How to Raise an Assassin

CHAPTER 8: I MEET THE QUEEN OF ROYDEN

I wish I took my own advice, because I got caught. Besides having a target turn around and kill you, getting caught was the second worst thing to happen to an assassin.

This time I got lucky.

I'm the type of person who hates to delay things to the last minute. I'm not a procrastinator, much to the dismay of my entire generation who can involuntarily procrastinate because it's second nature to them.

The day after hitting the branding center in Washington Park, I decided to rip the band-aid off and disable the Royden branding center.

Multiple doubts plagued my brain. As Ashton noted, the Royden Hive was respected because of its size, the number of members it had, and the core beliefs that linked back to Newton Brockton's vision of a gang that protected the most vulnerable in Chicago's society. It was one of the most powerful hives in Chicago, and I wasn't sure if I could handle it.

The other doubt that plagued me was the nightmare I had. I felt like my brother was really there. Noa was telling me something very clear to me. I was weak because I killed. A strong person found ways to solve problems without resorting to animalistic violence. My brother believed that I could become the strongest person in my family by shielding me from this life.

Yet here I was, the day after watching twenty plus people drop dead by my own actions, clamoring to do the same thing again.

It's just a dream Zay, I tried to convince myself. Dreams mean nothing.

In the end, the threat of the repercussions of my parents, particularly my father, if I didn't carry through with the project was the moving force in my decision that brought me on the suburban bus to Royden, south of downtown Chicago.

As the bus entered the neighborhood's depot, I was hit with the grittiness of the area. Abandoned buildings spray painted with illegible bubbly symbols that marked the gang's territory, weeds tearing up cracks in the sidewalk, the rusty skeletons of cars that had been the only remains of car bombings, the streets devoid of people saved for the occasional group of threatening muscle heads playing cards while sitting on milk crates or the lone police car stalking through the neighborhood. For everything Ashton told me, I pictured this hive to have diamond streets, children holding hands and laughing in the park, and people pushing their dogs in strollers. Was this what was left of the Locusts' social service past?

I drew less eyes than when I was in Washington Park. The community here in Royden was a bit more diversified over the years. Poor people of all shapes and colors lived here, showing that poverty doesn't distinguish based on the tint of your skin. Either way, I wore my disguise I usually do for jobs, distorting my face in such a way that people couldn't identify me as the suspicious person who entered a building moments before one of its tenets tragically died.

This time around I was disguised as a boy.

My father warned me in the details he sent in the group chat that some branding centers are separated by gender. The one here in Royden conducted branding initiations for each gender at different times. Today were the guys, and for some reason I found it easier to complete contracts on men. They're supposed to be "stronger" than me. If they died at the hands of a twelve-year-old girl, few people would believe such a headline in the morning news.

For this I wrapped my hair around my head like a whirlpool. A curly wig covered the top like a winter hat. Puberty hadn't infected me with pimples, body hair, and boobs yet. Either that or I was doomed to be flat-chested for my entire life. I guess it didn't matter anyway. Who would ever fall in love with an assassin?

Dressing up like a guy wasn't hard. A t-shirt and some jeans and I was good to go. I made my way to the branding center, which was in an abandoned steel factory on the edge of the neighborhood. Dust stained windows, rusty walls, rats in the courtyard, the place looked deserted.