, taught him how to reflect the same. Of course, after he graduated and became a Marine, those emotions were stripped from him.
He only did a single tour before leaving, his four year contract was up, leaving him at the age of twenty three and no job, the FBI gladly took him, they trained him in SWAT and as a police officer as need be, but his primary training had been conducted to make him a detective, undercover with no ties and no identity. Now here he is, rubbing the chain of his dog tags, not wanting to leave them behind, but he pulls them off his neck, leaving them on his dresser before grabbing his Kimbar assault pistol from his drawer, tucking it into his back waistband and covering it with his shirt. The beginning of his new life is now.
He walks out to his car, well, not really a car, but a sports motorcycle, more specifically a Yoshimura RS-3, his favorite model as of now. The nice thing about the bike is the FBI paid for it, off the books of course, in case any body went snooping through some files to find out more about this enigma of a man. He mounts the bike and drives off to where he was instructed to meet the gang, first impressions are always a must so he wore a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans with some sneakers poking out from under them. He approaches the warehouse and stops the bike, staring at the men who wait for him, they go to search him, immediately finding the gun. Trevor places the pistol under his helmet on his motorbike before following them inside.
He sits down in front of a tall man, though, Trevor is 6'3 himself, which really shows off his muscular and athletic build. That just makes the man in front of him all the less threatening, Trevor notices a slight bulge in the man's pocket, a knife, and no doubt he would have a handgun on him at all times. He takes some mental notes, remembering this information for a later date. He answers question after question, sweat begins to cover his white skin from the lights in the warehouse. "Nervous?" The man in front of him asks, Trevor just shakes his head.
"The lights are very hot." He says quietly, never having been one for talking. He continues to answer questions until that woman walks in, his eyes scan her face, he knows her.. The sound of her heels clicking against the concrete brings him back to reality, he watches everyone leave as she sits down. Roxanne.. That's her name, he remembers seeing her face in a file, though her hair color always seemed to be changing. He bites the inside of his cheek softly as she speaks to him, she makes him nervous, talking to him about stripping his flesh off of his body and all of that.
"You won't have a need to do so, I'll get the jewelry." He says before standing up, taking the piece of paper she had handed to him. "See ya in a bit, shears or no shears." He simply says, his Eastern American accent sounds strange in a city like Los Angeles. He walks out of the warehouse to his bike, where he slips his pistol back into his waistband and his helmet back on to his head. He drives off, his eyes flicking down from the road to the slip of paper in his hand, he goes to the address.
He walks inside, it's a nice house, one of the gated ones in the city, you couldn't really trust anybody here anyway. He walks around to the back, jumping over the fence by grabbing the top and flipping himself over it, landing on his feet. He walks over to the back door, noticing the red glare of a burglary alarm. He looks over at a rain pipe, quickly scaling it before reaching the top of the house. He sees the main power cable, cutting it would shock him and most likely kill him, so he grabs his pistol from his waistband, pointing it at the cable before waiting, the sound of a plane soaring overhead to Las Angeles International Airport allows him to discreetly take the shot.
Once the power is cut, he slides down the rain pipe, grabbing a pen from his pocket, it had been sitting next to his notebook. He stretches the clip of the pen before jabbing it into the door, swiftly unlocking it. He steps inside and walks upstairs to the master bedroom, he easily takes every set of diamond jewelry in that cabinet, and a set of emeralds just for the hell of it. He makes his way out before vaulting over the fence again. He mounts his bike and takes off, having secured the jewelry in the boot of his bike. He grabs his phone from his pocket, pulling off to the side of the road before calling Jack.
"I've got the jewelry, where do you want me to meet you?" He asks.
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