Target 84 (24 page)

“At this hour, lie at my mercy all mine enemies.
”―
William Shakespeare
We’ve spent the last four days going over the details of our plan. Tightening up all the angles. We’ve made lazy, slow love, had angry, passionate sex, and learned each other’s bodies inside and out. She prefers it rough. Something that naturally doesn’t make sense given her need for control, but she doesn’t want to submit, she wants to give and take as roughly as she desires it to be done to her. It’s an interesting dynamic to say the least but I can’t lie and say it doesn’t also turn me on. I’m happy to oblige my bird in any way she wants. Passion is passion. Hunger is hunger and rough play is satisfying for both our wounded souls.

A natural routine, an ease, fell into place in the first two days. A division of labor of sorts: cooking, cleaning, loving, relaxing, planning. I never anticipated it happening so effortlessly. A chaste kiss while going over strategy. A hip bump in the kitchen doing the dishes. A passing touch on the way outside to gather more wood. A lingering look over the top of her book. Sparring that turns into lovemaking. It’s been euphoric.

That airy feeling of floating in utopia crashed down the moment we hauled our bags through the woods to the shed I lived in. It’s decrepit now. No more than a lean-to harboring large spiders. The freezing Pennsylvania weather isn’t helping matters. Greta rubs her gloved hands together and blows on them while I start a small fire.

“This was stupid. It’s freezing,” she mutters. Her teeth chatter.

“It’s necessary and I lived in this with less than you’re wearing now,” I say, looking at her pointedly.

“I wasn’t making light of your reality, Bent. I’m saying that you had four walls and a roof before. Now we might as well just put up a tent. It’d be warmer,” she grumbles. She’s adorable when she mumbles and complains. Her lips form a picture-perfect pout. Her eyebrows draw in and her eyes darken.

“Let’s hang the tarp over the back half to keep the wind out more. That should help.” She nods, stands, and grabs a corner of the homely brown tarp to help me, all the while shivering and making a show of it.

By the time night falls, we’re already holed up in a single sleeping bag, tucked tightly side by side staring up at the stars through the holes in the shed, our breaths coming in little white puffs.

“Bentley.”

“Bird,” I respond quietly.

“I’m sorry you lived here alone. It’s almost as scary as school.”

I turn to face her.

“I got used to the noises at night quickly. Actually, they were comforting. I felt like I was never alone.”

“Still, babe. I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be. We’re about to make everything right.”

She leans in the inch between us and presses her cold lips to mine, instantly warming them up. Where Greta is, fire is. We burn brightly together.

*

Ravenbrook is a Civil War era mansion that has been restored to glory. It's a massive, old monstrosity on private land, so we won't have to worry about city cops and traffic when things go wrong or get loud. We’ll have time to disappear. We’ve hiked almost five miles already, sniper rifles in tow. I’d made it over ten miles from the school the night I escaped. We drove the first five, left the truck on the side of the road, tucked in the trees, and decided to walk the rest.

At the shed, we’d set up a target a thousand yards away to zero our guns until we each got three consecutive rounds within a five-inch square. Greta refused to settle for less. Given that her practice over the years with a sniper rifle exceeds my own, naturally it had taken me longer to refresh my skills. She’d gotten a real kick out of that, peacocking around, boasting about being top notch. I’d tackled her to the ground and she’d fought half-heartedly until we’d ended up making out like a couple of teenagers.

Taking our places among the trees, we set up our guns a little under a mile out from the wall, Greta taking out the further cameras, leaving me to go after the nearest ones. We’re too far out for the cameras to detect us and close enough to feel the chill in the air that isn’t from the weather. The school looms in the distance. The wall looks foreboding, garnering its flood lights and cameras. Much like a prison yard.

Ominous and oppressive.

Taking into consideration the multiple wind directions and speeds between myself and the camera, I make the needed adjustments. Taking three deep breaths, I let my lungs deflate on the last exhale, the pause before inhaling again is my money spot where I squeeze the trigger. The gun recoils. The scope falls right back on my camera target. One down. Greta’s gun discharges, following mine. Now, in quick succession, we each repeat the process four more times.

After the last bullet is fired, we can hear the distant shouts carrying on the wind from distraught Ravenbrook staff. We pack up, cover tracks, and head back to our pathetic lean-to for the evening.

Warming cream of potato soup over the fire, Greta looks worried.

“What’s up, bird?”

“That felt too easy.” She glances from the pot to me, worry showing in her eyes.

“It was supposed to be. Tomorrow is the hard part.”

“Bent, I don’t know. I don’t have a good feeling,” she says shaking her head.

“
Now
you’re going to go on
feelings
,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.

“Dammit, Bentley,” she snits.

“Sorry.” I shrug.

“Just promise me, if anything feels off, you’ll leave the building tomorrow.”

“And what about you?” I ask.

“I have a better chance, Bentley. Dee may not be on to me yet. Walking through the school is a little less noticeable for me. I could just be back to visit.”

“Right. Eight years later?”

This time she shrugs at me, but I see her point. They will recognize her. Me, I’m just an outsider who foolishly stumbled into the wrong school.

“I’ll be careful, but, Greta, I don’t intend on letting you leave me,” I state.

“Ditto, but that’s what I’m afraid of. We’re now each other’s weaknesses.”

“You can be the hunter, or you can be the hunted.
”―
Lisa Gardner
Looking down the barrel of his pistol and pressing the magazine release, he removes the magazine cartridge from the gun. After verifying that it is fully loaded, he presses the magazine back into the bottom of the grip frame and locks it into place. Carefully, I slide the slide of my pistol rearward and confirm that a round is in the chamber. After releasing the slide and allowing it to close completely, I cock the hammer and press the safety into place. Bentley grabs my hand, squeezes it, and nods.

“Let’s go,” he says.

I watch as Bentley pushes through the small hole in the wall at the far end of the campus. I follow suit. We push silently along the wall, behind the tall bushes, trees, and plants. The dull crunch of snow under our feet every so often makes me cringe. We can’t afford to be seen yet.

Ravenbrook looks far more benign than I remember. In my dreams, the place is a cavernous building with barren rooms, impersonal hallways, and a hushed atmosphere. A place where kids are stashed away in secret and left to fight for survival. The reality is a fairly modern building with minimal decoration and authentic hardwood doors and floors.

Holding my gun in front of me, I scan the entryway. Bentley nods in acknowledgement, then raises his index finger to silence me. I steady myself, crouching slightly, holding my gun in both hands as I edge closer to the door.

A brightly lit entryway welcomed anyone foolish enough to enter, and I remember that the administrative offices are at the end of the hall past the auditorium. It’s empty. Noise echoes through the hall from the auditorium. I point, letting him know that I’m headed that way. He raises a finger, motioning upstairs. I blow him a kiss. He raises an eyebrow at me, smirks, and heads up.

“Actions have consequences. That's what we're taught to believe, but what if they didn't? What if for a lucky few, there were no consequences? Here at Ravenbrook we separate children from parents. It makes them more pliable.

Consider this: every arriving child at Ravenbrook is afraid of what this new world will mean for them, it’s natural. Yet if our teachers give them preconceived ideas about different things, and the child, afraid to stand out alone, receives these ideas passively, it leads to the child becoming afraid to voice his own opinion and ideas when they contradict the
conventional
attitudes. Conventional being the ‘school’s’ attitude, or stance, if you will.

On the other hand, if the child is with parents, he is in
friendly
company. A child will openly talk to their parents about issues they won't with anybody else. This builds up courage to express themselves as an
individual
. We don’t create individuals here. We create killers.

If it’s instilled early on in children, through a pressure to conform to specific ideas, then they comply without knowing better. They become obedient and dependable. They become what you
want
.” Dee’s voice makes my entire soul recoil. A white ball of rage consumes my insides.

“Yes,” Dee says to the gentleman raising his hand.

“How do you ensure their silence? What if they’re caught? Will the school be compromised?”

“Excellent question. We take extreme steps to not only teach the children about interrogation methods, but to make each student endure those methods. It breaks them down to a mental state that leaves them dependent on us. If ever detained or interrogated they will have already experienced any methods used. They will not break. They will carry Ravenbrook’s secret to their death.”

The flashback comes at me hard and fast as I stop in the auditorium entrance.

“We raise assassins, Thirty-three. You’ve been training seven years for this. We’ve given you the skills to be the best. To be a ghost, efficient, deadly, detached.” I stare at Dee’s mouth as it moves and remain silent. “I’m offering you a job. We will give you a name, papers, freedom. All you must do is carry your work phone. We will assign you targets, you take them out. Money is wired into an account of your choice.”

“What’s my alternative?”

“There isn’t one. We don’t have loose ends. No one leaves Ravenbrook unless they work for us. There is a confidentiality clause and contract to sign.” Dee’s severe bun looks painful. She should really just consider chopping all her hair off. I grin at my snarky thought.

“There is always an alternative.” I smirk.

“We’ve taught you well, Thirty-three.” She grins at me but it looks like a wolf’s grin. Dangerous and evil. “The alternative is you die at my hand. It has come down to that before, but so far, our job placement track is ninety-percent successful.” I watch her eyes, body language, facial tics. She’s serious.

“What do I have to do?”

“We will schedule your trial run. If you do well, your training continues. At eighteen, we release you to the world,” Dee rambles off matter-of-factly.

“Then what?”

“Then you live your life, Thirty-three,” Dee answers.

“Until you call,” I deadpan.

“Until you’re needed, yes. You’re free to do as you please between jobs,” she explains.

My body vibrates with anticipation. I want to raise my gun, take aim, and pull the trigger. It would be so easy. So fast. Yet, these things have to be planned carefully. You cannot rush them. The room is full of important people. High rollers, so to speak. Politicians, government officials, mob bosses. She is widening Ravenbrook’s network. Expanding the funding. Ensuring that more children end up like me. I’d never make it ten steps out of the room because these are men who, presumably, notice shit and act.

I screw on my silencer.

Tick. Tock. Dee.

I hear a scream cut through the silence. My heartbeat quickens. It sounds like Bentley. He screams again. My back is pressing harder into the concrete. His screams worsen.

I cannot imagine the horror he has seen or the pain he has experienced to make him scream like that. But he sounds like a child. Weak and fragile. My jaw is trembling with rage. Dee looks up from her podium, glancing around the auditorium. Muffled voices murmur at the tortuous screams bouncing off the walls. When she finally sees me, her face pales momentarily. She regains her composure quickly.

“Everyone clear out,” she barks. This room, full of powerful men, obeys her. They know that everyone in this building is capable of disarming a man and wouldn't think twice about taking a life to save their own. Dee turns on her boring black heels and strides off the stage, disappearing into the school. I smell the distinct aroma of retribution in the air. Her rhetoric and propaganda aren't going save her this time, though.

I slow my breathing and prepare for a gunfight.

She ends now. Turning around, I step into the hall. The child doesn’t realize I know she’s there.

Rolling to the right, I throw my elbow up. I follow through with a left fist across the nose. I shift to look at the child who’s tried to attack me and raise a curious eyebrow at her. So small. The thought runs loops around my brain, making me dizzy. She sits, palms cupped to her face, pooling with blood from the broken nose I’ve given her.

“Get out of here now,” I seethe. Her eyes widen and she crab crawls backwards away from me. She can't be older than thirteen.

I sprint down the corridor towards Dee’s office. I’m only three doors away when a large elbow slams into my head, catching me under my left eye and on the end of my nose. My head snaps backwards then forward. I make no move to stop the blood gushing from my nose. Raising the barrel of the pistol, I cock the hammer and pull the trigger in one fluid motion. He is still in the door frame. The boy’s gun drops to the floor. He never even had a chance to take proper aim. I leave him slumped against the wall. I refuse to feel bad. They are well-trained killing machines. They will kill me if I don’t incapacitate first.

I start for Dee’s office again. I can’t hear Bentley anymore. A student stumbles from a classroom at the opposite end of the hallway. She holds a knife out and lunges towards me. Dodging to the left as she approaches, I swipe up as she passes, capturing her wrist and tilting it inward. Slashed carotid. I release her hand and without looking back stop just outside of Dee’s office door.

I make no noise. Silence is my specialty. Some even refer to me as the “shadow of death.” I swallow hard and reach for the knob. Dee’s stoic body and unrelenting eyes drill into me as soon as the door is open wide enough.

“You,” she barks.
Yes
, I think,
me
, the diligent student returning for this moment. Her expiration date, as I refer to it, is nearing. My lips curl into a sneer. I raise the gun, taking aim at Dee’s head. The gun’s slide locks back. Out of bullets.
Fuck.

“Funny how these things happen.” She laughs calmly.

“Funny? I don’t find anything humorous about it,” I spit back.

The space between us is hollow, as if the air has been sucked from it, leaving a cold, silent void. Dee reaches for something, presumably a gun, under her desk.

“Don’t,” I clip.

“Greta, Greta,
Greta
. You’re just like me. You already know what happens next, and it isn’t me dying,” she snarls. My gut coils with heat and disgust. This woman stole my life. She molded me into something I despise. She had me tortured and conditioned until there was nothing left of my true self. I hate her with every fiber of my being.

I hear the distinct snap of a holster releasing its pistol. Her eyes flicker away from me towards her hand. I bend down, pull my knife from my boot, and without hesitation, send it careening through the air at Dee’s head. Her expression didn’t even have time to change before the blade lodged itself in her skull.

“I will never be like you,” I breathe. A rivulet of blood streams down her forehead, dripping off the end of her nose. It’s a slower death than others. I could reload and shoot but part of me wants her to feel her final moments slipping away. I want her to experience the fear of dying. The fear of having no control for once. I watch her feeling the life drain from her body, her breaths quick and shallow. I hold her gaze as it flickers from lifelike to hollow, then empty, then nothing.

Good fucking riddance.

I stride to her in ten succinct steps and yank the blade viciously from her skull.