Chapter 3 Tati
Tati
Present Day
“Wait, so the reason we go over the surveillance training at least once every day is because you decided to ride someone’s face?”
If I weren’t used to watching film from start to finish for any mission, personal or professional, I’d be beet red at the sight of my pussy being eaten by a man starved, and I was his five-course meal.
Laughter breaks out across the room, and I join in with new recruits before I respond, “Yes. That’s exactly why.”
Putting my hand in the air, I close my fist, signaling for them to come to attention.
While this part may seem silly, it is important.
“I was lucky that night, but we don’t function on luck or chance—we make impossible guarantees because we train.
” A room full of eyes are all on me, not a peep from the audience as I continue.
“But if you ignore your training, then you run the risk of fucking not only yourself but your sisters.”
Hums of agreement sound. “Did you ever find out who the guy was?”
The question was anticipated, but I’d hoped it wouldn’t come.
Not like he made me that night.
Pinching the inside of my wrist, I stifle the snort begging to escape as I clear my throat.
“No, but I will.” My answer—concise and honest because I will find him.
What I don’t say is that he’s found me. No matter where I am on a mission—he finds me.
And I find myself equal parts intrigued, annoyed, and turned on.
“Okay, ladies. That’s all for today. Make sure you’re ready, we’re out in the field tonight,” Minnie announces before turning to me. “Are you good?”
Nodding, I arch a brow. “Yeah, why do you ask?”
“You always get this look on your face when you speak about him.”
I run my fingers over my fox charm, tracing over the diamond eyes.
It arrived the very next day by courier at the spa, where I was licking my wounds of embarrassment.
And so began the gifts. Each mission—each and every holiday, he leaves me something, piquing my anger and interest. The two have been warring within me since.
It’s that moment of danger, the one lurking after I bashed in Sonja’s face until she was unrecognizable. It shot straight to my pussy. I’m quite sure I would’ve probably combusted if he weren’t there to lend his tongue to a woman in need.
Sighing, I exit the room, striding towards the elevator. All this talk about the faceless stranger who’s made me addicted to his touch to the point where no one else can make me come, irks all parts of my soul.
“Tati.” I turn to the sound of Nyx’s voice. She curls her finger, signaling for me to follow her.
Our steps are in sync as she continues. “There’s been news about the Gordon family murder.”
“There’s been news about the Gordon family murder.”
The words loop on repeat until I become nauseous.
“Not now, Tat,” I command, hoping my self-reprimand will erase the words from my memory. At this point, I think I would much rather her not tell me anything related to my adoptive parents.
But it was what we’ve been waiting for.
The reminder does little to ease my racing thoughts as I set myself up on the rooftop of the forty-story Jacobi Hotel and Spa Resort.
Chuckling, I recall the first time I met the Jacobi heirs. Those fucking Jacobi twins are pains in the ass, but I get it. The easy smile slips off my face. The loss of their sister set them on their path of vengeance—one I have every intention of helping see through.
Wind whips across my face, blowing strands of my blonde-braided wig wildly in the night. Illuminated by stars in the clear night sky, I lay out the disposal go bag, unsealing it from its compressed state.
“Go with the blonde braid, she said. It’ll be perfect, she said,” I mutter, regretting my hairstyle of choice.
Unzipping my duffel, I quickly grab a large hair elastic and wrap my ponytail into a bun. The hair won’t be on in a bit, but I can’t have it fucking up my record. Between this and Nyx’s words—“There are bigger players connected to your parents and adoptive parents’ deaths,”—my head isn’t clear.
Determined to reset, I begin my setup. Taking my time to wipe down Lady Death.
She’s in pristine condition, as my sniper rifle should be, but one can’t be too sure.
Then, I double and triple-check the contents of the go bag.
There’s a change of clothes, color contacts, a pair of glasses, a black slip dress, and a pair of satin black Manolo Blahnik knee-high boots.
“Shit,” I hiss. “I grabbed the wrong bag.”
My after snipe look is far more inconspicuous. Leggings, some Docs, and an off-the-shoulder tee. This fancy shit is usually for the Widow.
“No, you didn’t,” comes through the comms.
I don’t bother with a response, knowing it will be something I’m not in the mood to hear. Instead, I begin.
Mount the scope, Tati.
I push Nyx’s words and whatever clusterfuck assignment will require me to play dress-up Barbie out of my head.
It’s time to focus.
Living things are inherently selfish, falling somewhere on the narcissism spectrum.
It’s embedded in their DNA. They don’t use phrases like ‘only the strongest survive,’ or ‘survival of the fittest,’ for no reason.
Adaptability is survival, and all living things have a default setting to stay alive.
My brain eases into action, every move more seamless than the last, as I continue to recenter myself. I can’t afford to fuck this up. Not one misstep is allowed.
Barring all other potential distractions, I continue.
Install the scope rings.
So it’s safe to say that all humans possess narcissistic traits, but not all humans are narcissists.
It’s often ignored how humans unconsciously center themselves.
Even the earnest concern is rooted in some form of an “I” or “Me” statement.
‘If only I had known, I could’ve done something—Vote for me, I can fix it. ’
I arch a brow, smirking at all the times concern was laced in self-aggrandizement.
Install buttspike.
Yanking my focus away from the internal introspection rabbit hole that thought brings about, I line the rifle up to the coordinates I measured over the course of the last few weeks. It’s imperative to test your equipment in as many conditions as possible.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being ill-prepared. After that mission three years ago, I’m rarely caught off guard.
Clearing my throat, I announce, “Okay, I’m going silent. Keep feeding me the info until the taps.”
“Got it.” The confirmation—a green light for full speed ahead.
Bore-sight the rifle—Zero the rifle.
The inherent complexity of human behavior, as it’s hardwired to our psyche over time, reminds me so much of the intersectionality of Western Individualism and Collectivism.
As neither, even in their purist form, serves our global society because on both ends, narcissists thrive.
Yet extremism is driving humanity into extinction.
You gotta admire how beautifully destructive our minds can become when survival is on the line. I sigh, wondering more often if we’re in a Greek tragedy or a third-act breakup. Actually, the more I think about it, we may just be in a miscommunication trope.
Steadying my breathing, I tap my earpiece, silently asking for an update.
Tonight’s target—a slumlord who nearly killed an entire apartment building with hundreds of people.
Sickened, my nostrils flare at the reminder of the death toll.
Over three hundred people, many of them children, died from his murderous plot.
He wanted to sell the building to a big developer, but he didn’t want to pay the tenants enough to lessen the burden of moving.
Instead, he chose to release a nerve agent into the ventilation system.
My insides twist at the sight of their innocent faces. The youngest among them was a six-week-old baby. Flashes of my own tragedy blur my focus.
“He’s coming around the corner of Lavery Avenue and Kingston Street,” comes through my earpiece, jolting me from the feeling of loss threatening to take control.
I tap my comms in two consecutive beats. Ready.
A tall, conventionally attractive middle-aged man in a navy, pinstriped suit rounds the corner with a brunette-haired woman sluggishly in tow.
What a waste of a pretty face.
My own bias still paints this slimy loser into an image that matches his bootlickin’ soul.
Tap-tap-tap—target in sight.
Tap-tap… tap—he’s not alone. The slower cadence—a signal of how many people are in the mix.
Zooming in, I focus on the girl, and I do mean girl. She can’t be more than sixteen.
More people appear—too many more. And what was supposed to be a quick mission suddenly goes up in smoke.
“Abort.” The directive I expected rings in my ears.
I feel like I’m moving at warp speed as I’m disassembling my rifle. Everything carefully returned to its rightful place.
“Team three is on standby. Move your ass, Lyssa,” Raven instructs— her voice cool and calm, but stern. This mission is a bust, and the backup team is already being deployed.
Dressed, I place the contents in my go bag, zip it shut, and then send it down the ventilation shaft. It’ll be picked up by the time I make it to my bike.
I internally groan, remembering I came in on my bike. It’s not that I can’t ride with heels and a dress—it’s that I don’t want to.
Huffing, I make peace with my current predicament, pressing the elevator to the basement level. No one gets on the entire billion levels I ride down. Grateful not to have to mask and smile.
My reprieve is short-lived when I stop at the spot my bike is supposed to be.
“What the fuck, Raven? Where’s my bike?” My jaw tightens to the point of pain. There are very few things in this life that I deem as mine and mine alone—my bat, Guilie, the death of my Mikah, and his fuckboy, incel friends, and my god damn bikes.
She doesn’t bother to tell me to calm down. “You’re being picked up. We had to move your bike when plans changed.”