Page 1 of Stalking His Assassin

one

GRACE

I’m exhausted.I haven’t been home in five days, and I miss the comfort of my own bed. I never sleep well outside the security of my home. You become a little paranoid when you’re an assassin with a never-ending list of enemies. Not that anyone knows who I am. To my clients and those who meet their end by me, I’m a ghost. Known only as Eris, Goddess of chaos, lover of bloodshed. Though most call me Ghost. Not even my closest friend knows who I am, not really. She only knows Grace Silva, the eccentric computer whiz.

I wasn’t born Grace Silva, but when I killed the man who raised me, I created a whole new life. Lucy Granger died the same day Steve Sheridan took his last breath. To the world, he was a philanthropist from old money that took in the young daughter of his best friend and wife after they died in a tragic accident. Uncle Steve was decent to me up until my tenth birthday. He doted on me in front of his friends and colleagues. Called me his little princess, even.

I was so little when my parents died that I barely remember them. Uncle Steve never spoke of my parents. I never thought much of it because I figured it was too hard for him to remember his best friend. I was so very wrong about that. Steve hadmy parents killed when my dad found out the truth about his businesses. Keeping me and turning me into his greatest asset was the ultimate punishment for them.

He succeeded in making me the best weapon in his arsenal. The youngest, deadliest assassin to ever work for The Agency. My training started on my tenth birthday. To the outside world, I was sent to a prestigious boarding school, but in reality, I was sent to The Agency’s training facility. My training consisted of everything from etiquette to languages, computers, hand-to-hand combat, and weapons. I learned to look like the sweet little lady while honing my abilities to kill a man in a hundred different ways.

I killed for the first time on my thirteenth birthday. I didn’t shed a tear. All emotions had been beaten out of me by that point. As I got older, my training continued on to how to seduce a man. I excelled at that as well… Uncle Steve’s little Lolita killer. I killed more people before my eighteenth birthday than his top assassin had in the fifteen years he’d worked for The Agency.

Not that I’m proud of that fact.

Uncle Steve brought me home as his social circle expected after my "graduation" from that prestigious boarding school. Of course, I had a fancy diploma and a glowing history on the books for many years at that school. Money can buy anything if you know the right people.

One thing that the training facility was good for was that my education wasn’t neglected in the least. Intelligence is an asset and necessary for an assassin to smoothly blend in with all types of people. When I came home that summer, I had a master’s degree in computer science and a master’s in communication. I could speak five languages fluently and three others passably.

Uncle Steve paraded my ass around like a prized show pony. Fancy parties, charity events, dinners with business associates and friends… I got to use all the acting skills I had been taughtduring my time at the training facility. My greatest performance was acting like Steve’s loving daughter. I did such a great job that even Uncle Steve believed the act. All the way up until my blade sliced through his neck like melted butter.

I watched him die with hatred in my eyes and the first genuine smile I’d smiled in years on my face. I still consider his death my greatest accomplishment. The foolish man actually thought he could control me. There were several people at the training facility that were little more than mindless drones, but not me. Never me. My hatred for Uncle Steve fueled me to train harder and fight the conditioning they tried to inflict on my psyche.

I knew after I killed the first man that he would become victim to my blade. He was right about me becoming the best assassin The Agency ever employed. I'm the best to graduate from their training facility. They were tasked with training me, molding me, breaking me… too bad that I had hatred to fuel me. That same hatred ended Uncle Steve’s life and was the downfall of The Agency.

Uncle Steve took a vacation to the Caribbean and left his daughter in charge. The Agency didn’t question it. I was the best. Why wouldn’t I be left in charge? His reputable businesses were easy enough to take charge of as well. It was all ridiculously easy. Further proof that Uncle Steve was a prideful idiot.

It took a couple of months, but I dismantled The Agency. I set up each of the operatives one by one so I could quickly dispose of them. They might’ve stood a chance had they communicated with each other. Assassins are a paranoid bunch, which breeds discontent. It worked well for my purposes. Once they were taken care of, I turned my attention to the training facility. I enjoyed ending every one of the instructors.

Sadly, there were four trainees that had to be dealt with. Years later, those deaths still bother me. The two newest recruitswere able to be released. They were only there for a few months and hadn’t drunk the Kool-Aid yet, so to speak. I keep an eye on them, just in case, but they both settled into their new lives with new families and are living happily as normal kids.

I sold off Uncle Steve’s businesses after he tragically died in a boating accident in the Caribbean. Once again, I played the loving daughter and held a funeral that was a ridiculous production fit for a man who saw himself as an untouchable king. Once the empty coffin was buried six feet under and all the so so sad masses were gone, I enjoyed a greasy pizza and my favorite mint chocolate chip ice cream. I celebrated by creating my new identity and setting up a new life for myself—Grace Silva.

Within a month, all of Uncle Steve’s businesses and assets were sold off, and I had millions of dollars squirreled away in untraceable accounts all around the globe. I bought a luxury high-rise in Seattle, as far away from New York as possible, and turned the top two floors into my personal fortress. Six years later, it’s still my safe haven. Other than myself, only two other living beings have stepped foot inside my home since I moved in.

Potato and Harper are the only two people I trust with my life, and one of them is a cat. He’s been with me for three years. Harper had been pushing me to date, claiming that I need a man in my life blah, blah, blah… I found Potato in a wet cardboard box in an alley I was hiding in while I waited for my mark. He was dirty, skinny, and feral. Hissing and swiping at me with his claws. I instantly decided to keep him. Ignoring his hissing and claws, I picked him up and held him close. He quickly calmed and started brokenly purring. He became my accomplice that night when I killed my mark and has been my little buddy ever since.

Harper was not amused when she came over the next day to find me with a half-feral cat. I just shrugged and told her thatshe wanted me to find a man, and now I had one so she could stop pestering me. I listened to her rant about how a cat isn’t a substitute for a real man’s love and that I need to get laid. She assumes that my standoffishness when it comes to men is that I had a bad breakup and that my lack of a sex life is because I haven’t ever had good sex. I let her keep thinking that because it’s an easy explanation. She’s half right. I haven’t ever had good sex, but that’s because I’ve never had sex, not because of bad sex.

Uncle Steve had me trained to be a Lolita killer, but I never ever allowed a mark to get to that point. My body is mine and mine alone. I refused to allow some disgusting man to take that from me. I’m in control of who touches me. No one else gets to decide that. Ever.

Harper’s so free with her heart and her body. Falling in and out of love quickly. My complete opposite. If I didn’t feel such deep fondness for Potato and Harper, I would say that I don’t have a heart to give to anyone. They prove that I can care for others beyond my deep-seated need to protect the innocent.

I shake off my thoughts of the past. I always get reminiscent after one of these jobs. I spent the last five days dismantling another group of rich assholes that thought they could take innocents from the streets and turn them into mindless killing machines. I left their little group of assassins alone for years because they worked with contracted mercenaries and assassins. Ones already in the business and willing to take on contracts for a price.

They fucked up when they decided that it was a good idea to open a training facility to make their own little assassins. I obviously can’t throw stones at people who kill for a living, considering I’m a killer myself, but I will not allow kids to be forced into this lifestyle. The choice was taken from me, and I will do everything in my power to ensure it doesn’t happen again.

A lofty goal, but one I enjoy striving for.

This facility took longer to dismantle than expected. I wasn’t anticipating a covert government agency being involved. I dislike getting involved in politics, but it couldn’t be helped. The Germans are currently trying to figure out why their military is missing twelve people. Three ranked members and nine highly trained special forces operatives. Tragic really. A mystery that will never be solved.

Good riddance.

After that was taken care of, I was able to quickly take out the people at the training facility and then the people running the entire operation. Thankfully, there were only four kids at the facility. Two were from Germany, one from Russia, and one from Austria. None of them spoke English. I’m fluent in German and Russian, and I calmed them down and assured them I was there to help. I had planned to find them homes in their home countries, but knowing the German government, or a small faction of it, was involved changed my mind.

I brought them back to the States with me and took them somewhere I know they will be safe and will be placed in good homes. Hope House isn’t on the books anywhere, but they do amazing work for women and children who are victims of human trafficking. The people I bring to them might not fit their normal criteria, but those who run the place quickly agreed to help me in my endeavors.

It doesn’t hurt that I funnel a shit ton of money into their accounts to help their cause. Some of the bastards I take out are beyond wealthy, and I have more money than I could spend in fifty lifetimes. I enjoy playing Robin Hood… well, if Robin Hood stole from the rich through blood and gore. Definitely not Walt’s version of the tale.

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