CHAPTER FIVE

At Cascadia Academy, there were two rules Marcus drilled into us relentlessly—rules I’d never forget. First: learn to read your opponents. Second: sharpen your reflexes. Those lessons have carried me through countless fights, instincts that usually flared up in danger. But as I stood there with a gun aimed at my head, the only thing I could think of was that stormy night.

The gunshot, the screams, my siblings’ cries for help–all of it crashed over me at once, freezing me in sheer terror. 

I closed my eyes, raised my hands, and muttered the words I’d once whispered countless times as a child. “Please, please...” 

I could still hear his footsteps, see his hands trembling as he held the gun by his side, his voice pleading, urging me to come out. I saw my sister—she was only twelve–-step out just as he neared my hiding spot. I watched her, heard the soothing lies he used to draw her close, the comforting tone that made her trust him enough to let him embrace her. Then, in a sickening shift, his hands rose slowly, his voice turned quiet, and his last words echoed in my head right before the deafening shot. 

I screamed, pressing my hands over my ears. “Make it stop, please!”

“Osborn! Osborn, run!”

I shook my head, dragged back into the memory, paralyzed with fear.

“Osborn, please!”

The voice pulled me back. I recognized the soft, high-pitched, melodious tone—it was Mrs. Peterson, the woman who lived in the apartment next to mine. A widow with three kids, just like my dad had been. I couldn’t bear the thought of her children losing her because of me. My eyes snapped open.

At the base of the stairs, Mrs. Peterson was grappling with the man. The second man lay on the floor, groaning, and clutching his leg, blood pooling beneath him from the earlier shot. My gaze fixed on the thick crimson running down his jeans.

“Osborn, run! Call the police!”

Mrs. Peterson’s plea jolted me back, and I saw the man wrench free from her grip. He threw a brutal punch that knocked her to the ground. I winced at the impact, watching helplessly as blood streaked across her face. Why wasn’t anyone coming to help us?

My body trembled as I watched him mount her, his fist raised, his gun pointed at her head. Something snapped within me—I couldn’t watch someone else die in front of me, not again. Not when I could do something.

In one swift motion, I slipped off my black sandal, aimed and threw it at his gun hand. It struck true, knocking the weapon from his grip.

The man whirled, rage filling his eyes through the mask’s eyeholes, and he charged toward me. I turned and bolted back toward my apartment, baiting him in. He followed, furious.

Just as I was about to shut the door, he jammed his hand in to grab it. Anticipating this, I latched onto his fingers and bent them back with lightning speed. He howled in pain, but I wasn’t finished. 

I yanked the door open and slammed it into his face. Stepping outside, I kept hold of his twisted fingers, then drove my elbow into his jaw. He bit down on his tongue, groaning in pain. I released his hand, grabbed his head, and kneed him hard. He reeled, and I followed up with a punch that sent him crashing into the wall. He slumped down, unconscious.

Remembering Mrs. Peterson, I rushed back downstairs just about the same time the cops stormed into the building, shouting commands as they assessed the chaos. Some officers headed up, securing the scene.

Amid the commotion, I slipped outside, my heart still pounding as I struggled to hold my PTSD at bay. The sight of their guns had almost dragged me back, but I managed to hail a cab ignoring the blood on my clothes. As I entered, I gave the driver directions to the academy. Ready or not, I needed to see Marcus.

******

The sky was still pitch black when the cab pulled up in front of the academy. I handed the driver some change and stepped out. As I approached the entrance and reached for my key, the door pushed open slightly, nudged by the early morning breeze. 

Marcus always made sure to lock and turn off the lights himself, but when I stepped inside, all the lights were already on. The training mats were spread across the floor, and a broom lay abandoned in the corner with a small pile of dirt. It looked like someone had started cleaning, then got distracted and left the broom mid-task. 

Marcus wasn't one to leave work unfinished, no matter how small the task. But I couldn't think of anyone else who could arrive this early to open up. Even the janitors wouldn't arrive till daybreak, and they never bothered with the mats, so I ruled them out.

Unable to think of anyone who might be this early beside Marcus, I headed to his office. Sure enough, there he was, seated behind his desk.

A woman and a man stood in front of him, their backs to the door. Hiding behind the door they'd left ajar, I tried to listen in on their conversation. 

I couldn’t see the guests' faces, but their stance was unmistakable—the poised, ready stance of academy regulars, feet planted firmly and shoulders squared, with the kind of ease that came from years of training. I peeked just in time to see Marcus hand each of them a photograph. He pulled open his drawer and took out a gun, handing it to the woman.

“I’ve heard your target is quite troublesome,” he said. “Use this if the need arises, and don't worry—I'll handle any clean up.”

The woman nodded and tucked the gun into her waist band at her back. I flinched, half-expecting the gun to go off, but reminded myself that it was Marcus. He was a good guy—nothing could go wrong.

Just then, the man spoke first, but the woman quickly joined him In asking, “What's the task this time?”

I watched as Marcus' face stretched into a wide smile. “This one's pretty rewarding. Class four.”

The woman tilted her head. “Class four doesn’t pay much. It's usually non-life- threatening like watching over a sick rich guy or chasing off paparazzi. Easy work.”

Marcus smirked. “Usually, yes, Leah. But this time's different.”

“How?” the man asked.

“Because this time you're not just going to protect,” Marcus answered, his smile growing darker. “You're going to kill.”