The Assassin's Silence: Wren and Trace

Trace             I adjust my position as I aim my rifle toward my target. I usually eliminate my marks up close, but tonight my target is partying on a rooftop, and there are too many people for me to not stand out. Plus, I like the idea of him dying in the middle of a large crowd, considering how much he loves an audience. Porter Wilson, the “Aussie Butcher,” has been cutting a murderous swath through different continents for years until he came under the Confradia’s radar. Wilson is the Heir of a small kingdom near Australia who likes to torture men and women to appease his ennui. He recently killed a prominent group of activists fighting for water rights in Africa. Unfortunately for him, one of the activists was the brother of a prominent figure in the US, which put him in the crosshairs of the Confradia.             I watch as he walks through a large crowd and raises his glass while planning his next murder.             I look into the scope of my rifle and focus on my target as he moves closer to the edge of the roof. Jaw tight, I keep my eye on him and wait for the perfect moment. He’s chuckling and about to raise his glass again when I press down on the trigger; the bullet makes a mute pop and strikes its target between the eyes. I smirk with satisfaction as his body recoils with shock before falling to the ground.             Without a word, I rise from my perch and ignore the horrified cries of the crowd when they see the man fall. It takes me seconds to pack up my weapons and make my way to the fire escape of the building until I reach the window that I opened to sneak in. Moving toward the garbage shute, I slide my case through and hear it hit the bin before taking the elevator down. No one looks at me as I straighten my suit jacket and glance down at my phone’s screen. Though I am six and a half feet tall, I look like every other suited male who comes in and out of the office building. I made sure to take off my piercings and airbrush my tattoos before coming, so I wouldn’t stand out. There will be no trace of my presence other than bystander visuals since I had our tech, Connor, create a video loop through the building’s security footage.             Before I exit the building, I pick up my case in the rubbish bin and text Connor, “Assignment completed. You may reset the system.”             My phone vibrates a second later with a reply, “Confirmed. Have a nice evening.”             I place my phone in my pocket as I make my way home. Just as I’m about to turn the corner, the sounds of police and ambulance sirens reach my ears. I watch stoically as the vehicles rush by and stop in front of Wilson’s building. Crowds gather below, their gazes riveted to the rooftop as they observe the police and paramedics file into the building.             Keeping a calm demeanor, I continue through the crowd until I reach the subway’s entrance. I would have driven to my assignment, but with all of the traffic drawn to the party, I didn’t want to get stuck in traffic, so I took the train. Thankfully, my new apartment in Brooklyn is not very far. I’ve lived on and off in different parts of the world for years and have found that New York is the place I like most, which is why six months ago I decided to settle here. However, unlike the other Assassins, including my best friend, Phantom, aka Clint, I decided not to live in the center of all the action, opting to move to a comfortable neighborhood in Brooklyn instead. Phantom bought a penthouse near Madison Square and helped me find a spacious apartment with high ceilings and picture windows in Williamsburg.             If you were wondering, all Confradia Assassins have handles. Most of us carried over our military handles or were given one by our Confradia mentor. I gained the handle Heathen and Clint, Phantom, after we survived a dangerous mission while in the Marines.             The walk to my building isn’t far from my stop. As soon as I reach it, the doorman, Gary, politely waves and opens the door. I wave back and sign the word thank you before I step inside.             Gary signs the word you’re welcome before letting the door close behind him. Walking through the lobby’s dark marble floors, I head to the large mailroom past the manager’s office.             The portly building manager, Mrs. Goldfield, walks up to me and smiles widely. Mrs. Goldfield is a kind older woman in her late sixties with a grandmotherly demeanor that would put anyone at ease. She’s one of the reasons I decided to move into the building.             As soon as she realized that I was mute, she began to sign and conversed directly with me instead of speaking to me through Phantom. Apparently, her grandson is deaf and mute, so she knew how to sign, which is an asset if I need anything.             “Good evening, Mr. Lareux. I just wanted to inform you that the contractors installed the new garage door opener for your private parking. They left you this package,” she says as she hands me a closed package with the security emblem imprinted on the front.             I take the packet and sign in reply, “Has the landscaper completed the measurements for the rooftop terrace?”             She nods, “Yes, he did. They will begin installing the new privacy shrubs tomorrow morning.”             I give her a grateful nod, which she returns before returning to the office.             You might be wondering about my handicap. When I was a child, my psychotic father killed my mother in front of me and cut my throat, ruining my vocal cords. I still have nightmares of that night. It will be forever ingrained in my mind how my life changed forever when my father came home drunk one night and became upset with my mother over something trivial. My mother tried to placate him, but he had already reached a boiling point. I remember how he pushed my mother down and beat her. I tried to stop him, but I was only five years old, and he easily tossed me against a nearby wall. The pain of hitting the wall was unbearable but not as horrific as watching my father pull out a kitchen knife and plunge it into my mother’s belly, chest, and throat before turning to me, straddling my tiny frame, and cutting my throat. As blood pulled around me and my mother lay dead beside me, I silently pleaded with my father to stop.             However, my father was undeterred; I recall how he prepared to plunge the knife into me again when the front doors burst open and police officers tackled him to the ground. Months later, he was found guilty and sentenced to death. He’s been rotting on death row for over two decades as his lawyers fight to keep him from being executed.             I was taken into a group home when the hospital discovered that I would live but never speak again.             One of the teachers in the group home taught me to sign.             The next evening, I’m walking to my mailbox when the doors swing open, and two women and a little girl wearing noise-canceling headphones walk in.             The women are stunning, but the short one with dark ebony hair and eyes catches my attention.             Her golden skin gleams beneath the dim lights of the mailroom as she walks toward her mailbox.             The woman has high cheekbones, large doe eyes, and luscious Angelina Jolie lips that make my lips throb. Her short frame is curvy, with a tiny waist, large round t**s and a firm round ass that makes me think some very bad thoughts.             I’ve seen the woman around the building since I moved in, but regrettably, it’s the friend who usually smiles and waves at me. Her friend is taller at about five feet ten and has long dark brown hair and dark eyes. However, unlike the stunning female with the curves, her friend is slim and gives off an “I don’t give a f**k” vibe that reminds me of Phantom. The little girl is a mystery to me. She’s reed-thin, with short brown hair and eyes the color of the ocean.             Unfortunately, the child doesn’t like me much because she clings close to the curvy brunette whenever she sees me. I guess that’s why her mother always gives me a wary look and sticks to the other side of the elevator whenever I step inside. I don’t know why but it makes something inside of me feel hollow. However, considering my size and the plethora of tattoos and earrings, I understand her wariness. Even in a suit, most people give me a wide berth. Women either want me or avoid me.             I try not to stare as the woman’s friend stops beside her and says, “So, I decided to give Sid a second chance.”             The woman scoffs as she inserts her key into the mailbox, “Really? I thought you were done with him…you know…after he didn’t propose and you…did the deed.”             The woman snorts, “Geez, Wren, you’re allowed to say the word s*x. I promise the police won’t come and arrest you if you do.”             The woman─Wren’s eyes widen as she gestures toward her daughter, “Christ, Ellora, Ainsley is right there.”             Ellora shrugs her shoulders and rolls her eyes, “Oh, come on, you know Ainsley isn’t listening cause she’s got her ear thingies on. I love the kid to pieces, but she’s totally living in her own world.”             I smirk at her friend’s words as I walk to the elevator and think about the female’s name. I like Wren’s name. She reminds me of the little bird with her sultry looks and lost expression.             Standing near the side of the elevator’s wall, I puff out a breath and stiffen when the females enter the elevator. However, nothing is more interesting than the conversation that proceeds our descent.