CHAPTER 1: THE ASSIGNMENT

REBEL

The crazy, rowdy Cali streets were rowdy and crazy, but I had perfected the skill of ignoring the din. I slipped through a crowded market like a razor, slicing through it as sharp as a blade. My dirty little paws dug into pockets and pouches like an old man sifting through them slowly, lifting wallets and coins without so much as a scent of a whisper of suspicion. I was actually a ghost at age six, and nobody noticed or heard me, and walking developed my survival mechanism.

While walking, I feel that someone is watching me, but if I go back, nobody is there; thus, I have to go on.

-MICHAEL

I rested against a lamppost on the edge of the market, following the little girl step by step with my curious gaze. I'd had her in my sights for three days now, interest accumulating moment by moment. Most kids her age had families, or at least a crew to cling to on the streets. Not her. She was as solo as it's possible for a kid to be, surviving with a quiet talent that implied both skill and necessity.

Today, though, it was not so much her luck.

"Hey! Stealer!" a fat vendor shouted, reaching for his apron where his purse had been.

She tensed for a moment before she fled, bobbing between legs and dodging stalls. The vendor followed her, with two others, their large boots booming on the ground as they chased after her.

I joined the fray, pushing forward with seething fury. I cut off the peddler in half a second, his broad body immobilizing the man in his way.

"Calm down," I ordered, my voice rough and commanding. "You're chasing after a child."

"She robbed me!" the peddler shrieked, but his fury crumbled under my icy glare.

"And you're a big man. Go away," I instructed him, he was left with no line of reasoning. The trader stepped back before grumbling to himself and leaving.

While the kid had fled down an alley, her fire-seared lungs exhaling ragged gasps of air as she clung frantically to the stolen wallet and her heart thudded against her ribcage. She was used to fleeing, to hiding, but for some reason, that one in the market square sent her brain, already in agony, twisting further. He hadn't chased after her. He hadn't yelled. But for some reason, I'd gotten the idea that he'd noticed me. Honestly.

"You're quick," I said, easy and casual.

She turned around, eyes narrowing at the sight of me at the end of the alley. She looks me up and down.

"Leave me alone," she spat, stepping back. She looked down at her back, ready to take flight again.

"You've got talent," I continued as if she'd cut me off. "But you're wasting it."

"I don't need your advice.".

No, but you're in trouble," he exclaimed harshly. "How much longer do you think you can manage that? Stealing bread and fleeing from men twice your size? You're going to come crashing down sometime."

"How long have I been living on my own?" she retorted sharply, although the tremble in her voice betrayed the fright.

I took a step forward, not willing to frighten her. "Good is not surviving. I can provide you with more.".

She taunted me. "Like what? A hot bed and three square meals a day? Is that where you feign concern?"

I didn't even bat an eye at her sarcasm. Instead, I went down on my knees to get in her face, his piercing eyes locking with hers. "No. I'm giving you a purpose. A respite from this life if you want it.".

She stared at him, amazed. She didn't even challenge him. There was something in what he'd told her, the manner in which he'd said it, that amazed her.

"What's the catch?" she asked sternly, her voice distrustful.

I smile. Good girl, there's always a catch, but to me, "You do what I say. No more stealing. No more running. You train, you learn, and you survive," I say to her bluntly. "Or you can stay here, hoping someone catches you and thinks you're not worth rescuing."

My words dangled over her like a pall, and for the first time in who knew how long perhaps, glacial fear wrapped tight around her heart as she gasps roughly. She cast a glance down at the wallet still clutched in her hand and back at me again.

"Why would you care?" she panted weakly.

My voice eased, but not much. "Because I think you can. And because nobody ever scooped me up when I was your age. Perhaps I am attempting to level the playing field."

She just stood there, her gut screaming at her to run. But for some reason, she just could not quite seem to take that very first step out, and then another.

"Fine," she said, shaking voice but firm. "But if this is some kind of trick-

“It’s not,” Michael cut in, standing and extending a hand. “You’ll see.”

She placed her tiny hand inside mine and breathed deeply. She felt the harsh, calloused, but firm and unyielding surface of my palm. For the very first time in her short life, she sensed a spark of something she never did before. Security.

REBEL

And so started my life with Michael.

I've been called back home after ten years abroad.

Strange, is it not? I don't care about Cali anymore. You'd think you'd feel nostalgia, but there's just apathy. It's where my boss, Michael, discovered me when I was six years old, under a bridge. I was such a skilled pickpocket that he couldn't resist watching me. He sat and observed me for days, saw how I managed on my own. And then one day he stopped by and kind of took me in. Michael is. complicated. Hard and harsh, yes, but the closest to a parent I've ever known.

He never allowed me to slack, never allowed me a normal life.  Not that you can lead a normal life in our world—it's not secure enough. His wife passed away on one of his operations, and he's been emotionally closed off since. We work underground, taking on missions for governments, private citizens, politicians—anybody who'll pay us. The missions are do-or-die as far as risk goes, and the pay is outrageous, but we fly under the radar. I've worked myself into being an expert at being able to blend in anywhere, anything, anytime, leave no footprint. This morning I read the letter. A plain white envelope with no address to send it back to, but I knew immediately whose seal was on it—a blood-red crescent moon, a dagger plunged dead into the center. Only one people carry that mark: my "family." My family, the family that I fled all those years ago. It was an invitation to come home. Come home, it read. Now. The word 'home' is a stranger, bitter on my lips. Which house have I known? Cold, naked walls of Crescent's castle? Harsh training grounds which promised vengeance if I failed? Dark halls once which terrified me, hiding in them, fearing what the years held. Even now, I can hear the voices of my trainers, the ones who made me what I am an assassin. They taught me how to kill, how to conceal, how to make silence a sword. But how to bury the pain of fearing to grow up, they never showed me. I learned this myself. I had to.

Here I stand holding the letter in my hand, and all that past work I put so desperately behind me now comes crashing down on top of me. After I'd departed, always knowing that I could never really be free. If Shadow Axe has called for me, then something is wrong. Shadow Axe does not call people.

But. they were my family. For better or for worse, they were what constructed me.

All I do know is that when I did finally, something should have fired nostalgia, rage, maybe sorrow.

Nothing.

No attachment to this place whatsoever, emotion non-existent.

House, mere house, expensively appointed, of course, but none that I had chosen: neither decorator items, nor art, and not the house. Never staying in one place for more than a moment, I had cared about or become interested in nothing. But between the luxury condominiums and the beach houses, the holidays never were home anywhere. Exhausted, in fact, I am. But my life is not my own. It's the organization's. That was what I signed up for.

The maids:(Curtsies) hello mistress back

With the glass of wine in my hand, gazing at the next victim after a long soak in the bathtub, I emerge from the tub. Two maids enter my room and begin to wrap me in towels. None of us ever ask a question; all I've been taught is the name of an individual, and they're going to kill her tonight. Folded across the bed is a ruby-red night dress, slit high up on one side. The fabric is silky to the touch and perfect. Red's never been my style-it's bold, it's dramatic, it's deadly. I allow the stylists to work their magic on my hair, make-up, and jewelry. When they're finished with me, I'm fantastic. My bold red lips finish off the dress, and the face that looks back at me in the mirror is killer. Deadly. My phone rings. Michael.

  Michael: Hey baby

  Rebel: Hi daddy

  Michael: Does it feel good to be back?

  Rebel: Not so much Michael

Michael: Don't fret, darling, but you're likely just jetlagged. No trace, no trail, okay? Get in, get noticed, take care of your target and bail. And if you do find yourself with a problem at all, ring me right away. Clear?

Rebel: Roger, Daddy. Will call after taking out the target.

Michael: Stay on your game Rebel

Rebel: Bye Daddy (phone dead)

I summon a maid to bring my driver. The party this evening is A-list, so I won't be packing a gun. No issue. I wear a small pistol on my thigh for good measure and smile to myself. I am twenty-five, and my whole body is an arsenal. I don't need much to get the job done. Even my nails are lethal.

As I take one final look at myself facing the mirror again, a tiny hand holds a knife up to my throat, and I slowly look into the shaking person's eyes, smile before little girl will choke, turn and break her neck, turn and take hold of the very same knife in little girl's hand and kill three men and touch up my makeup, I immediately listen for footfalls and plant my stance, ready for yet another battle.