Stalking His Assassin

Chapter 1

one

GRACE

I’m exhausted. I haven’t been home in five days, and I miss the comfort of my own bed. I never sleep well outside the security of my home. You become a little paranoid when you’re an assassin with a never-ending list of enemies. Not that anyone knows who I am. To my clients and those who meet their end by me, I’m a ghost. Known only as Eris, Goddess of chaos, lover of bloodshed. Though most call me Ghost. Not even my closest friend knows who I am, not really. She only knows Grace Silva, the eccentric computer whiz.

I wasn’t born Grace Silva, but when I killed the man who raised me, I created a whole new life. Lucy Granger died the same day Steve Sheridan took his last breath. To the world, he was a philanthropist from old money that took in the young daughter of his best friend and wife after they died in a tragic accident. Uncle Steve was decent to me up until my tenth birthday. He doted on me in front of his friends and colleagues. Called me his little princess, even.

I was so little when my parents died that I barely remember them. Uncle Steve never spoke of my parents. I never thought much of it because I figured it was too hard for him to remember his best friend. I was so very wrong about that. Steve had my parents killed when my dad found out the truth about his businesses. Keeping me and turning me into his greatest asset was the ultimate punishment for them.

He succeeded in making me the best weapon in his arsenal. The youngest, deadliest assassin to ever work for The Agency. My training started on my tenth birthday. To the outside world, I was sent to a prestigious boarding school, but in reality, I was sent to The Agency’s training facility. My training consisted of everything from etiquette to languages, computers, hand-to-hand combat, and weapons. I learned to look like the sweet little lady while honing my abilities to kill a man in a hundred different ways.

I killed for the first time on my thirteenth birthday. I didn’t shed a tear. All emotions had been beaten out of me by that point. As I got older, my training continued on to how to seduce a man. I excelled at that as well… Uncle Steve’s little Lolita killer. I killed more people before my eighteenth birthday than his top assassin had in the fifteen years he’d worked for The Agency.

Not that I’m proud of that fact.

Uncle Steve brought me home as his social circle expected after my "graduation" from that prestigious boarding school. Of course, I had a fancy diploma and a glowing history on the books for many years at that school. Money can buy anything if you know the right people.

One thing that the training facility was good for was that my education wasn’t neglected in the least. Intelligence is an asset and necessary for an assassin to smoothly blend in with all types of people. When I came home that summer, I had a master’s degree in computer science and a master’s in communication. I could speak five languages fluently and three others passably.

Uncle Steve paraded my ass around like a prized show pony. Fancy parties, charity events, dinners with business associates and friends… I got to use all the acting skills I had been taught during my time at the training facility. My greatest performance was acting like Steve’s loving daughter. I did such a great job that even Uncle Steve believed the act. All the way up until my blade sliced through his neck like melted butter.

I watched him die with hatred in my eyes and the first genuine smile I’d smiled in years on my face. I still consider his death my greatest accomplishment. The foolish man actually thought he could control me. There were several people at the training facility that were little more than mindless drones, but not me. Never me. My hatred for Uncle Steve fueled me to train harder and fight the conditioning they tried to inflict on my psyche.

I knew after I killed the first man that he would become victim to my blade. He was right about me becoming the best assassin The Agency ever employed. I'm the best to graduate from their training facility. They were tasked with training me, molding me, breaking me… too bad that I had hatred to fuel me. That same hatred ended Uncle Steve’s life and was the downfall of The Agency.

Uncle Steve took a vacation to the Caribbean and left his daughter in charge. The Agency didn’t question it. I was the best. Why wouldn’t I be left in charge? His reputable businesses were easy enough to take charge of as well. It was all ridiculously easy. Further proof that Uncle Steve was a prideful idiot.

It took a couple of months, but I dismantled The Agency. I set up each of the operatives one by one so I could quickly dispose of them. They might’ve stood a chance had they communicated with each other. Assassins are a paranoid bunch, which breeds discontent. It worked well for my purposes. Once they were taken care of, I turned my attention to the training facility. I enjoyed ending every one of the instructors.

Sadly, there were four trainees that had to be dealt with. Years later, those deaths still bother me. The two newest recruits were able to be released. They were only there for a few months and hadn’t drunk the Kool-Aid yet, so to speak. I keep an eye on them, just in case, but they both settled into their new lives with new families and are living happily as normal kids.

I sold off Uncle Steve’s businesses after he tragically died in a boating accident in the Caribbean. Once again, I played the loving daughter and held a funeral that was a ridiculous production fit for a man who saw himself as an untouchable king. Once the empty coffin was buried six feet under and all the so so sad masses were gone, I enjoyed a greasy pizza and my favorite mint chocolate chip ice cream. I celebrated by creating my new identity and setting up a new life for myself—Grace Silva.

Within a month, all of Uncle Steve’s businesses and assets were sold off, and I had millions of dollars squirreled away in untraceable accounts all around the globe. I bought a luxury high-rise in Seattle, as far away from New York as possible, and turned the top two floors into my personal fortress. Six years later, it’s still my safe haven. Other than myself, only two other living beings have stepped foot inside my home since I moved in.

Potato and Harper are the only two people I trust with my life, and one of them is a cat. He’s been with me for three years. Harper had been pushing me to date, claiming that I need a man in my life blah, blah, blah… I found Potato in a wet cardboard box in an alley I was hiding in while I waited for my mark. He was dirty, skinny, and feral. Hissing and swiping at me with his claws. I instantly decided to keep him. Ignoring his hissing and claws, I picked him up and held him close. He quickly calmed and started brokenly purring. He became my accomplice that night when I killed my mark and has been my little buddy ever since.

Harper was not amused when she came over the next day to find me with a half-feral cat. I just shrugged and told her that she wanted me to find a man, and now I had one so she could stop pestering me. I listened to her rant about how a cat isn’t a substitute for a real man’s love and that I need to get laid. She assumes that my standoffishness when it comes to men is that I had a bad breakup and that my lack of a sex life is because I haven’t ever had good sex. I let her keep thinking that because it’s an easy explanation. She’s half right. I haven’t ever had good sex, but that’s because I’ve never had sex, not because of bad sex.

Uncle Steve had me trained to be a Lolita killer, but I never ever allowed a mark to get to that point. My body is mine and mine alone. I refused to allow some disgusting man to take that from me. I’m in control of who touches me. No one else gets to decide that. Ever.

Harper’s so free with her heart and her body. Falling in and out of love quickly. My complete opposite. If I didn’t feel such deep fondness for Potato and Harper, I would say that I don’t have a heart to give to anyone. They prove that I can care for others beyond my deep-seated need to protect the innocent.

I shake off my thoughts of the past. I always get reminiscent after one of these jobs. I spent the last five days dismantling another group of rich assholes that thought they could take innocents from the streets and turn them into mindless killing machines. I left their little group of assassins alone for years because they worked with contracted mercenaries and assassins. Ones already in the business and willing to take on contracts for a price.

They fucked up when they decided that it was a good idea to open a training facility to make their own little assassins. I obviously can’t throw stones at people who kill for a living, considering I’m a killer myself, but I will not allow kids to be forced into this lifestyle. The choice was taken from me, and I will do everything in my power to ensure it doesn’t happen again.

A lofty goal, but one I enjoy striving for.

This facility took longer to dismantle than expected. I wasn’t anticipating a covert government agency being involved. I dislike getting involved in politics, but it couldn’t be helped. The Germans are currently trying to figure out why their military is missing twelve people. Three ranked members and nine highly trained special forces operatives. Tragic really. A mystery that will never be solved.

Good riddance.

After that was taken care of, I was able to quickly take out the people at the training facility and then the people running the entire operation. Thankfully, there were only four kids at the facility. Two were from Germany, one from Russia, and one from Austria. None of them spoke English. I’m fluent in German and Russian, and I calmed them down and assured them I was there to help. I had planned to find them homes in their home countries, but knowing the German government, or a small faction of it, was involved changed my mind.

I brought them back to the States with me and took them somewhere I know they will be safe and will be placed in good homes. Hope House isn’t on the books anywhere, but they do amazing work for women and children who are victims of human trafficking. The people I bring to them might not fit their normal criteria, but those who run the place quickly agreed to help me in my endeavors.

It doesn’t hurt that I funnel a shit ton of money into their accounts to help their cause. Some of the bastards I take out are beyond wealthy, and I have more money than I could spend in fifty lifetimes. I enjoy playing Robin Hood… well, if Robin Hood stole from the rich through blood and gore. Definitely not Walt’s version of the tale.

I guide my Ducati into the garage under my building and to my private lot. The gate opens with a press of a button, allowing me access. I park my bike in its spot between my matte black Bugatti Divo and my pristine ’71 Barracuda. She’s a beaut painted candy pearl black raspberry. It’s been forever since I’ve taken her out for a ride. My Ducati and my Range Rover get the most drive time. My bike is for speed and precision, and the Range Rover is practical because it’s bulletproof.

I climb off my bike and stretch. Even though I cut the three-hour trip between Portland and Seattle in half by speeding, it’s a long ride. Especially after multiple sleepless nights and time changes, fucking jet lag sucks. That’s not even taking into consideration the damage to my body from taking out multiple trained soldiers and other assassins. I’d like to say I’m an actual ghost, as people claim, but I’m very much flesh and blood. I’m bruised all to hell, and the stitches in my thigh are itching to high heaven right now.

The asshole that managed to cut me pissed me off and died by his own blade. Still, the damage was done, and I’ve got yet another scar to add to the collection that mars my pale skin. I drag my aching body to my private elevator and put my hand on the reader, then key in the security code that changes every time I leave on a job. My penthouse fortress is locked down entirely until I return. No one can access it without my hand and the code, which only I know. It would take even the best hacker days to break, and if they did, it would just create a new code and start the lockdown process all over again.

It's tech unlike anything on the market. One of my own creations. I own and run the most prestigious security firm in the world. Shield Security is the go-to for both corporate and private security systems. My cyber tech and security systems are top-of-the-line and nearly impossible to override. It takes a damn good hacker to get around my products, but it’s happened. I consider it a challenge and enjoy it when there’s a breach because I get to play the game and fix it, and depending on the who, sometimes I get to flex my other talents… bloody ones.

The tech that protects my home is a little overkill, but I know how easy it is to grow complacent in your safe space. I’m trained to take advantage of that complacency, and because of that, I have created my own personal security system.

After I brought Potato home, I created a failsafe for him in the event that I don’t come back. I have automatic feeders and self-cleaning litterboxes that keep him taken care of for seven days. If I don’t return on the eighth day, Harper will be sent instructions on how to get inside my home. She is also the sole benefactor for my estate—well, the legal side of things—and Potato’s new guardian even though they merely tolerate each other’s presence. I couldn’t trust his care to anyone else.

All of my other assets will be funneled into Hope House and various other places that do similar work worldwide. It might seem dramatic for a twenty-five-year-old woman to have her death planned out in such detail, but I know that life is short, and my life expectancy is less than average based on what I do. I suppose the fact that I want to make sure Harper and Potato are taken care of when I die is further proof that I have a heart.

The elevator ride is blessedly quick. A retina scan and another security code open my penthouse door—more of the over-the-top security I put in place for when I leave. While I’m here, the security is less intense. Palm readers and my regular security codes will be in effect now that I’ve disarmed the system. Of course, even that is beyond an average hacker’s capabilities. The lockdown program is triggered as soon as someone tries to gain access. It’s a beautiful piece of tech. It’s almost a shame that the world will never know the level of security that can be obtained.

Unfortunately, those who would acquire such tech are the type of people who don’t deserve this level of security. No one should be untouchable. I know this is a pot-kettle situation. I figure I get a free pass not only because I'm the creator of the tech but also because I use my skills for good, not evil. I don’t kill innocents. In fact, if someone hires me to kill an innocent, they end up on the wrong end of my favorite blade.

I don’t even make it two steps into the penthouse before Potato makes a running jump into my arms. I grunt as I catch him. He’s no longer the skinny little thing he was when I found him. Now, he’s a pampered fat cat. I like to think of him as pleasantly plump. The vet says he’s healthy despite his weight, so I see no reason to ration his treats.

Potato bumps his head under my chin, rubbing himself against me while purring that broken purr of his. The vet could only guess that his voice box was somehow damaged; that’s why both his meows and purrs sound broken. It only made me want him more, knowing he was permanently damaged, likely by the same asshole that taped him up in that box and left him to die.

“Hey, buddy. Did you miss me?” I coo, rubbing him behind the ears. His purr gets louder and more broken at my words as he leans into my hand. “Sorry I was gone so long. The job took an unexpected turn.”

He meows as if he understands. I carry him to my bedroom, telling him all about my trip to Germany. I set him on the bed, much to his annoyance. I scratch under his chin in apology and continue telling him about everything that happened while I was gone. I go into great detail on how I killed the jerk that cut my thigh.

He watches me pace the room as I strip off my clothes and ramble at him. I must admit having someone to come home to is nice. I can talk to Potato and not feel like I’ve lost my mind. It’s been good for my mental health… cat therapists should totally be a thing. I head to my bathroom to wash off my day of travel. I don’t have to look to know that Potato is following. I let the shower heat up while I work my long black hair out of its braid. I rub my scalp, enjoying the freedom of having my hair down for the first time in days. I step into the open shower and tilt my head under the spray. Hot water beats down on my head, pulling a moan from deep inside me.

“God, Potato, nothing beats a good shower. I swear bad water pressure and lukewarm water should be illegal.”

He perches on the short ledge that keeps the water from spilling onto the floor and meows. He hates the water but follows me in here anyway. I’m pretty sure that’s what love is. Doing something you hate just to make someone else happy seems like something one would do for someone they love.

“Did anything exciting happen here while I was gone?” I ask, even though I watched on my security cameras and know he moved from one sleeping spot to another depending on the time of day. He’s definitely predictable.

Despite the idiocy of asking my cat what he did, he meows several times as if holding up his side of the conversation. If my enemies could see me now. Eris, the mighty ghost assassin, is having a full-blown conversation with her cat while washing her hair after getting home from a killing spree. No one would take the threat of me seriously ever again. It would be stupid of them, but I would totally lose my street cred. The thought makes me laugh because I don’t care about such things. That’s something Harper would say.

I finish my shower and towel off. I remove the waterproof bandage from my wound and look at the stitches. A perfect row of seven stitches that look as good as any plastic surgeon could do. No one would ever believe that I did them myself in a shitty hotel room in Germany after cleaning the blood of multiple men from my body. Another skill I can thank The Agency’s facility for teaching me. Knowledge of first aid in the field is a must. It's not like you can walk into a hospital with a stab wound without throwing up red flags.

After confirming the wound is healing well, I cover it with a new bandage and walk naked into my closet. Potato silently follows me like a shadow. He jumps up on the shelf I cleared off for him after he kept knocking my things down to hang out in here with me. I look through my secret pajama drawer until I find my favorite set. A soft tank top and shorts in a pretty lavender color. It’s girly and pretty. I love it. It’s the complete opposite of my day-to-day wardrobe but is more me than the blacks and grays that make up my regular clothes. Only Potato knows that I secretly love all things girly. It’s something not even Harper knows, and she’s been in my closet dozens of times.

“Okay, Mr. Potato Cake, let’s go to bed. I’m beat.”

He meows and jumps into my waiting arms again. I crawl under the covers and let out a bone-weary sigh as I melt into the mattress. Potato noses under the blanket and curls up beside me, his head under my chin. I fall asleep to his broken purrs.