CHAPTER 2: THE ASSASSIN'S PATH

I jerked awake and sat up quickly from the nightmare, my heart pounding in my chest and my breathing ragged like I’d just run a marathon. Since that fatal day, I’ve been reliving that same nightmare. I used to have it almost every night, but over the years it has become less frequent. I lost my family a little over five years ago, but sometimes, it feels like it was just yesterday. What I wouldn’t give to be held in my husband’s arms again. To get snuggles from my kids and tickle them just to hear their laughter and giggles. Precious moments that I took for granted but will never experience again.

For the longest time, I felt numb and empty. I am an orphan, so they were my everything. When I lost them, I lost my reason for living and found myself angry a lot. Why didn’t I die with them? What did I do to deserve God’s wrath? After losing my family, I sold our house because every room brought back painful memories. It was just too much and I had to get away. I ended up moving across the country not even six months after their deaths. I stopped in a small town on the shores of South Carolina. It was the only place I could find a few, rare, small, peaceful moments, but it never felt like home. Nowhere felt like home anymore.

I just work and travel. I haven’t tried to be in a relationship or move on. It’s not that I haven’t been asked, I just can’t risk something happening. I wouldn’t survive a second time. There were many times I contemplated ending it all, but I knew that if I did, Kelly and Asher would never forgive me. So, I keep on with this miserable existence. There was no way I was going back to sleep now, so I might as well get a start on the day. Shaking the feelings and thoughts away, I decided to take a shower.

After the water was almost hot enough to burn flesh, I got in. Connor could never understand why I liked it so hot, and honestly, neither did I. I just like it—it feels good. I have nothing on my agenda today, so I took my time in the shower and washed my very long hair. Once my fingers and toes were all wrinkly, I decided to get out. I dried off and wrapped myself in a towel, then went to the sink to brush my teeth. While I was brushing my teeth, I looked at the bruise on my cheek.

Last night I went to a rundown bar to get something to drink and start a fight. I’ve had that nightmare the last couple of nights, so I needed to let off some steam or I would’ve hurt the next idiotic person I came across. Hey, some people fuck, I fight. When I was done in the bathroom, I combed my hair. I really need to get a haircut. It’s been a while. My hair is almost to my knees, which means braided, it’s about mid-butt. I like to keep it about waist length to cover up the scars on my back. I didn’t realize how long it had been because I keep it braided all the time.

After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I put everything away and braided my hair into the usual French braid. When I was done, I went to my backpack and pulled out a matching bra and underwear set, black jeans, a black tank top, and socks to wear. I walked over to the bed and sat down to put my black biker boots on. “Wait, where the hell are my boots?” I said to no one. I must have drunk too much last night because they were not where I put them. Or they grew feet and walked away. I started to laugh because I pictured boots growing legs and feet under them and starting to do the Macarena dance.

After a couple of minutes, I found my boots tucked under the bed and put them on. I looked in the mirror and gave myself a nod. All black—just like my soul, I thought. My phone dinged, signaling a new notification. Checking it, it was an email from my employer, John. Fucking finally—I’ve been waiting for this for two days. Upon opening it, there was a picture and information about my next contract, which we call a mark. I studied the photo, committing it to memory.

My mark is a fairly pretty man. I never thought I would describe a man as pretty, but he has some features that most women would imitate with makeup and kill for. He has a thin oval face with rich, thick brown hair and eyes to match. He has a small, thin nose and full lips. A scar runs the length of his face, starting above his eye and ending below some nice, defined cheekbones. Once I memorized every feature, I continued to read through the file.

Assignment: Urk Mensolv.

Dead or Alive: dead only.

Description: 6-foot-2, brown hair, brown eyes, and a scar starting above his left eye and running down his cheek.

Price: $500 million paid upon proof of death. Triple the rate for elimination of the upper leadership listed under “Known Accomplices.”

Type of Contract: Exclusive until 1 week then open.

Last known location: Türkiye.

Organization Information: The Kixovl Mafia deals in human and sex trafficking and has dabbled in selling weapons. They are suspected of running seven human/sex trafficking rings around the world for all genders, races, and ages.

Caution: anyone who has tried to infiltrate the operations has ended up dead or as a sellable body.

Special Skills: Former Special Operations Marine, sniper, expert in weapons, mixed martial artist. Dishonorably discharged for unlawful engagement on a mission—killing women and children.

Known Accomplices: Jimare Solva, Titusic Moran, Valentine Sastaneda, Micahol Maranga, Edwin Francisterica, Clayon Recovna, Rex Fatima, Raul Burkest, Ezra Cantu.

Background/Other: Member of Kixovl Mafia for 34 years. Urk started off at the bottom and worked his way up from nothing to becoming the old Don, Kolk Yoseuff’s inner circle. Urk brutally murdered Kolk to take over the business 20 years ago. Since then, Urk has expanded to four more countries. Their members all have a tattoo of a serpent crawling through a skull with three heads—a mamba, cobra, and viper.

Included was a picture of the tattoo. There have been some ugly or dumb organization tattoos, but this one is pretty cool.

Now it makes sense why John sent me to Türkiye ahead of time. He must have been waiting for confirmation that Urk was here before sending me the file. Picking up my bag and stuffing my phone in my back pocket, I made one last sweep of the room before grabbing my keys and leaving the hotel. I know just the person to ask for information.

It was a warm, sunny summer day with a slight breeze, so instead of riding my motorcycle, I decided to walk the remaining four blocks to an informant’s house. Usually, we talk on the phone, but since I’m in his hometown, I think I’ll pay him a visit. Since I need to get this job done quickly, Thomas can tell me which areas to look at without needing to do research first. There’s a large wooded area to the north, so having a resident who knows the land will help.

I met Thomas about two years ago. I heard he had a habit of being in the right place at the right time, which made him the keeper of valuable illegal information. From what I understand, he doesn’t even try—he just happens to be at places where vital information is being shared. It’s like his superpower. He is the fly on the wall.

When I finally found him, he was getting the crap beat out of him. I saved his life that night and paid off his debts—that one time only. Since then, I’ve saved his life not once, but twice—not for the same reasons. It goes without saying, he owes me a debt he can never repay, which is why I get free information whenever I need it. He could be rich, living a grand life with his skill set. He could sell information to the highest bidder and be the most protected informant alive. Instead, he’s a drug addict who’s looked down upon. His information is always true and current, but it doesn’t matter because he’s viewed as scum by everyone, which means people don’t want to be associated with him. Honestly, that’s fine by me. It means I don’t have to fight or bid for information.

Thomas lives in a one-bedroom house with a rickety porch in a rundown neighborhood. It’s painted white, but the paint’s mostly chipped off. It has a torn screen door in front of a rotting wooden door. The mailbox is hanging on the wall by one screw. I’m fairly sure it’s going to fall off at any moment. The grass is completely overgrown—almost reaching my knees. The sidewalk is crumbling away.

“You won’t find him there,” said a small, frail voice. I looked to my right and on the neighbor’s porch sat a little old lady with short, white, curly hair, wearing a floral nightgown. She was sitting in a rocking chair, knitting a blanket. “Then where can I find him?” I asked. “Over off 3rd and Holmes Street, in the city graveyard, plot 7.” That was all she said before getting up and going inside.

Well shit, I thought. I turned and walked down the steps heading to the cemetery. I really hope he’s just visiting, but I know he’s not. As I walk down the street, the hair on the back of my neck stands up—someone’s watching me. I look around, and it’s not hard to see why. Everyone is watching me like a hawk as I walk down the sidewalk. Most houses are in rough shape like Thomas. A group of kids are playing basketball in the middle of the street. They made their own hoop out of a 4x4 wooden post, a 5-gallon bucket with the bottom cut off, and a plywood backboard. A kid missed his shot, and the basketball rolled in my direction. I picked it up. The kids wanted to run to me and ask for it back, but kept their distance.

I smiled and took a shot from 25 feet away. It bounced off the backboard and hit the rim three times before going in. The kids started jumping and cheering. They all ran to me for high-fives, already forgetting I was a stranger they feared a minute ago. “Can you be on my team?” asked a little boy. “Sorry guys, I have to get to work. Maybe some other time,” I said, just as sad that I couldn’t join. Being around kids is the only time I feel a semblance of feelings. Normally I’m just as dead on the outside as I am on the inside.

We said our goodbyes, and I continued walking to the cemetery. As I arrived, I headed to plot 7 and yep—supposedly, there he is.

First rule of being an assassin: don’t believe someone is dead unless you see the body with your own eyes.

As I read his headstone, I giggled.

Here lies

Thomas Quinn Morgolf II

He died happily while smoking weed and getting high.

Chucking some more, I decided to head back to the hotel to pick up my motorcycle. Looks like I’m going to have to get that information some other way, I thought. Just as I reached my motorcycle, my phone started to ring. “Yeah?” I answered, not looking at the caller ID. “Did you get the file?” asked John. “Yes,” I replied. “Good. Let me know when the job’s done. The client has put a hefty price on Urk and will triple it if you take down his top goons,” John said before hanging up. He doesn’t talk much.

John was the one who recruited me years ago and trained me to be an assassin. When I lost everything, the only emotion I latched onto was anger. Through a series of events, I ended up in the underground fighting ring to vent my anger and guilt. Growing up as an orphan, I didn’t really have anyone who stood up for me. I lived with a family that didn’t make much money. So I wore hand-me-downs and got bullied a lot. I took on odd jobs as a kid to buy nice things for myself, hoping the bullying would stop—but it never did.

Eventually, when I was old enough to work, I got my first job and paid to take fighting lessons. The bullying slowed down after I started fighting back. When I knocked out my worst bully, it stopped altogether. It was that same dirty fighting technique that I used in the underground ring. Apparently, John saw what he was looking for—and the rest is history.

After I stuffed my phone in my backpack, I decided to visit an old acquaintance in Russia. Hopefully, Corey may have some information that can help me out. Ready to get this job over with, I started my bike and hit the open road.