How to Raise an Assassin

CHAPTER 2: $150,000 PAYDAY

Of course, I would arrive home late and fail to claim the living room TV. So much for watching my show.

My older sister heard me come in through the front door.

"Arm the alarm," she shouted from the couch.

I alarmed the house's alarm system.

Sorry, house is underselling it a bit. I lived in a three-story mansion on the shore of Lake Michigan. We had a four-deck yacht docked by our pier, a swimming pool that looked like it belonged at a fancy hotel in Las Vegas, tennis courts, basketball courts, a one-mile garden, a mini-hospital, a private portrait gallery, a movie theater, a couple of bowling lanes, and I think there's still parts of the house I hadn't visited in my twelve years living here.

That's the money killing people could buy you.

I placed my black bag in a cupboard by the door and took off my outfit. I tossed it in a chute that led to the incinerator. We don't like cross contaminating our kills. We're doctors in that sense. I threw on a gown made of genetically modified fox-fur.

"How'd it go Zay?" My older sister Laymow called out from the couch. I rounded the corner of a marble statue of a naked dude my dad bought from a museum in Italy. She was spread out on the couch gobbling fist-fulls of popcorn while watching The Office. This was probably the tenth time she's watched the series now. Sooner or later those jokes had to get old.

"I tried out that tightrope technique you recommended," I said sitting on the couch. The moonlight shimmered off Lake Michigan as it shone through the bay windows. I noticed a couple of guards outside patrolling the perimeter of the house in suits and ties.

Laymow shifted her attention towards me. She was a brunette with curls that looked like silk ribbons. She had hazel colored eyes that always memorized the guys, well those and the two volleyballs she had for breasts. She wore makeup to sleep, just a bit of eyeshadow to bring out her inner slumber. During the day she was a walking fashionista with Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Prada, and the likes adorning her frame. "I love that one. Was he flailing like a bird on the way down?"

I shifted uncomfortably on the couch. Honestly, once his hands slipped I kind of glanced away until I heard a splat. But Laymow wouldn't want to hear that. "Like a flightless chicken, even though he almost made it the whole way across."

Laymow shook her head. She always found flaws with my way of completing contracts now that she was at university, which somehow bestowed infallibility upon all of her words. "Zay, that's why you always tie a loose end so that when he makes it halfway, he's guaranteed to fall to his death. Common sense."

"Yes," I muttered. "Common sense."

There was a bit of silence before Laymow nudged me. "'Oh Lay, how was your contract tonight big sis?' 'Why thank you for asking Zay. How polite of you.'"

I yawned, trying to give off the social cue that I was tired and not in the mood for stories about grim assassinations right now. Lay didn't pick up on it.

"You should've seen her Zay. I played hide and seek, but first I plucked out both her eyes and promised her that if she could find and tag me, I'd let her live and even pay to restore her sight. She followed my voice right into the middle of the L. Smack! Blood, guts, high heels all over the place."

I got up off the couch. "Sounds like a fascinating tale. But I have a math test tomorrow morning, so I should probably get some rest."

"Yeah, you're right Zay," Lay looked at the grandfather clock that glowed diamond blue in the dark. "It's going to be two in the morning. Better get some shut eye."

I walked up the spiral staircase towards my room, past the portraits of RC Leaders, dating all the way back to the 1830s when Chicago was just a baby. It was here that Momma Emma founded one of the most notorious gangs in the United States—the Reapers.

The RC Leaders, or Reaper Core Leaders, were always the immediate family that led the criminal organization, although don't tell my parents I said that. They protected the interests of those who had a lot to lose. Bankers, CEOs, Executives, Celebrities, Politicians, you name it. If they had money and a looming threat of losing it, they contacted us. Many of the Reaper grunts who join the gang never get to see us. They're out selling drugs, pimping women, and many other nasty things I don't care to mention, to wealthy clients.

The Reaper Core handles the assassinations, and only the RC is imbued with that power. We are all trained from when we're young to kill.

Even against our will.

I shut the door to my room and threw myself on my king-sized bed partitioned with a white curtain, decorated with teddies, and with views of posters of Black Widow—my favorite superhero.

Now before you go off arguing she's the weakest Avenger who is good for nothing, I don't see her that way. I see her as a model. If she could bounce back from being trained to kill at a young age to join one of the most elite superhero organizations in the world—well, maybe there's hope for me too.

But for now, I kill. It was much better than the alternative of being on the other end.

***

Morning came too quickly. I found myself rushing to get ready for school.

When I reached the breakfast table, my mother was already down there sipping her coffee and scrolling through her tablet.

"Zay darling," my mother spoke with a flair of Victorian in her tone. She was dressed like a CEO. High heels, black skirt, white blouse. Her black hair was ironed straight and flowing down past her shoulders. Cherry-red lipstick, eyelash extensions, diamond necklaces, and ruby earrings made her face scream 'I'm rich bitch.'

"How was your little project last night?" She asked me.

I hated when my mom did that. She tried to mask what we did with euphemistic vocabulary as if that made what we did any more legitimate or professional.

"I sent the link over this morning."

"Oh," she said tapping away at her tablet. "I see. 'Local High Schooler Dies Trying to Tightrope.' That's excellent darling. Well done. That's another $150,000 from Casey. He'd ought to be smarter with his money and stay away from those boys, but then again business is business."

I scarfed down my French Toast with a slab of butter on top, gulped the scrambled eggs with grated cheese, and munched on the two graham crackers. I really did not want to hear my mom talk anymore about last night, or any of the other nights.

Xavier stopped at the dining room archway. He wore a navy-blue suit at my request, which made him stand out from the rest. Holstered behind his suit jacket was a handgun. He looked like he could be a gym instructor. He had a buzz cut as if he had just been discharged from the army. He called my attention. "Miss Zaslay, are you ready to depart for school?"

I downed my freshly squeezed orange juice and wiped my mouth with the table napkin. I was just about to leave when my mom reminded me. "A kiss darling."

I stopped myself and returned to my mother. We did a Spanish cheek kiss, and she hugged me. "Be safe dear and do well on your math test."

"Thanks mom," I said itching to go.

I pulled free from her embrace and rushed towards Xavier. "And don't forget to be home on time after school today for your father's delegation of our weekly projects."

I gave her a thumbs up, even though for once in my life I'd like to go a week without slaughtering an innocent person.