"Please, Y/n, you don't have to do this! You can walk away!"
You push air out through your nose, picking up the SIG Pro and tucking it into your waistband. There's a sniper rifle in the wardrobe upstairs but something about the small, semi-automatic pistol injects you with adrenaline. You like how unassuming you can appear, walking the streets with the weapon under your clothes. You like the thrill of keeping it hidden. The rifle confines you to the back of vans and climbing fire-escapes to get to the top of buildings, which can be a chew after so long.
Besides, you won't need a rifle for this one.
"I actually do have to do this," you shrug. "I get fifteen-thousand a pop. You think I'm gonna start passing that up?"
Demi shifts her jaw back and forth as if trying to fit her teeth together. Her eyes are hurt.
"You're killing people, Y/n! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
The thing is, you've heard this all before. If it was going to bother you, it would have been years ago when you were just starting out. It would have been before you did two to three on the daily.
"These are innocent lives you're taking!"
"Oh, they're not innocent," you cackle, grabbing your cap from the side and putting it on, threading your ponytail through the back. You shrug on your jacket. "You think there are people hiring assassins for fun? You think all of this is just for jokes?"
The hurt from her eyes vanishes, replaced with disbelief.
"I do this job to keep other people safe. To keep you safe. I mean, what kind of person do you think I am?!"
You know that last part was a dick move and Demi's protests against you doing this have nothing to do with her insulting you with a perceived notion of your cruelty or inability to be a good friend. They're more to do with the fact you kill people for a living and she's only just found out. But let's not dwell.
"I just can't believe this is what you do! I mean, God-dammit, Y/n! You're just a kid! And you're out here with guns and God knows what else - murdering people!"
You sink down onto one hip, crossing your arms across your chest as if to ask when she's going to finish with the lecture. When she realises she isn't getting anywhere, she leaves the mic open for you.
"Okay," you say, lifting your hands up and forming circles with your thumb and forefingers, "First of all, I'm almost twenty-three so...the whole 'kid' thing is invalid. Second, you didn't have a problem with any of this until now. So, like, what's changed?"
The disbelief lingers, her mouth opening and closing as she can't figure out what to say back.
"Because--," she stutters, brain tripping, "Because I didn't know you were a fucking assassin until half an hour ago! That's what's changed."
You roll your eyes, knowing it will piss her off.
"You're not going out that door, Y/n. I mean it."
You reach back, placing your hand on the doorknob, a look of feigned shock on your face.
"I'm not kidding. Call whoever the fuck you need to call and tell them you're not doing this anymore. Tell them you quit."
You push more air out your nose, a smile dancing on your lips. Looking at her now, one of your best friends, with her dark hair she recently got cut, with her bare face, glittered with freckles, with her gold personalised necklace you got her for her birthday resting just between her collarbones, you wonder why you revealed all this today. Because, now, you try desperately to slap away the itching anxiety that tells you that this is it, you've lost her, you've ruined the friendship. Feeling the hard grip of the gun in at your spine, it's hardly outside the realms of possibility.
"I can't," you say, a degree of confidence drained from your voice. "If I quit, I die."
She cocks her head slightly to the side, indicating that she's not following. You exhale slowly, figuring you've got at least five minutes before you really do have to leave.
"Well, they're not just going to let ex-employees roam about with knowledge of the whole operation. You know, the names and numbers of those at the top."
"So, what do you mean?"
You don't want to hurt her more than she obviously is. You don't want to twist what's left of your relationship into the dirt with the toe of your shoe.
"I mean...I mean that once you're not playing the game, you're a victim of it. Sometimes it takes weeks, months...never more than a year though. Sooner or later, they come for you."
"Y/n, stop it with all of this! Stop giving me these stupid riddles just to scare me! This isn't you, this isn't what you are..."
"But it is! You think all of this is some sort of prank?" you say, showing her the pistol out the top of your waistband, "You think I'm making all of this up?! Everything I've said is one-hundred-per-cent the truth, even about me getting a bullet in my head if I tell them I'm out. They don't leave any stone unturned. They don't take any chances."
She groans, covering her face with her hands and doubling over as if this is all too heavy to bear. You could agree if you hadn't fortified your back with the solid cement of detachment, upright and firm until the end.
"Jesus, this can't be happening..." she weeps. You swallow hard, your tongue feeling enormous inside your mouth.
"Just forget I said anything, Dems," you soothe, or attempt to anyway. "Put today out of your mind and we can just go back to normal. We can just-...I don't know...carry on...Have our pizza nights, have our mate-dates at the cinema..."
She drops her hands by her sides again, eyes red and puffy.
"We can be just like we always were...best friends..." you say, "even-..."
You stop yourself, sensing that this is not the moment. You watch her, waiting for her to breathe a sigh of relief and agree. She shakes her head.
"No..." she croaks. "We can't...I can't..."
You feel yourself deflate like someone's punctured you right between your eyes.
"I can't forget this. Funnily enough, I can't forget that you murder people for a living."
She blinks at you once, twice. Your skin prickles again.
"I have to go," you say, twisting the knob and letting the outside air rush in. Before she even has a chance to say anything else, you're turning down the end of the street, zipping your jacket up against the wind.
***
It was a clean shot, more or less. Not quite in the head but near enough. He only struggled for a minute, flopping around like a fish on the floor of the deserted office. His blood will stain nicely on the blue carpeting and it won't take a genius to see the smashed glass, the bullet hole in his skull, and put two and two together. You didn't wait around for that, though. You never do.
When you got home that evening, you skipped quickly up the stairs and checked all the hiding places, counting each weapon twice to make sure. It's not that you thought Demi might have called someone to ransack the place, more that you feared she would have got her hands on them herself. However many lives you've taken, however many souls you've seen bleed out of your victims, the end of Demi's life would be unbearable. It's taken you years to perfect the mechanics of those guns. You don't even want to think...
But they were all there. It was all fine.
That is, of course, until it wasn't.
The message is already on your phone when you wake up. As usual, the space where the sender's name is empty, replaced with the ominous icon of the blank head and shoulders. It used to make you squirm how you didn't know who you worked for but now you don't give it a second thought. There's no point. It's not like you can do anything to change it.
Rolling onto your side, you rub the sleep out of your eyes before unlocking your phone, tapping into messages. You feel your stomach drop as you read it properly, scanning over the words again and again, praying that, somehow, they will change.
👤
Target - Demetria D. Lovato
Loc. - 24 Morningside Rd. LA CA @ 10:30
Attached is an image of a map, Morningside Road pinpointed in red, the place where you were to carry out the task circled in blue. You recognise it immediately, an abandoned shopping mall with a huge rooftop car park which gives you a three-sixty view of the buildings surrounding it. Easy to access, easy to stay hidden. You've been sent there before.
You scroll up, seeing all the other names of the people you've taken out. They all look the same: name, then where they'll be and when. Each time, you never put a face to that name, never tried to imagine what they might look like. What good would it do you? They're going to be dead in less than a day. For the first time that you can remember, that feeling of a ticking clock clicks inside your head, counting down the minutes until...until...
You check the message again. Ten-thirty. The clock on your bedside table reads nine-forty-five. Pulling an old sweater over your pyjamas, you sprint out the house, running down the street towards the run-down area of town, cutting down the back alleys to get the most direct route to the shopping mall. The pounding of your feet serves to distract you from all the rules you're breaking when you tap the anonymous icon, hitting call. It rings twice, your own breathlessness thrumming in your ears.
"Twenty-six. Problem?"
The gruff voice is unfamiliar. But you were never under the impression that these messages were coming directly from the guy at the very top, the boss. This man is probably some clerk, making sure everything runs smoothly so as not to anger his superior.
"This one," you pant, still racing down the roads, "There must be some mistake...She isn't-...She doesn't pose a threat to anyone..."
You sidestep past a huge disposal bin, turning down yet another dank alley.
"No mistake, number twenty-six. Just do your job."
There's a bite in his voice as if he knows exactly what you really mean, just unwilling to say it out loud. The notion saps you of energy, begging you to stop running and buckle down to the ground. Your thighs burn.
"No, you don't understand! She's a friend...I know her...I know she's not involved in the operation!"
You ignore the man standing outside the back of some kitchen, puffing a cigarette and tightening the knot on his apron. You're past him quick enough anyway that your words won't mean anything.
"Mr Peterson is well aware of your acquaintance with Miss Lovato."
The ringing returns but it's inside your head.
"Mr Peterson thought it would be best to give you this assignment to teach you a lesson."
Losing control of your body, your legs slow and you come to a standstill among the grime of the inner city.
"You ought to know by now not to divulge your employment to anyone."
Your chest feels tighter by the second, squeezing your fears up into your brain. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
"Demi won't do anything! I promise you! I'll-I'll speak to her...make sure no one else finds out...!"
"Too late twenty-six. You know what will happen if you don't complete on time."
The line goes dead and you stare at the blank screen, tightening your grip on it until your fingers turn white and your nails take on a blueish hue.
"Fuck!" you cry, smashing it down on the ground, the glass cracking down the middle. You heave, pressing your hands down on the top of your head, trying to think. If you don't do this, they're just going to send someone else to do it instead. And you'll be written off with a target on your forehead to be enacted upon within the year. You know how this goes. You've heard the stories of the others.
And if you do? And if you do it?
You'll be murdering your best friend in cold blood, your own worst nightmare coming to life by your own hands. You feel down your back, fingers hitting the grip of your gun. You don't even remember putting it there when you left. By now, it's automatic.
You feel yourself sway, stumbling all over the place to stay on your feet. You pick up the remains of the phone, stuffing it in your back pocket. Pushing off of the wall, you start to run again, legs taking you in the direction of the shopping mall again. Reaching the base, you streak up the zig-zagging steps attached to the outside of the building, taking the stairs two by two all the way up to the top. Out in the open again, wind whistles around you. You're breathing hard, swivelling around and around, trying to locate the direction of Morningside Road. Your vision streaks as if it was wet paint and someone swiped their arm across it and blurring the image, but suddenly, somehow, your eyes lock on a light in the distance, a bright office window set against the dull morning, about fifty metres away.
There are a few people behind the glass, milling about and carrying steaming paper cups. But Demi is instantly recognisable. She's wearing different clothes from yesterday, dark jeans and a white polo, hair pulled back into a low ponytail. You sob, smacking your hand across your mouth when you can't keep the emotion inside. The man's voice on the phone grates in your ear reminding you of the flames you're playing with. Clutching your chest, you blunder forward to the edge of the roof, knees hitting the cement lip grazing the skin. Stifling another groan, you double over, yanking the pistol out your waistband and pointing it forward. Behind your hand, your watering eye watches as it aims straight ahead, the black metal hovering over Demi's head, obscuring her slightly. You want to look away, to turn your head and just pull the trigger, pretend it isn't her. You want this all to be over, for you to wake up tomorrow with a new assignment, another nameless, faceless target. You blink furiously, steadying your aim. You've always told yourself to keep it humane, or at least, as humane as possible. A quick death, painless, unforeseen. You suck deeply in through your nose, blowing steadily out a small 'o' you form with your lips. Using your other hand, you grip your wrist, aiming directly for the head. She's not moving, which makes things easier. Sucking on your tongue, your force your heart rate to slow. The air seems to still.
Someone walks up to Demi, handing her a stack of papers and a pen which she gets to signing. You recognise the blonde woman. Kate, you think her name is. You met her once at some party Demi threw at her house. Nice enough. Someone you knew you wouldn't be friends with if you had the choice. As Demi leans forward, you follow her movements with the point of the gun. You wonder how much this will pay. More than usual, no doubt. They know they have to compensate when it's someone more high profile considering how much shit you'll be in if caught. A risk of the job, that's all. You never gave it much thought. Namely because you've never been caught.
Your finger tightens around the trigger, soft flesh moulding to the cold hard shape of the metal. You feel where it resists more, indicating how any further will cause the release. You hold still. Her back is to you, sitting right up against the window. You almost want to drag her forward, tell her how dangerous it is to lean against glass. Admittedly, the irony isn't lost on you. But you meant it, earlier, when you said you want to keep her safe. Recently, that's all you've ever wanted.
You finger starts to cramp and you know you have to do it. Sucking in again, you keep your eyes pointing forward, expanding your lungs completely until they start to burn. You exhale, slowly and tightly, the pain evaporating. You shift your aim an inch to the right and fire.
The glass shatters, a white spiderweb exploding out from the centre. Even above the sound of it, you hear people's screams as those on the floor haul themselves away, further into the building towards the exits. A couple of men don't though. They run towards the breach in the exterior, looking out into the city despite the desperate pleading from the women to come with them and stay safe. But your gun's now lying on the concrete at your feet. You hold still, not wanting to move to attract attention. If you can see them, no doubt they will be able to see you. Usually that's not something you need to be concerned about. Usually, the only person who would be looking would be dead.
Demi's being held back by the woman who gave her the papers. Her face being intermittently lit by a red glow and you make out the sound of an alarm squealing from the building. Below, you see waves of people leaving, bleeding out of the bottom like thousands of ants. A cloud passes above, blocking the sun and casting a dark shadow over the morning. You check your phone. Ten-thirty-seven. You feel something cold and hard press into your back.
"Don't turn around," a voice says. A woman's voice. You feel your heart drop to your knees.
"Who are you?" you say, just above a whisper. You're surprised it's not lost in the wind.
"Seventy-two. This is my assignment."
A fresh surge of dread flows through you. Seventy-two. Must be a recent hire, much more recent than you anyway. Will still be eager to impress, eager to succeed. Eager to kill anyone anywhere as long as it keeps her own head in one piece. You realise, though, that the same can be said for you. You have never been burdened with an emotional connection before this one.
"I was assigned this one," you say, trying to keep your voice as steady as possible. What you now presume to be a gun digs harder into your shoulder blade.
"I know. I was told it was going to fall through and that someone else was going to be needed to finish the job. That someone is me."
If the circumstances were different, you would laugh. As soon as you made that phone call they knew to send someone else. Heck, as soon as you were sent the text they would have known. This Peterson, or whatever his name is, knew you wouldn't be able to do it. You've been kidding yourself this whole time thinking you would be able to save Demi.
"Stand aside. Run. Go wherever you want to try and escape them, it's not my problem. But let me do my job."
You know exactly what she means. Try and survive as long as you can but don't slap the same target on my head. You twist your neck, turning to face her despite her earlier warning.
"Please," you say, "Let me do it."
She has poker straight, long dark hair. All of her features cluster in the centre of her face. Her thin lips are pressed into a straight line, almost cancelling each other out.
"I can't do that. They're watching me now. They're waiting for me to do it."
Your gaze darts to the cameras attached to the corners of the building. Common sense would dictate them as being unused in such a location but the small bead of red light on each tells a different story. You look back to the woman.
"Please? Please? She's-she's my friend! I want to make sure it's done right!"
She snorts, tossing the gun she's holding between her hands.
"I'm a great shot," she says. "No need to worry."
"Y/n!"
You strain your head back over your shoulder. Demi's standing behind the crumbling window, hair whipped by the wind now able to penetrate inside. Even from this distance, you can see the confusion and fear on her face.
"Stay back!" you yell at her. She's alone on the floor and you curse the people she was with for taking their eyes off of her. The woman grips your shoulder, dragging you to the side and kneeling down, taking aim.
"No!" you scream, pushing her as hard as you can to try and topple her over. But she holds firm, body solid as rock.
"Get off of me," she grunts, "I'll make it quick. I promise."
You hear it in her voice, her own desperation to not fail and keep her own life. You grab the barrel, yanking it away from the direction of Demi and towards your own heart.
"Shoot me. Shoot me instead."
She shakes her head, her own eyes filling with tears. "No. It won't work. It needs to be her." Her eyes flash to the cameras which still blink at you. You snatch out, trying to grab the weapon from her.
"Demi, run!" you shout. All you can do is pray she's moved away from the window. There's an explosion, frantic and erratic, a smoky heat hits your skin.
The woman curses and, when you don't hear the sound of glass breaking again, you realise the shot never met its target.
"Don't hurt her!" you plead. "She's innocent!"
"You think the rest of them aren't?" she shouts back at you over the wind. "You think all of these guys are murderers and rapists and shit?"
She knocks the grip of the pistol against your jaw sending you tumbling back, whole face stinging.
"Most of these people are only on the hit-list 'cause they're rich! 'Cause they're too powerful and threaten the organisation! Most of them have fucking kids! So you've obviously never cared that much about innocence before today!"
She's right. And although it's something you knew already, you've never allowed yourself to admit it until now. You guess it was just easier to pretend all these men in suits you would murder in cold blood were wanted criminals and drug lords. That they all deserved what was coming to them. You wonder how this woman, number seventy-two, manages to keep going with full acknowledgement of how this is not the case. She wraps her hand around your neck, pinning you to the ground.
"Don't take me down with you," she demands, eyes and nose streaming.
"Let go of her," a small voice breaks through the gale. It takes you only a second to recognise it as Demi. You both whip your heads to the side to look at her, emerging shakily from the lip of the building where the metal steps curve over the concrete. She holds her hands out in surrender.
"I said, let go of her," she says again, speaking directly to seventy-two. You feel her hand slightly loosen around your neck, probably from shock at this turn of events. Although you desperately wish this not to be the case, Demi has literally walked closer to her own death. You don't find it any easier to breathe.
"Stand still," seventy-two says, "Or I'll shoot you."
Demi visibly gulps, backing away just a step. At this, the tall woman shifts her knee from your abdomen, getting to her feet and leaving you on the ground behind her. She aims her gun at Demi.
"Don't be afraid," she says. "Do as I say and you'll not get hurt."
She never tears her eyes from Demi, not wanting the success of her mission to slip through her fingers. Suppressing a groan, you shuffle back before slowly standing too. The assault on your body makes you feel nauseous.
"Turn around," she orders. "Keep your hands where I can see them."
Demi doesn't dare look at you, doing as seventy-two asks. With trembling legs, she turns to face away, out into the skyline of the city. You've heard about this before, about some assassins only killing when they can't see the face of their victim. It's never occurred to you as being necessary. Not until this moment.
You lift your pistol, arm straight, finger on the trigger. It barely grazes the back of seventy-two's head.
You fire.
Her body crumples, folding to the cement, blood blooming from her head. Demi screams, hands covering her ears as she doubles over. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the hot metal on your skin. Slowly, you peel your eyelids back, avoiding looking at the ground, and run over.
"Demi--" you say, touching her back. But she yelps, contracting away and wrapping her arms around herself.
"Hey, it's okay, it's okay," you soothe, gripping her by the arms and turning her around, forcing her to look at you. When she realises who it is, she weeps, dropping her forehead onto your shoulder. "You're gonna be okay."
"I thought-..." she stutters, "I thought I was going to die..."
You exhale, knowing that you're still being watched and that there is still a quota that needs to be met. You pull back, holding her face in your hands.
"You've got to listen to me, Demi," you say, looking right into her eyes. "You've got to run. Now. You've got to go and find your security and make sure it's twenty-four hours. Don't ever let yourself be left alone. Do you hear? Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Your words are firm and harsh but you know you don't have another option. She blubbers, nodding her head a fraction.
"And then you've got to call the police. Tell them that the organisation they're looking for, the one that's murdering the wealthy businessmen, tell them they've got lots of people working for them. They need to find who's at the top."
You pull the slab of cracked glass from your pocket. You press it into her hand. They're cold and shaking.
"Give them this. Tell them to trace the number. Tell them there's a guy called Peterson."
You circle your hand around to the back of her head, pulling her close again and kissing her forehead.
"Now be quick, okay? Promise me you'll be quick?"
She nods again, tears dripping from under her chin. "I-I'll be quick," she promises, then takes you by the wrists, "But you need to come too. I can protect you too."
You know she's not going to leave unless you agree. Unless you jeopardise her safety by allowing them to track both of you. You squeeze her fingers.
"Yes. I'll come," you say, "But we need to go now."
Guiding her towards the fire escape, you don't let her look back. The image of seventy-two lying face down sits heavily in your stomach.
"There we go," you say as she grabs hold of the metal tubing. She eases herself over slowly and you pray she makes it to the bottom without catastrophe. She's got the phone. She's got the information. She's got a whole team of people whose job it is to make sure no harm comes to her.
"Go on," you encourage as she starts to descend. You make sure she's looking down at her feet, watching carefully where to place them. You want to reach below and touch her hand again, to feel her soft skin and know that she's going to be okay. But you don't. You can't. By the time she's half-way down the top floor, you step up onto the lip of the building, dropping the gun to the concrete. It clatters noisily and Demi's eyes flick upwards.
But you've already stepped off, hurtling towards the ground.
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