Authors: Chanel Cleeton
Bile rises in my stomach as the life slips away from him. I hate this part. It’s the hardest when you have to see it, when it’s in your face, the images burned in your brain, sneaking up on you at the strangest possible moments. Sometimes I’ll be running by the Thames and an image will flash before my eyes, and it’s almost as if Death looks back at me, as if its silken voice whispers to me through the memory, claiming me, seducing me—
I see you, I know you, you are mine.
This is my art, my masterpiece, and even as I welcome it, I hate the part of me that’s so good at this. Hate that it gets a little bit easier each time.
And just like that it’s done.
I reach over the body, checking for a pulse, the move more perfunctory than anything else. He’s gone. I look around the room, tidying up any trace of my presence. A team will come behind me in a few hours and make sure nothing remains. Not that it really matters. The anonymous tip sent connecting Michael Duncan to Jay Reinholdt will ensure the police do little more than a cursory investigation. It’s hard to muster sympathy over the death of a rapist and murderer of teenage girls.
Sometimes justice fails. I provide a different form, one that has nothing to do with courts of law.
I sweep the room once more, periodically checking my watch. Eleven thirty-two. I turn to leave and my gaze falls on the photo of Lauren Armstrong. I recognize the dress instantly. She wore it the night she disappeared from her hotel in Greece.
I hesitate for a moment, hearing the Director’s crisp voice in my ear.
Do not tamper with the scene.
It’s too risky, too obvious to take the photo. Who knows why he kept it? Or if anyone else saw the resemblance between the girl in the photo and the Australian girl who disappeared on vacation two years ago?
Fuck it.
I grab the picture off of the dresser, my fingers shaking slightly as they wrap around the frame and I slip it into my bag.
By eleven thirty-four, I’m walking out of the London flat Michael shares—
shared
—with his three roommates. I leave in a cloud of tears, claiming he passed out drunk. The girls are appropriately sympathetic, dabbing at the runny black mascara that leaves me looking like a rabid raccoon.
I play my part to perfection.
With each step away from the flat my footsteps lengthen, my stride more confident. I may not be tall but I know how to move, and in these moments, in the dark night, London is my city. I fade into the background with ease.
At least, I should.
Tonight, though, something’s off. I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s in the air. Something that sends a chill trickling down my spine.
I whirl around—once—twice.
The words have been drilled into me since childhood.
Don’t get caught.
To my right, I spot a couple holding hands. To my left, a group of girls dressed for a night of clubbing pass around a tube of lip gloss; their laughter mixes with the noise of the city. My eyes narrow as my gaze runs over them. More than anyone I know not to take appearances for granted. They pass by me without a second glance on their way to whatever party they have planned. My strides lengthen.
When I reach the park, my blonde hair is the first thing to go. I remove the wig, tossing it into a nearby rubbish bin. I tug at the tight bun, allowing my hair—bleached more white than blonde—to fall around my shoulders, already feeling a bit more like myself.
I pick up the pace as I go through the route I’ve practiced over and over again in my head. The rubbish sweeps should come through in a quarter of an hour. Given how crazy the party was, the odds that the body will be discovered before morning are slim to none. Still. My success depends on my ability to blend into the shadows.
I am the best. I am a ghost.
I grab the black bag I’ve stashed behind a nearby tree and pull the purple sweater over my head. I shove it inside the bag, pulling out a black leather jacket and zipping it over my black tank top. Pain fills me. I’ll have bruises from his hands. The team coming behind me will ensure he doesn’t end up with any of my DNA, and if he does, they’ll clean it up. Not that it matters, really.
I don’t exist.
I feel it again—the sense that I’m being watched. I still, scanning the park’s perimeter, my body crouched in a defensive stance.
Empty
.
I rise, lengthening my strides, heading toward the dark alley where I stashed my bike. I ignore the twinge of uncertainty that has me checking my surroundings again. Freedom is so close I can taste it.
Two truths and one lie?
Easy enough—for someone like me.
But why tell the truth when you could simply lie instead?
My name is X. My favorite color is black. I’ve killed more men than I’d like to count.
Big Ben rings throughout the cold London night. I don’t hesitate, my legs eating up the pavement. But the significance of those bells doesn’t escape me.
Today is my birthday; at least, it’s the one they’ve given me.
I’m now officially nineteen.
“X?”
“I’m here. You can go back to sleep.”
“Did it go okay?”
“Yeah, it was fine.”
She shifts, turning her back to me, losing her battle with sleep. “I love you, X.”
Her voice does funny things to my chest. “Ditto.”
My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket. I pull it out, scanning the text.
Money deposited. Report tomorrow for further instructions.
I set the phone down on the desk, shrugging out of my jacket. I’ll have to wear long sleeves for a few days. The bruises upset Grace.
I don’t tell her
everything about my job; the younger assets at the Academy aren’t exposed to the full extent of what we do. Not yet, anyway. Instead, they focus on computers and other skills. Grace is only thirteen, but she’s a tech expert. My skills lie elsewhere.
I kneel down in front of my bed, using the light from my mobile phone to illuminate the underside of the wooden frame. I pull the pocketknife from my jacket pocket, carving a mark in the surface.
Number six. One less than Reinholdt.
Does that make me less of a monster? Or more because I kill for money and a job you don’t quit? Does the
why,
or the
how,
or the
who
even count? Or are we all just standing on opposite sides of a line—kill or be killed? Does it even matter?
I run my fingers over the ridges, the lines as familiar to me as the scars on my own body. We aren’t supposed to keep track of our kills, but I can’t resist. With each mark in the wood another part of me changes, transforming me into something I’m not sure I recognize anymore. Each mark is somehow both easier and harder. Each mark is a part of me I wish I had no right to claim.
My finger runs down the long, thin scar that begins on the inside of my wrist. The ridges and bumps of my skin are raised against my finger, the wound long since healed. It’s nothing but a few inches of skin, and yet it’s everything, the perfect reminder—
Some kills are harder to forget than others.
I finish undressing quickly, climbing into the bed opposite Grace’s. Our room isn’t big, and it’s furnished sparsely, my only real indulgence the shelves of books crammed next to my bed. I’ve tried harder with Grace’s side.
Even monsters can love.
Unlike my dull gray comforter, Grace’s bed is covered in a purple quilt. A glass jar full of flowers sits atop her desk. My lips curve at the sight. She must have picked them after her classes today.
At the Academy the younger assets attend an informal school, usually administered by tutors. They receive a diploma that makes it look like they’ve completed the mandated schooling the government requires, but that’s all it is, a piece of paper, a mask. The rest of the time, most of the time, is spent training for our particular skill areas or practicing for jobs. The older you are, the less time you spend training, the more time you spend working, until you’re like me, waiting to receive your first official posting. An apprentice of sorts.
In my case, Death’s apprentice.
Grace has a few years before she’ll start going on her own assignments. In the rare moments that I pray, I pray she’ll continue her aptitude for computers, that she has no part of my particular skill.
When my head hits the pillow, in that moment when my brain hovers between sleep and awake, I see the same thing every night. I see their eyes in that final moment before breath leaves their body.
I dream of death.
###
I’m slower than usual today, five miles feeling more like ten, my body sluggish, lungs heavy. But at the end of it I feel so much better, the tension I’ve been carrying from the night before draining from my body like a deflating balloon.
I pause outside the building, my hand resting against the stone wall. Officially the Academy is a privately funded orphanage and school, clouded in secrecy, hidden in anonymity. Unofficially, it’s a place for people with specific skill sets. We live here, study here, train here. We arrive as children, are turned into assets, and released into the world to carry out the Academy’s missions.
It’s been my home for eight years.
Our missions vary. Some targets are criminals like Reinholdt; others are world leaders who need to be removed from power. The more experienced we become, the harder the missions, the more high profile our targets. We’re the scales of justice—at times judge, jury, and executioner.
In my case, mostly executioner.
We’re a mix of nationalities. Most of the Academy’s assets are British. A few like Grace and me are American. Other countries are sparsely represented.
“How did it go?”
I whirl around, my body tense, last night’s uneasiness still fresh in my mind. I relax at the sight of Josh, another asset from my year.
“It was fine.”
“It’s on the news. Looks like you did good.”
I shrug. This isn’t exactly a glory position.
Like me, Josh is dressed for a run. He’s not that much taller than I am, but his build is stocky, his arms muscular, his legs toned. Working out isn’t scheduled for us anymore, but we’ve all lived with the habit long enough; the practice is deeply ingrained. In addition to running, I box and lift weights. Our bodies are the tools of our trade and we care for them well.
I turn my back to him, typing in the password for my building. Security at the Academy is for obvious reasons, tight. My building is three floors high and houses twenty girls of various age ranges. There are fifty assets at the Academy. Eventually, we move on to bigger assignments with handlers stationed all over the world. Some students come back, teaching classes or advising at the Academy. Others disappear into the shadowy world of covert ops. Others just disappear.
Technically, I should have moved out by now; I’m not sure if it’s good luck or bad that I’ve stayed as long as I have. But moving out means leaving Grace earlier than I’d like. She’s a minor, the Academy her guardian. It’s hard to assert any legal rights when I don’t exist. So I’m here. It’s both welcome and not—a purgatory of sorts.
In a few months, I’ll receive my posting. My sister will stay behind.
I bound up the stairs, entering another code, this time ten digits thanks to Grace. Our electronic lock beeps before the door swings open. The room is empty. I glance down at my watch. Grace is probably already at breakfast, getting ready for a day of classes. I have enough time to shower and head to my meeting with the Director.
I just have one stop to make first.
###
Priests move around, their dark robes swishing against the marble floors. Images depicting beautiful, horrible things surround me, man and God brought nearly to life by the imposing sculptures that adorn the side chapels. Marble angels are perched in the alcoves, their beady eyes narrowed as though they’re looking down on my wickedness, judging me for my sins.
I remove my motorcycle helmet, running my hand through my hair, untangling the unruly mess.
The church is fairly empty this morning, only a handful of people praying in the pews. Daily mass won’t start for hours now. Not that I ever go. I don’t consider myself religious, my knowledge of the Catholic Church limited to what I’ve read in books. I only come for this.
I search the board at the front entrance, checking my watch again.
Father Murphy Confession 8 a.m.
I stride down the aisle, weaving my way through the dark wooden pews until I reach one of the side chapels. My footsteps echo through the vast space. I take a seat, my gaze on the confessionals. An elderly woman exits, a beaded rosary clasped in her hand, a lace scarf draped over her hair. I look down at the bench in front of me, my head ducked into the collar of my jacket.
It’s better if they don’t remember my face.
As soon as she leaves I walk into the confessional, closing the door behind me with a soft click. My knees hit the worn kneeler, fitting into the ridges and grooves where another has knelt before me. I bow my head.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three months since my last confession.”
A sharp intake of breath escapes from the other side of the divider between the priest and me.
“I wondered when you would be back.” His lyrical Irish accent fills the space between us.
Not
if—when.
That he can recognize my voice is beyond dangerous.
“I killed a man.” My voice is barely a whisper threading its way through the silence. The unspoken,
again,
lingers between us.
“I don’t have to tell you how grave that offense is. To take another’s life is a mortal sin.”
There is nothing to say.
“Are you in some kind of danger? If you’re being threatened, there are people who can help you.”
I wish it were that simple. I belong to the Academy in every way. They clothe me, feed me, give me a roof over my head. They created me from ashes; they gave me an identity when I had none. In return I’ve given them my life—and my art.
“No. I’m not in any danger.” It’s not the whole truth, but it’s close enough.
It’s too easy to say I do it because they make me. I do it because I’m good at it. I do it because it’s who I am. I kill because it’s what I’ve been taught to do. And now I worry that I kill because I like it.
“Then why? I don’t understand. I recognize your voice; this isn’t the first time you’ve been in here with the same story. Is this the same man?”
I hesitate. Surely lying to a priest is a sin itself; and still, the truth is so much worse.
“I can’t talk about it.”
“But you come here.”
That’s the whole point. I
shouldn’t
come here. The Academy is very strict; our activities are to be secret—always. If the Director knew I was here…
“I should go.”
Frustration bursts through his voice, mixing with brogue, creating an odd combination that is somehow both soothing and chiding.
“I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Then what do you need? Why are you here?”
I clasp my hands together, squeezing tightly, focusing on the cuts and scars there, following the marks of my skin like a map to a destination shrouded in mist. My finger traces the scar on my wrist as if it were a talisman of sorts. Maybe it is.
The frustration in my voice doesn’t come in a pretty Irish accent, but it comes just the same. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t you?”
“Forgiveness.” The word escapes my lips before I can restrain it, on a breath I should have held, but released instead.
Silence fills the confessional.
“Do you feel remorse?”
I don’t know how to explain what I feel. It isn’t remorse, exactly. Regret, maybe? Like something is gnawing at me, eating me from the inside out. I don’t even know anymore. I feel dead, which is pretty fucking appropriate when you think about it.
“He deserved to die,” I say instead.
Didn’t he? I saw the photos of Lauren Armstrong’s body, saw the way he destroyed her—the rape, the mutilation. He treated her as though she was nothing. Didn’t he deserve the same? The legal system failed her parents; it let him walk when he should have been made to answer for his sins. I was just that tool that made justice possible.
“‘We are not to take vengeance on our own, or bear any grudge.’” His voice is melodic, as if the words are precious and he must hold them tenderly.
“‘You shall not take vengeance, nor bear any grudge against the children of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself,’” I recite.
A moment of silence passes between us.
“You are familiar with the Bible.”
“I just like to read.”
I rise from the kneeler, grabbing my motorcycle helmet from the pew. I’m going to be late if I don’t leave soon, and late is not an option.
The priest sighs. Is he struggling with the oath he’s taken? I may be foolish, but I’m not stupid. I only come here knowing he’s bound by his oath, my secret safe with him.