Page 22 of Memphis

I blew out a breath and shook my head. “You just never learn, do you?” I said, and then I shot him in the left leg—I liked symmetry—watching as he crumpled to the floor. “Next time, I’m hitting your ass above the fucking waist. Consider this your last warning!”

Everyone started yelling, and Moody actually reached for his gun, but I turned on him before he could grab it.

“What you gon’ do? Shoot me? I pay your salary! Stand the-fuck down!” He kept that hand under his jacket, so I added, “Moody, I don’t care about what you meant to my father or how many years of service you’ve given my family. Stand the-fuck down before Iputyou down!”

He raised his hands and backed up.

Keeping my eye on him, I lifted my gun, aiming at the foyer walls as I pulled the trigger over and over again, hitting paintings, light fixtures, any and everything. Layla was yelling, Zaccai was on the floor crying, my son was shooting daggers at me with his eyes, and my mother? She just stood there staring at me like the stone-cold bitch she was.

“Dear Mother, I don’t know if you recall this, but we had a deal that included you steering clear of my lady. So, consider this my last time saying this to you… stay THE FUCK away from Memphis. Don’t talk to her, don’t talk about her. Hell, don’t eventhinkabout her. I will fuck your entire world up for her and that goes for all of you, but especially you, Mother. You fucked us up once. You took her from me, but you won’t do it again. I’ll burn your whole world down before I let that happen! And you know I can do it!”

With that, I left.

13

Then…

Life could be so crazy.

In what felt like seconds, I went from being a regular-degular college student with a few insecurity and anger issues who was a bit of a loner but managed to be friendly withher dorm-mate and some of her classmates to being a trained assassin with a cute and kind of sexy recruiter-slash-mentor. Or rather, I was an assassin in training…I guess.

I mean, I’d always been good at kicking asses, but it turned out I wasn’t too shabby at shooting asses, either. I practiced at a shooting range on the outskirts of town religiously. Used some of the money my father kept in my account to buy two guns—a twenty-two to start, per my mentor’s instructions, and a Glock once my shooting skills improved.

The Glock was my favorite.

I used 10mm rounds since 11C22 said using them made the Glock most powerful. I practiced and practiced, garnering appreciation from the others—mostly men—I encountered at the range. So, that was my life…practice, school, and waiting. I waited…and waited…and waited some more—patiently at first—for that message from my recruiter. Weeks passed. Then months. I met 11C22 in the fall, and the spring semester ended without a word from him. I graduated and returned home to Parkton from Romey. Did my employers know that? Or maybe they changed their minds? Was I fired? If so, why? And well, shouldn’t I have been happy about it? It was a good thing to know I wasn’t going to be an assassin, risking my life and freedom to kill people…right?

Wrong.

Maybe I was evil or twisted or just plain insane, but the thought of not pursuing this new career upset the hell out of me. Perhaps it was the mindset I adopted in order to believe I could do it or the preparation or…the adrenaline, the rush I felt when I pulled a trigger, or when I was still taking the self-defense class, the jolt of serotonin that flooded me when I fucked someone up with a kick or a throat punch. Not to mention the fact that I would eventually be able to choose my targets. That way, I could do for others what I hadn’t been able to dofor myself and my family—get revenge, punish those for whom punishment was egregiously overdue. That’s what it was. I could avenge my beautiful mother’s death through these other people, and that had my mind all tangled up. It physically hurt that she was gone due to negligent care from her doctor, a misdiagnosis, and a broken system. Worse than experiencing her passing was witnessing the suffering she was forced to endure. That broke me, shattered my heart, and gave me literal PTSD. I wouldn’t survive witnessing another loved one going through that.

I was pissed and incredibly angry because someone needed to pay for my loss, and I no longer had the possibility of a proxy.

“What’s got your mean self frowning, girl? You pissed at the TV? It ain’t even on.” My father’s voice startled me, and I realized I’d been glaring at the TV as I pondered my situation.

I smiled up at him as he stood over me. He’d always been a big teddy bear of a man. “Just thinking.”

“Mm-hmm,” he grunted, toddling out of the living room. “Don’t think too hard. You look like you two shakes from cutting someone’s whole head off.”

I rolled my eyes. “I love you, too.”

He stopped and turned to look at me, concern in his eyes. “You still going through with it?”

“I don’t have any other choice.”

Giving me a sober look, he nodded his understanding.

The big day had arrived,and I was nervous as hell. I’d fought hard to get to this point, and in the end, my father had to step in to make it happen, but now I was here. It was the right thing to do, and I knew it, but that didn’t make it any less devastating. At the age of twenty-two, I was just minutes from having ahysterectomy as a means of prophylaxis. My sisters weren’t as pragmatic as me, but then again, I’d always been the most analytical of the three of us. My decision wasn’t made totally out of emotion. To me, it just made common, mathematical sense. My mother suffered and died from uterine cancer that, by the time it was definitively discovered and diagnosed, had ravaged her body, having spread to her pelvic lymph nodes, cervix, and vagina. She fought long and hard. I never wanted to go through that, so there I was. The having kids thing didn’t move me. I would’ve rather been childless than leave children behind to mourn me while they were young. I wanted to live, see the world, maybe even fall in love. I had an uncertain future ahead of me, but I wanted time to figure it out.

I smiled as my father kissed my forehead and my sisters hugged me before they took me back for the procedure. I was ready to get this over with and move on with my life.

14

Then…

Ihad too much time on my hands, or at least that was the excuse I came up with. During my recovery from a successful surgery, I had too much time to reminisce and ponder and stew in a bitterness I couldn’t seem to shake. I also hadnew skills that I wanted—no—neededto utilize: research and elimination. However, I had no mentor, no company to work for, and no clients. I had no idea how to get in touch with The Agency or 11C22 himself. I tried calling the number he gave me, but he never answered, and the burner I kept charged and ready never rang. Were there other companies of the like that I could apply to? Did that even make sense?

I was frustrated and restless, and that was why I was sitting in my car after ten in the evening, using the high-tech binoculars I’d bought for my “job”, waiting to see Dr. Sherman Stone leave his office for the third night in a row. He usually made his departure around six or seven in the evening. Most days, he left the home he shared with his live-in girlfriend around 5:00AM and headed to the gym. Afterwards, he returned home and emerged an hour or so later to head to the hospital or his office.

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