by Celia Crown
I was kidnapped from my family when I was an infant, trained by the same kidnapper that had me call her ‘master’ and thrown me into a world of desolate chaos. That woman was vicious, and she was good at her job as a contracted killer, but she wanted someone to carry on her legacy as ‘Eve,’ and she picked me.
How unfortunate, I think dryly.
Year after year, I was trained and put into dangerous situations where I had learned to survive in the world of contract killers and strings of betrayals.
I had stopped questioning anything years ago; my innocence was lost and childhood was stolen by the hands that raised me; it was enough to make anyone mad on the line of a sociopath killer.
It’s odd that I would be concerned about Eric. It’s the first time I cared for someone, and it feels as if it is the most normal thing I have done. It’s not forced, and it’s not learned; it’s the feeling of the little girl inside of me calling out and begging me to hold on to Eric.
I can’t. It would be a mistake. He’s going to be in danger because of me, and I’m not exactly the best type of person to walk around without the fear that one person might recognize me and I would have everything taken from me.
Not that I had much anyway. Only that coffee mug has been with me for ages. It serves as a foundation when I revert back to a girl with no name and no identity.
I push those thoughts away, bringing my focus on the man sitting on the bleachers with his henchmen beside him. The orange jumpsuit and the face of my target are the only things that I need to identify him, but the lackey that’s trying to impress the top boss of the prison hierarchy is in my way with his lanky arms and jittery body language.
My finger turns to the trigger, not touching it as I gauge the wind velocity to adjust my aim. I use the tree rustles and the movements of the green leaves to the find the speed while physically feeling the wind brush past my still form.
I have been kneeling in this position for two hours, and the time is here to finish this last job before my retirement.
The wind stops, and I pull the trigger.
My bullet pierces through the skull of my target, blood seeping from the hole as everyone in the vicinity freezes in bewilderment. A round of confusion hits their faces when he falls to the side, and the lackey man’s scream sets the fall of the dominos.
The armed guards in the tower are just as lost as the prisoners before they radio the prison system to go into full lockdown. The prisoners drop down and the guards turn in directions to find where the bullet came from, and their area of search is on the ground level where they think someone in an orange jumpsuit had a gun.
That means I have time to leave this town before the FBI gets involved; that department of juice will be here since there wouldn’t be a sniper rifle to go with the sniper bullet that killed the man.
I should feel something; a spec of remorse would tell me that I’m human, but I can’t find myself to care about the death of a man at the end of my scope.
What does that say about me?
It’s a question that I ponder once in a blue moon.
I don’t stay long to see the man being pulled into the prison from the exercise yard. I know he is dead from the bullet that went through his skull and into the grassy areas on the other side.
The police will have a field day searching for it.
As I break apart the rifle, the hairs on my neck are acting up again. It’s the same feeling of being shadowed and at the house of the second victim who died.
I snap the case closed. The violin case is light with a bottom compartment to fit all the small pieces while the top holds the larger ones to prevent it from scratching and any damages that will change the accuracy and power of the rifle.
I scan the area in front of me, but there are only trees as I am deep into the woods that can be entered from my neighbor’s backyard which was five houses down from the one I rented.
The trees have stopped rustling, the wind has gone quiet, but the presence of something lurks in the cloak of nature. Taking full advantage to camouflage into the greens and browns, it’s a smart idea for me not to find the same man who dropped the apple down the stairs.
I might have to torture him for information on how he knew about the name that I used, though time is of the essence and I have to get out of this town. Another thing about this is that I can't just leave right away. Suspicion will be cast too heavily on me for the death of the two people before and now the prisoner behind barbed wires.
Lifting the weight of the violin case, I walk deeper into the woods; the trees allow sufficient cover to blend and weave through the area while I lure the man who’s been causing me trouble. I want to meet him face to face. Then I will break his bones to find out what he knows if he isn't truthful with me.
I might need to have a chat with Adam later if this meeting with the mysterious man doesn’t pan out how I would have liked.
The voice sounded young. It doesn’t have that intonation of a mature and knowledgeable man that one would have through years of experience. People in my line of work mature very quickly, and I have seen many young people who have started young and worked their way up to their notorious reputations, but he there is always something in their voice that shows experience.
The one I heard did not have that characteristic; he may try to sound proper and put together, but I know lies and acting when I see it.
I drop the violin case by a tree and slide into the trees, holding my breath and steadying my posture to hold the sharp blade upward to my forearm. I waited, and a thought comes to mind that it doesn’t seem right.
I need to be on the offensive side. There is a better chance for me to get the upper hand when I encounter the man. It’s an easy switch as I move back to let the shadows of the trees swallow me. The sun provides good density for the colors of the darkness.
Foolish man, I think as I round the trees to stand behind the man.
A black suit is not the best attire to be in the woods. It’s not supposed to be here, and it’s not practical to work with unless it is in a setting that smells of money. I like my clothes comfortable. The image of wealth is not my concern as I find that being in my own clothes improves my ability to accomplish my work.
I stand behind him, gauging his reaction as he surveys the area where I left the violin case. It’s also an amateur move to scrutinize one place for too long, and he’s too unaware of the eyes on his back while ignorantly snorting to himself.
I purposely step on a stick; the snap is louder in this deafening silence, and the man spins around with a Swiss army knife in his hand.
He looks like every average John Doe. Nothing remarkable about him stands out to make people notice his presence, and maybe that’s his skillset. I haven’t seen him around town, so it either means he’s new here or he blends in too well.
It’s scary how I might have walked past him once or twice.
“I didn’t think I would see you so soon, Miss. Eve,” the man says with a laugh, the blade in his hand flickers from the sunlight.
“Is there a reason why you are following me?” I ask, my heart rate slows, and my body is preparing to attack.
He smiles, and it’s very difficult to find one thing on him that would make him stand out other than having a suit on in a town that is more of a casual scene.
“You are a very hard woman to find, Miss. Eve,” he said.
It is not the answer that I’m looking for, “How do you know that name?”
“My master told me about you, he speaks very highly of you, and I had originally assumed that you were more… mature in terms of appearance,” he laughs to himself.
He is not a professional killer; his body language is too open, and I can read everything on him. This man has no concept of what facing a real killer feels like. He’s too confident of himself that he thinks I won’t hurt him if he keeps a distance.
Distance won’t keep him safe, not when he doesn’t know how to defend himself in close-quarter com
bat. I thought it would be me who would attack first, and I wanted to keep him quiet since he is full of himself and annoyingly obnoxious when he praises himself on being able to sneak up behind me.
Whoever this ‘master’ he is talking about, they better find another pupil, it’s ridiculous as to how utterly stupid he is.
“I have accomplished three jobs. They never saw me coming. I was so brilliant, oh! The crows are my signature; my first one was such a gratifying experience, my pet put up a struggle, and it was fun while it lasted. Did you like the presentation in the cornfields?”
So the killing in this town was his doing, it’s why the police are patrolling down the streets more times than needed. It hindered my time to do more research in the area, and I had to push back my initial time to kill my target, but it didn’t breach the deadline that the client had set.
“Three?” I stand still, not wanting to spook that narcissist. “I believe there have only been two deaths.”
The smile on his face is uncanny. It clicks in my mind that I am the third victim when he rolled the apple down from the stairs of the house where the second victim was found. It was his way of foreshadowing my death since Eve is connected to the Garden of Eden and all those biblical references that I never cared.
I didn’t want this title. Eve isn’t even a name anymore. It’s a title that everyone wants, and no one seems to know who has it and who doesn’t.
He initiates the first attack, and in my mind, I can defend myself by killing this foolish boy. I never initiate because I can fight back with the intention of killing the instigator.
His skills are shabby, too uncoordinated and sloppy for someone who claims they are the next ‘Adam.’ I have no idea whose child is this, but they need to take the time to teach him skills that are necessary for a fight that will ultimately end his life.
I dodge his knife as it swipes across my eyes, my foot digs into the dirt ground and I swing the other leg up to kick him in the stomach. He coughs and tumbles down to the ground; his eyes narrow at me in a way to convey the humiliation that he’s feeling for being on the ground.
“How dare you!” he screeches, “I am better than you, do not stare down on me!”
Young and entitled, it’s a bad combination for anyone to have and that this man wants to be a contract killer is such a hilarious statement when he screams out that he is going to be the next Adam.
The Adam that I know is going to take a lot more than a little boy to take him down; that man is a wall of lies and talents.
I kick him in the jaw, breaking it off as it forces his mouth to open and he’s babbling in pain while frantically deciding if he should hold the dislocated jaw up or not.
Kneeling to him, I jab my knife into his clavicle and twist it to maximize the pain. His shrill of anguish echoes in the woods as birds flock away; that leaves the rustles dying down as he whimpers in pain. The blood seeps profusely on his white dress shirt.
“Adam won’t let you get away with this!” he shouts, fiery eyes and flaring nostrils.
It’s funny he thinks he has any intention of leaving this wood; he’s too full of himself that it’s almost embarrassing for me to hear him talk.
“Your master is Adam,” I say plainly, confirming my theory with the glare he sends me.
He scrambles despite the blade digging into his clavicle and swings his foot under to knock me on the ground, my back hits the dirt, and he’s climbing over me with blood dripping onto my cheek.
He holds his knife, waving it in front of my eyes while leaving his fingers around my neck. His grip is too tight, and he is too excited as the wildness in his eyes gleam vibrantly.
“I am the best, bitch. I deserve to be Adam,” he jeers down at me, “Your old generation is too soft, but I’m not. I can do a lot worse to you, do you understand? I have learned how to torture in the Congo’s, and Guantanamo Bay doesn’t scare me. I have seen worse at the hands of Adam.”
This man is delusional and currently out of his mind.
“Once I’m done with you, then I will play with your little toy. His name is Eric, right?” his crazy eyes widen, a grin splitting his white teeth as he flaunts them down at me.
I strike like a snake; taking my knife that’s still in his clavicle, I push it further in and bend it so when I pull it out, it rips apart up to the middle section of his neck. Blood splatters on the side of my face, the disbelief in his eyes leaves to make room for the discontentment that had left in him for not being able to claim me as his third victim.
I kick him off, and he drops to the ground with limbs splayed out, the blood on my skin is warm as it slides down to the column of my neck while I wipe the blood from my cheek. It smears, and I don’t have time to clean it, none got into my eyes or my mouth, so I’m alright.
He can talk bad about me, but Eric is off-limits to everyone.
Chapter Eight
Eric
I knew my past would catch up to me. I just never thought it would be so soon.
From the moment I heard about the snake tattoo on the second dead body, I already knew that there is no such thing as coincidence when there are too many things at risk.
It started with this bad feeling in my gut; that was morning, and I still felt it during the day. I almost smashed my fingers with the hammer during work today, I did drop a toolbox on my foot once, and the thickness of the boot takes the brunt of the pain.
That wasn’t the only bad thing; when I got to the diner for lunch, the owner said that Nora had a half day since she was such a great worker who never complained and did her job. He figured that today was a sunny day, and everyone should be outside. Business traffic would be slow when people are occupied with other things.
It felt odd. It’s as if I was going through withdrawal without seeing Nora. I’m so used to seeing her and having her serve food with a pretty smile. She brings good energy to the diner. It’s so contagious that all my coworkers are fond of her.
It doesn’t help that she is too beautiful for a rotten town such as this, she already had everyone wrapped in her little fingers in a mere week.
I would do anything for her.
I would face my past for her.
Things start to go from bad to terrible when dinner time comes around. I thought that I would see her, and I expected to see Nora there with her apron and a smile when she greets me. it’s our routine, and I have gotten comfortable in her presence that nothing could put a damper on my mood.
She wasn’t there when I got there.
There was only that other waitress and the boss at the back cooking. Other customers were eating, and one man sat on the stool close to where I usually sit. It’s my unsigned spot; Nora knows it, and she saves it for me.
I sit with a seat between the lean man and me, and it creates an awkward silence as he turns to smile at me. He’s too well-dressed to be someone from the town; this place isn’t exactly flourishing in wealth or opportunities.
“Hello, sir,” the man nods.
I grunt back, “Hello.”
“Good day?” he asks and introduces himself, “I am Adam.”
Nothing is ringing my warning bells for this man, but I would like to proceed with caution. I can’t put the finger on it; this Adam guy emits an aura too sophisticated and too eerie to be someone unsuspecting. I think that he’s here for something and I pray to every deity above me that this man isn’t sent by the Chicago gang that I was in.
“Eric,” I tell him my name, but that’s all I say as the waitress comes to take my order.
She doesn’t know my regular order by heart, but she tries her best to jot down what I want as her blush is bright on her cheeks when she sneaks a glance at the man beside me.
He is what a lot of women like; tall, good-looking, and put together in a way that tells them he is financially stable, and he can take care of them for the rest of their lives. He is well-mannered and polite to the girl as she refills his coffee. Adam has a certain charm in him that makes people turn
to watch him as if he is a piece of art.
“Thank you, dear,” he says to the waitress, and she ducks her head before scurrying off to serve other customers.
“You’re not from here,” I point out, taking a small gulp of my water.
He chuckles, “No, I’m a traveling businessman.”
“What brings you here?” I ask. I need to find out more information about this man because he is dangerous.
Years of meeting unsavory people have taught my gut feeling to distinguish feelings, and I have gotten a better handle at knowing when someone doesn’t sit well with me.
“I’m searching for someone,” he says, and the scent of caffeine whiffs to me.
My eyes narrow towards the rim of the water cup. I set it down on the counter as I hear the sizzling sound of a burger patty being pressed down on the grill. The owner and I make eye contact through the food delivery space; his lips split into a grin, and I nod back in greeting.
When he comes out, I need to ask him about Nora. Or when the other waitress comes back from her floor rotation, I would ask her. Someone has to know what’s going on with Nora. I can stop by her house if both of them don’t know why she didn’t show up for her late shift since she was supposed to work a half way.
It’s not like her to be this irresponsible; she’s time-conscious about her day, so this is strange behavior for her. I remember one time she had a lunch break, and she came back from a walk a minute late, and she was apologetic to the owner who only laughed that she was overly dramatic and that a couple of minutes late wouldn’t hurt business like some corporate headquarters.
That was the only time she was late.
“Do you know a woman named Nora?”
The cup in my hand almost cracks at the pressure I’m putting on them. My fingers are collecting the condensations from the ice cubes, and it’s too wet to get a solid hold that will allow friction in my hand to break the plastic cup.
“She works here,” Adam nonchalantly says as he drinks his coffee.
