Hit List

~chapter 3~

'I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.'

-Sylvia Plath

___________

Renée

"Noa Peters."

"The hell?" Renée looked at Brianna across the table. They were sitting in her parents' apartment, eating hot pockets. Glamorous, she knew.

Brianna shrugged nonchalantly, but her eyes were full of concern. Renée didn't feel so hungry anymore.

She listened to the other end of the line. It was silent, but there was some inaudible murmuring from wherever her uncle was getting into scrapes. Was it crying? She strained her ears to listen for anything she could understand.

"No no no." The words crackled into the phone like a mantra. The voice was female, she thought, but Noah is a boy's name, right? Renée closed her eyes and concentrated.

"Who's on the other end of the phone. Answer me, God damnit." There was more faint crying. The guy with her uncle sounded like she'd just done something bad. Probably in self defence? She didn't sound like an experienced killer. Killer? Renée's heart stopped. She couldn't possibly. Had she...had she. No. Renée shivered and looked at Brianna. She was on her phone, typing on some forum. So completely oblivious to what might be going on. I'd better tell her, just in case.

"He's not breathing. He's not breathing". There was a heaving sob and the noise buzzed to a halt. Renée's words caught in her throat.

Her uncle was dead.

And she needed to find Noa Peters.

****

"Shut up! Shut up!"

A tear streamed down Renée's face. "I'm telling you the truth. I swear. I'm sorry."

"No!" Brianna shrieked and knocked a plate off the table. It cracked as it hit the wooden floor. "Don't you know what this means? Rory is dead! He's dead! Whoever killed him will know! He'll know who he is and what he does, and she'll trace him right back to us!"

Anger surged within Renée, "My uncle is dead, and your only thought is about saving your own skin?" She spat.

"Shut up! I don't care at the moment. If we get caught, what'll happen to us? How many people have we killed? How many? Look at me."

Renée glared at Brianna through her tears. "Thirteen."

"Thirteen!" Brianna screamed. "Thirteen?! We're mass murderers, Renée! We're facing life in jail! Maybe even a death sentence!"

Renée flinched. "But they're not innocent. We only kill them because they've killed other people. It's justice killing." She tried to sound confident, but her words came out in a choking mass of tears.

"THEY WON'T CARE! We don't have time to stay here and drown in our own tears, Renée! We need to find this 'Noa' and silence her for good!"

Renée's eyes widened. The girl didn't sound like a hardened mass murderer. What if it had all been...a mistake?

She killed your uncle. She killed the only person in your family who ever understood. Who you ever trusted.

"Fine. I'm going to bed. I can't stand to look at you." Renée ran to her bedroom and slammed the door. She collapsed against the wall and cried. Rory was more like her dad than her uncle. He'd never treated her like a stupid child, he'd treated her like she could make her own decisions. Like she knew what was best for herself. He'd told her about the family business when she was 13. As soon as he told her, she was determined to help him. Making the streets safer. Disposing of the filth that wandered around America's states. There were risks, she knew. It wasn't a job for the faint hearted. But her uncle had still let her do it. And she was grateful for that. She wanted to do good. She wanted to die knowing that she'd kept others safe. She craved excitement, and danger. The job was perfect for her, and her uncle knew it. He trained her well. In combat, working with knifes, mostly, sometimes poison. They didn't use guns. Guns were loud and clumsy. They preferred the delicate blade of a well-crafted dagger. She had no idea where he got them from, but she didn't need to know. She trusted him completely.

She killed her first victim at 15. She was with her uncle at the time, but she'd been the one to slice his throat. He'd killed his wife and child in a house fire. He hadn't been caught by the police, he'd convinced them it was an accident, but he couldn't get past her uncle. He knew things. He read people like books. He understood what they were feeling, what they were thinking. He understood what she was thinking.

One night, about a year after, she was stalking a man in an alley when Brianna appeared behind her. She'd been following her all night. Renée and Bree had been best friends since primary school. She'd known that something wasn't right. She saw her friend wander down alleyways and into dingy clubs, and come out with her eyes darting around, mumbling to herself.

Renée told Bree everything. About her uncle, about the family business, about what she did and how she did it. Her uncle was livid. Bree was adamant that they allowed her to join the 'team'. It was an irresistible prospect, being a rebellious teenager with a filthy rich family, who turned up their noses at everything she did. She was convinced that she would be able to protect Renée, her closest ally, which was ironic because she was 5'4 and skinny as a rake. She was a fiery little thing, though. Stubborn as a rock, too. So when she lost her temper, she really lost it. Like now, for example.

But she was almost always right. And Renée knew that they'd have to act fast. They couldn't afford to be caught. And time was ticking away.