Young Love Murder (2 page)

Those in my field get hired for all sorts of reasons, by all sorts of people. The clients are usually anonymous and, even in the rare instances that they’re not, Simon deals directly with them. All I have to do is point and shoot. Or bomb, or poison, or cut. Sometimes clients request that it look like suicide or a mugging gone wrong. No two jobs are the exact same. Varying methods are a must. Don’t want to establish an M.O. that could link my executions together. A hitman who kills in only one way might get pleasure from that method, pointing at a possible serial killer.

So, maybe the new client is a government official who’s fed up with Xavier Sanchez getting away with murder and more. Maybe it’s an anti-drug group with rich backers, playing vigilante. Who cares? I just go in, get the job done and get paid.

I continue reading the information. Sanchez is a hard man to get to since he has a security force that includes armed bodyguards and a top of the line security system at his Miami estate. Plus, he’s often on the move. No one knows when he’ll be home in Miami and when he’ll be traveling elsewhere. In the past, he’s even employed the use of decoys to throw agencies off his trail or hide his whereabouts. 

My instructions from Simon are to enroll at the high school that Gabriel and Max attend as seniors.
Well, this is a first.
After that, I’m to gain the trust of at least one of the boys and, as a result, also gain access to Sanchez’s home. Once I’ve gained access to the house and grounds, I’m to wait for an opportunity when Xavier is home to make the kill. It all seems simple enough. Why do I get the strange feeling that this job isn’t going to be like any other before? Maybe it’s because I’m a teenager who isn’t a teenager. Maybe it’s because I’m sleep deprived.

Setting down the papers, I call Jackson’s cell again. At the fourth ring, he picks up with a careless, “Yeah?”

“About time you answered your phone, punk,” I chide playfully, leaning back in my chair, wincing when it squeaks throughout the entire backward tilt. 

“Whatever Annie,” he replies, scoffing lightly over the line. “I got your message from last night. Are you in New York yet?”

“Yep, but I’m flying out again tomorrow. I’ve got a job to do in Miami. You’ll never believe it, I have to enroll in high school,” I inform him in a morbid tone. 

After a moment’s pause, he chuckles on the other end of the line. “Seriously?”

“Uh-huh. I’m actually kind of nervous. I haven’t felt like this since the first jobs I went out on with you. I mean, we never even went to public school, Jackson. I’ve technically been a graduate since I earned my GED when I was fourteen.” Hey, maybe it’ll be a unique experience. For a while, when I was little, I’d wished that I could go to school like normal kids. That bit of craziness was cured when Simon explained how monotonous the life of the average kid is.

“This is too funny.” He laughs harder, loudly enough to have me moving the phone a few inches away from my ear. “I may have to fly to Miami just to watch you attend school.”

“I’m so glad the thought of watching me go through any sort of real teen angst is so amusing to you,” I tease him, knowing the ridiculousness of it. “I’m not used to dealing with other teenagers besides you. My youngest target has been twenty-three.” Aren’t there bullies in school? Wow, that’d be kind of fun to deal with, in my unique way. Someone tries to steal my lunch money and he’ll be the one walking away with empty pockets.

“Well, I’m almost done with my job here in Amsterdam. We haven’t spent time together since Paris. How about I meet you in Miami in a day or two? I’ll tell Simon that I’m taking a short vacation.” Evident anticipation in his voice almost makes me want to forbid him from joining me. My brother can be a pain in the ass when he’s decided that he’s bored and I’m to be the entertainment.

“That’d be great.”
I suppose
. “Call me when you fly into Miami and I’ll let you know where I’m staying,” I tell him, almost dreading the invitation. He’s my only family, though, besides Simon. Not even when you’re an assassin can you choose your family.

“Will do. Love ya, baby sis,” he says mockingly.

“Alright, love you too,” I reply grudgingly. It’s always the same routine with us. Embarrassed to show any real affection, we play it off as part of our banter.

Relaxing back into the squeaky office chair again, I pick up the picture of Gabriel Sanchez.
This job will be just like all the others
, I reassure myself. I get in, make the kill and get out. Simple and uncomplicated. The average teenage boy is no threat to someone like me, a seventeen-year-old highly-trained assassin. I’m probably the best in the world.
And so modest
. Unfortunately, assassination isn’t an Olympic sport,
yet
, so the ongoing argument with Jackson continues. But if it was, I would so beat out Jackson in every category. Although, he might take the gold medal in making it look like an accident. He really took to Simon’s teachings in that area.

The next morning, after a good night’s sleep, I catch a flight down to Miami and check into a spa hotel in South Beach. Not that I plan on scheduling any mud baths or massages, but this looks to be an extended stay and the hotel’s fitness room is supposed to be excellent. 

The two-room suite has the same layout as many of the ones I’ve stayed in before, but I’m digging the Asian-inspired theme and decor. The bedrooms and living area are tidy, with an uncluttered feel to them. I suspect even a UV light test wouldn’t find much hidden filth. Under the scent of incense, it smells of lemon cleaner and salt from the ocean. The living room has a TV in a bamboo parquet cabinet against the wall. There’s a gray low back sofa, two matching armchairs and a rosewood coffee table, making up a seating area. The room has beige walls with black framed art of Chinese symbols. There’s also a small kitchenette with a mini bar, small stainless steel sink and a coffee maker. In a basket on the counter are some dry creamer and sugar packets, but no coffee.
Good thing I’m not much of a coffee drinker.

To the right and left of the kitchen are the two bedrooms. I select the room farthest away from the suite door, feeling that it’s a more secure location. That leaves the other bedroom for Jackson, whenever he happens to arrive. My room has a simple queen size bed with rosewood night stands on either side. There’s a small closet and a door to the private bath. A plasma TV is mounted on the wall above the rosewood dresser. One whole wall is made up mostly of windows, showcasing a great view of the ocean, with a balcony looking out over the beach below.

I throw my suitcases on the bed to unpack and give Simon a call, to let him know that I’ve arrived. More than a few days without word from us and he’ll have one of his computer geeks hack into government satellite systems to pin us down, especially me and Jackson. A lecture usually follows after that, something to be avoided. 

Simon isn’t really our uncle he just raised us after our parents died. He was their best friend, possibly their only friend. When Jackson was four and I was two, they were both killed during a job. I don’t remember them and Jackson only has the vague memories of a small child, but Simon has always made sure to tell us stories about them. Not always pretty ones, but appreciated nevertheless. They were assassins like Simon, like Jackson and I are now. Following in their footsteps usually makes a parent proud, right? I’d like to think they’d be.

When Simon took us in, he raised us the only way I think he knew how. As killers and chameleons like himself. As children he tutored us himself. Not only in academic subjects, but also the unconventional subjects of real life, hard situations and secrecy. He taught us about weapons of all kinds, martial arts, people, cultures, languages, stealth and any other skills an assassin may need. We traveled the world with him while growing up. He began sending us out on what he called ‘training missions’ when we were still kids. It started off small, like gathering information on targets, but eventually it progressed to bigger and more dangerous things.
Murder and mayhem,
as I like to refer to it.

He never lied to us about what he was and what he did. He sat us down, explaining it all, letting us ask questions. He takes on jobs that involve killing the big bad wolves of the world, the men and women who elude governments and justice. Let’s face it, it’s not like many contracts are taken out on teachers or firefighters. All the people I’ve executed were asking for it. And Simon never accepts the contracts that are otherwise. 

When we were little, Jackson and I thought of Simon as a superhero of sorts. We know better now, I’m definitely no super hero myself, but Jackson and I both agree that the jobs we do, however hard it would be for others to understand them, have to be done. We’re the world’s necessary evil.

Jackson was sent on his first real job when he was fourteen and I was twelve. Simon allowed me to help him with everything but the actual killing for the next two years. At the time, I was so envious. I suppose in the way that some younger siblings are jealous of an older sibling being given more freedom. And, being the older sibling that he is, Jackson rubbed it in my face. 

When I was fourteen and he was sixteen, Jackson helped me with my first job. Simon monitored us both on our first assignments, saying that he’d be there if needed, but that he didn’t want us to think he’d always be there to clean up our messes.
Parenting 101: Teach the child to be self-reliant.
Some basic principles are universal.

My first target was a porn king in L.A. who had a kiddie porn business on the side. The police would have had no trouble gathering evidence against him, because the guy was as sloppy in his actions as he looked physically. Why we were brought in, I don’t know exactly. I didn’t ask either. But my guess is that he put the wrong person’s son or daughter in one of his flicks. We were told to destroy all of his footage and equipment. 

Pretending to be a runaway who just happened to stumble in his path one day, he thought to make me the star in his newest film. That is, until I took a knife to his throat and he realized that the only type of movie I would ever be in was a snuff film. Guess what? He’d be the star! 

I had felt a little numb afterwards, having only been a witness to executions before, never the executioner, but I didn’t feel guilty. Sometimes I wonder if that makes me a sociopath, but I don’t think so. I couldn’t kill an innocent human being, just monsters like him. People who prey on the innocent and crouch in dark alley ways or even in the light of day, waiting for their next victim to unsuspectingly come along. Jackson was a bit overzealous in starting the fire that night, but an anonymous call to 911 got it contained.

The morning of my second day in Miami, Jackson calls from the airport letting me know that he’s arrived and in a taxi on his way to the hotel. Thirty minutes later, he enters the hotel room carrying luggage and a plastic shopping bag. “What’s in the bag?” I ask him, pausing to take in his appearance.
Nice
, I think humorously, he’s going for the dorky tourist look with plaid board shorts, tank top and flip flops. All he’s missing is a visor and obscenely large camera hanging from his neck.
Huh, his hair’s blonde, haven’t seen it that color in a while.
Guess while I work, he plans on bumming around, enjoying his vacation.

Towering over me, at a couple inches over six feet, he gives me a sly grin before answering, “Your training videos, my young apprentice.”

I raise my eyebrows arrogantly. “Training? Me? You’re looking at the master.”

“Not when it comes to this subject. Check it out.” He tosses me the bag and wheels his suitcase into the spare bedroom, knowing instinctively which one I’d already chosen. 

Awkwardly, I catch it and pull out a stack of DVDs. Looking through the movies I realize that my brother has a talent for torture, beyond what Simon taught us. They all appear to be teen movies. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Jacks,” I yell through the open doorway. “I don’t need these!” I toss the pile onto the couch, watching them scatter.

He reenters the living room, unfazed by my indignation. “Yes, you do. You don’t know how to act like a regular American teenager, Annie. These will help you,” he says snatching up one off the couch. “I’ll put in this one first.” He’s holding up a case that says
Superbad
on the cover. Never heard of it, but the boys on the cover are normal enough looking, if a little badly dressed. Another one has a pink cover and says
Mean Girls
, which doesn’t seem very pleasant at all. I give one title,
High School Musical,
a skeptical look. What the hell does singing and dancing have to do with high school? Okay, even with my limited pop culture knowledge, I know that this next movie is in
no way
related to my job.