Dirty Christmas

Dennise's Point of View

I was halfway through eating my favorite cookie, which I had the luxury to eat after I checked all the kindergarten papers when my phone lit up with Valentina’s name. The second I saw it, I sighed. 

Not again, I whispered. I haven’t been home for a week and here she goes again…calling despite the message I left that I won’t be accepting any assignment for the month but for Valentina, those messages are useless. 

I picked the phone up, closed my room’s door and answered it with a mouthful of crumbs. 

“This better not be international, V,” I said, reminding her I just arrived from her international mission. 

“Charming as always, but no. You’re not going international, it's domestic,” she said dryly. “You’re working tomorrow night.”

“I’m listening,” I muttered, brushing cookie dust off my hoodie. “What’s the job?”

“Sniper hit. Clean. One bullet, window shot. Location’s Maison Étoile, private table, 9 PM sharp.”

I rolled my neck, already reaching for the gun case under the coffee table. 

“Who’s the target?”

There was a pause, and then Valentina spoke.

“Ace Andreev.”

My hand froze over the paper. And the dangling cookie from my lips fell.

 “I’m sorry. Did you say Ace Andreev?”

“Yeah.”

I blinked. Hard. 

“As in Ace Andreev, the Tsar of the Russian Mafia?”

“The very one.”

I sat back slowly. My  heart thumping like I just realized the cookie I ate was poison. 

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Valentina, that man doesn’t just run a mafia. He is the mafia. He kills people like  he eats breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You’re making a dangerous deal, Val,” I said.

“I know.”

“Do you?! Do you really? Because I’m pretty sure people who try to kill him end up either skinned alive or sewn into their own suits.”

“I’m aware.”

I stared at my desk full of papers ot drawings and out quizes half an hour ago.

“And you want me to take him out? Val, are you serious about this? I mean it's not a big deal, I’ll do it. The problem is the Tsar has a lot of connections, even the big assassin groups.”

“You’re the best shot we have,” she said. “And more importantly, you’re off his radar. “You’re a rookie.”

“Yeah, well, even rookies still die when their heads get chopped off,” I answered unsure. I could take any mission she wanted but the Tsar was too dangerous. He has his own sniper position anywhere. I’ll probably die before I could even pull the trigger. 

Valerie didn’t answer.

“Do it, or the next name on the list will be yours,” she threatened. “I’m sorry, Dennise, it's just a job, nothing personal.”

Fuck! I cursed  

There it was. Classic Syndicate threat. How many of my comrades got shot down after not accepting a job? I couldn’t even count anymore. 

“Fine. But if I disappear, I want you to know I left the cat enough food for three days. After that, it’s on you.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll light a candle in your honor.”

Click. She hung up.

I sat there for a moment, just staring at the wall.

Ace Andreev.

He was not some mid-level trafficker or corrupt politician. Not even a greedy banker or a cheating husband.

His Ace fucking Andreev! The tenth Tsar of the Russian Mafia who had all eyes everywhere. 

When Valentina decided to assign a job, she expected it to be done at the exact time she gave but the bitch had assigned me to a dangerous target that no assassin dared to target. Well, I’m going to try my luck. If I die, then so be it, rather than being tortured by that damn Valentina.

I grabbed my tote back and hopped on my old pick up truck and returned home. 

I live in a one-bedroom house on 6th Street with a chipped white paint, creaky porch, a swing that groans when the wind hits just right. 

To my neighbors, I’m Miss Elaine not Dennise. The sweet daycare teacher who waves every morning, drives a beat-up pick up truck, and always remembers their kids' birthdays.

Inside’s a whole different story. 

I kicked off my flats as soon as I stepped in, dropping my oversized tote on the chair. Lesson plans, crayon-stained shirts, and a picture of a smiling sun the kids drew for me scattered on my dining table.

I made sure the blinds were down before I walked to the corner of the living room. There’s an old bookshelf pushed against the wall  stack with children’s books and a few romance novels for show.

I press the right side of The Dumb girl always hurts first book and the shelf shifts. There was a soft  clicking sound followed and it opened.

The air inside the hidden room is cooler, metallic. It was not big, maybe the size of a walk-in closet, but every inch is used. Neat rows of labeled containers sit along the left wall along wigs of every color, length, and texture ranging from innocent blonde bobs to sleek, deadly jet black. Next to them are cases of colored contact lenses and makeup palettes for skin tone changes. My outfits hang on a rail, nurse scrubs, high-end cocktail dresses, delivery uniforms, even a full nun robe from a job in Sicily. Whatever the job calls for.

To the right were all my favorite weapons. All of them were clean, organized and dusted which I actually care about.

Knives were all balanced and personalized. I’ve got daggers tucked into false books and one coated in clear poison that kills in under three minutes. There were guns too like compact pistols, modified Glocks, even a matte-black sniper rifle broken down in a case under the floor tiles. Full magazines stacked in metal drawers. All untraceable. All mine.

You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to go unnoticed when you wear a smile and carry juice boxes in your purse.

I walked in, stripped off my “Miss Elaine” cardigan, and clipped my hair back. The real me doesn’t wear pastel. The real me doesn’t coo over finger painting or sing songs about the alphabet.

The real me had a job tonight.

I ran my fingers across a row of weapons until I stopped at a high caliber sniper rifle with a silencer attached. Sniping is my favorite job. I placed the rifle in its signature box before I changed quickly, pulling on black tactical pants and a fitted hoodie. Tight enough not to catch on anything. I tugged on a shoulder harness, clipped in the gear and adjusted my gloves.

Then I looked in the mirror. No trace of the daycare teacher left, just the Denise who kills for a living with no mercy and conscience. 

I was out the door again. The swing creaked as I passed, and from across the street, old Mrs. Taylor waved at me.

I waved back, gave her a soft smile.

“Long night grading papers,” I said cheerfully.

She nodded with a kind smile, none the wiser. No one ever suspects the woman who teaches kids how to read, was a woman who kill for money.