Chapter 36: Codename: Blackheart Chapter Thirty-Six
Never have I been more grateful for all my parent’s tedious training sessions. As quick as I can, I take the grip of the gun, feel for the hammer along the top, and push it flat as I slide the square peg into the square hole, the muzzle softly clicking into place. I then slide the bolt back in and while I hold the bolt in place, I slide the pin back up until it clicks into the bolt. Now comes the tricky part, and boy am I glad I had my dad teach me this. Before I completely lock the pin back into the grip, I face the gun upwards, load the magazine in, hold the trigger down and then push the rest of the lever of the pin up into the grip. Then I release the trigger, drop the magazine, and click the lever fully into place. I release the bolt and it snaps right back into place.
Now with the gun assembled, I load the bullets into the magazine and load it into the gun. The second it’s in and ready to go, the blindfold is pulled off of my head using the fishing wire. I point the gun and aim at the target down the end of the arena as I let my eyes adjust to the change in lighting. A large red sheet is pulled off my target and for a split second, I freeze when the target is revealed to be a woman who appears to be in her seventies.
She has ivory, wrinkled skin, and grey hair in a dishevelled bun as messy strands frame her face. She’s wearing white-linen pants, a cream lace top, and a soft powder blue sweater. Tape covers her mouth and keeps her arms and legs bound to the chair she’s in. Tears stream down her face as she struggles to get free. It’s not the human target that has me freezing in place, it’s how much she looks like Grandma Talyssa. Same wide, green eyes that Grandma gave to Dad and passed on to me, same ivory complexion, same body shape, same grey hair. Grandma Talyssa was fully grey by the time she was forty-five, but it didn’t change how much Grandpa Titus loved her.
Did Hexton somehow find out Ajna was my grandmother? Or is this just some really freaky, fucking coincidence that I’m being made to kill a woman who looks like the woman who helped raised me? The woman who made me Moldovan Zeama whenever I wasn’t feeling well. The same woman who is the reason I have an Egyptian Lotus tattooed on my shoulder. I don’t know if this is a plot to fuck with my head or just a shitty coincidence, but either way, I have to do what I have to do.
A second has gone by as my mind races through these thoughts, and I can’t afford to waste a second more. Îmi pare foarte rău. With a silent prayer to my grandmother, I line my shot and pull the trigger, watching as the bullet cuts through the air and directly hits the centre of this woman’s skull. Her eyes widen, her crying stops and a single trickle of blood travels down her nose, over her lips and drips down her chin. Her head flops back and I place the gun down on the table. The moment it’s clear to the audience this very likely innocent woman’s life has ended, they all erupt into applause and cheers. I do my best to tune them out.
In my line of work, I’ve never really taken an innocent life. I’ve killed other criminals and assassins; people who broke laws in one way or another. I’ve killed some downright diabolical people and never felt bad for a single one. This woman could have been the leader of some international smuggling ring for all I know, but knowing how The Tournament operates, and how our Master of Ceremonies likes to fuck with us, it’s a good chance I just killed an innocent woman. A knot grows in the pit of my stomach, but I’m quick to squash it down. What’s done is done. If I let my head get swept up in guilt for even a second, I’m done for. Guilt just isn’t an emotion I can afford right now. Call me callous, but it was her life or mine and I chose mine.
“Isn’t she remarkable ladies and gentlemen?! And with seven seconds to spare! This means Blackheart has now moved to fourth place on the leaderboard!” Hexton announces to an excited crowd. “Blackheart, please join your competitors in the lounge,” he instructs.
I look over as a different door from the one I entered through opens off to the side of the arena. I walk towards the door and as I do I steal a glance at the VIP box my family is in. Alec looks horrified and disgusted, but it’s my grandpa I’m worried about. He’s standing, looking rigid with a broken glass in his hand and even from here, I can see the blood. I wish I could comfort him, but at least he’s not alone. Mum and Dad will take care of him. But this tells me he saw the resemblance too.
As I walk through the door that automatically closes behind me, I can’t help but think if my grandfather will ever be able to look at me the same way. Will he understand, or will he see it as some warped depiction of me killing the woman he loved? Common sense tells me he’ll understand. He’s competed before, he knows what it’s like. But that niggle of concern is creeping in. I need to get it the fuck out of my head. This is what I mean about The Tournament’s head games. If I was on any job, I would plan, act, and never look back. This embodiment of the nine circles of hell, on the other hand, has me questioning myself and my actions.
I step through a set of wooden, double doors and see several unmasked competitors lounging around a luxurious suite, enjoying complimentary beverages. I lower the zip in the back of my bodysuit and pull my headpiece down. When I take in a deep breath, I instantly feel much better.
A waiter comes over and offers me a drink, “Champagne, Miss Blackheart?” I take the glass from the tray without hesitation and down half the champagne just as I notice Iolaire sitting in the corner rocking back and forth. Her usual bubbly self nowhere to be seen. Her eyes are vacant. Physically she’s here, but mentally, who knows where she is?
“I thought she’d last longer. The crazy ones aren’t usually so easy to crack,” comes a voice to my left. I look over as a familiar ebony face walks over to me, sipping what smells like whiskey. With the dim lighting in this room, it takes me a second to realise he’s taken his headpiece off, that’s how dark his skin is. Skin darker than night and looking softer than satin. His natural black hair dyed silver and braided. The moment he smiles, his teeth almost light up the room.
Mamba is an assassin who gained his codename due to using snakes as his weapons of choice. I’ve spent years trying to guess where in Africa he comes from based on his accent, and after all this time I think I’ve narrowed it down to Cameroon. I rather like Mamba, he’s always had a very friendly personality for a hired killer. Mum hates him though, but that’s only because he’s beat her out for a few contracts over the years. She holds a grudge against anyone who takes her contracts from her. As you may recall, my dad is not exempt from her wrath.
“What made her crack?” I ask sipping my drink as I continue to watch Iolaire rock back and forth.
“She had to kill a child,” he says in a hard voice, and I freeze in place with my glass in front of my lips. I look up at him and I can see the disgust written in his eyes. Some killers don’t give a shit who they kill, while some of us have certain standards. For many of us, killing a child is a line we won’t cross. But, of course, The Tournament has no problem making us cross that line. All life is there to be used as entertainment in this place. Age, race, gender; they don’t care. As long as they get to amuse the masses by piling up bodies, that’s all that matters.
Iolaire is far more sadistic than even me, but here she is in a clear state of shock, bordering on catatonia, for being forced to kill a child. I’ve never had a breakdown, but I suspect I’d be reacting the same as her if I were forced to do something so abhorrent. There’s no limit they won’t cross, and if we want to survive we have to be prepared to cross those limits too. The question is; when this is all over, will survival be worth it if it means living with the memories of what we’ve done?