Epilogue
**Brandon POV** (11:20 P.M) 12/24/2017
“Plop! Plop! Plop!” The rippling water crashes under me as I let loose after a long day of mediocrity. A day so shitty it makes perfect sense why I’m throwing up from my bum. Today was one of the lightest days I’ve had, and I hate it. Because if I didn’t have a busy day, that meant someone got a contract that belonged to me.
Contract thieves have been on the rise, and pretty soon, it’ll be an all-out war on assassins vs looters. It happens every few years. A rise in technology gets a few raiders believing they’ll be able to not only steal from us but also kill us. It’s like they forget we’re all getting the same upgrades. Despite contract thieves also being killers, only assassins can do both.
It’s a very long and thick line between studying the movements of a target and planning a kill to the perfect moment versus simply following someone who’s getting ready to kill. Truth be told, if I hadn’t been a top ten-ranked killer since my first year out of school, I’d probably be a contract looter too. It’s far more accessible. The only thing stopping me is once you’ve stolen enough contracts, the top five assassins unite and kill the thief.
The top five assassins include Wang Lay, Paul Golden, Claire Moore, Brandon Hunt, and Gordon Mooney. Which means if I was a contract thief, I’d be replaced by the killer Megan Rafferty. Two females and three males coming after me isn’t an ideal situation. No matter how good I feel I am, I’m two spots away from not even being in the top five. I’d be a fool not to take precautions when every single person on the list has ten more years of experience than me.
“Tttppppph! Tphhhh!” My thundering stomach and half-asleep ass cheeks rumble, reminding me why of all days, I should be thankful that I didn’t have a problematic or drawn-out job to do. My stomach has been in shambles for much of the day.
I don’t know what the hell Cheyenne made us for dinner last night, but I’m willing to bet everything in my bank account that it was over a hundred grams of fiber. Seems like I’ll go back to being the one that cooks our meals on the rare times when we don’t order in.
“Squeak... Squeak.” The floor in the next room moans slowly. Which means my worst fear in life is manifesting. Someone attempting to kill me while taking a shit. I’m a top-four assassin, but no man should have to fight for his life while he’s on the toilet. It’s just not right.
“If you’d wait on me to finish, it’d be much obliged!” I announce as several silenced bullets start ripping into the wall of my now-compromised safe-house. Being that this is a legit fear of mine, and I have the money to do it, all the walls in my houses and safehouses are bulletproof. Especially the walls that capture me inside of a bathroom.
“Stop shooting, gotdamn! damn it!” The familiar voice of Blake squeals out. “You can’t smell that shit! You never kill a man who’s shitting!” He continues over the massive smacking sound of a backhand.
“Thanks, Blake!” I holler out, starting to wipe my ass, “how’s the wife?”
“She’s good; glad I finally came to kill you.” He chuckles nonchalantly. Typical Blake. Claiming things he knows he’d never be able to do.
“After, tell her I said hello!” I insist, flushing the toilet and turning on the water. However, I won’t be washing my hands just yet. I unlock my window, stepping on the concrete platform outside of it without making a sound. I grab the shotgun under my window seal before aiming it into the already open window where four men are standing in front of.
“Move, Blake!” I vocalize, waiting for just a second before shooting twice. The lack of returning gunfire and the women-like groans let me know I’d be able to wash my hands in peace.
After climbing back in the window, locking it, washing my hands and my gun, and spraying the window locks down with Lysol, I enter the blood-stained room.
“Thanks for telling me to move,” The cocksucker says, sticking his hand out for a shake. He even entertains the perfect smile his parents ensure is on every inch of the walls inside their home. “I owe you one.”
“No, you don’t.” I verify, punching him in the nose and breaking it on impact. He falls and starts crying like a little bitch, while I take out my silenced pistol and shoot the shitty assassins in the head five times.
“Come on, man. I just got those guys yesterday!” Blake whines. I ignore his pleas, taking a seat on my now white and red couch, happily watching as his fingers cling to his bleeding nose.
“Well, tell your department to stop trying to kill me. And if they are going to, they better send more than just three. It’s not even fun anymore.”
“I’ll put in another request.”
“What are you doing here?” I probe, although I’m well aware of his answer. It actually makes me want to punch him again.
“Tomorrow’s Christmas and we want you at home with us,” Blake alerts, finally having the decency to take his dripping blood to the bathroom.
“You’ve got more manageable ways to get in touch with me. Why are you risking agents and waiting till the last minute on an answer you know is no?”
“I haven’t been able to get in touch with you in two years, Brandon. I think this is quite reasonable.”
“None of us have any reason to talk,” I say as candidly as possible.
“That’s not true...” Blake lies, attempting to find a reason I would want to talk to any of the family.
“Dad wants you at Christmas this year,”
“He also wanted me at Christmas last year. Who gives a fuck?”
“Well, for starters, mom does.”
“Boo fucking hoo, I’m not going,” I shrug, rolling my eyes as I imagine walking through the massive home once again.
“Yes, you are.” He laughs. Apparently, knowing a secret joke that I don’t.
“Why would I go?”
“Cause Claire will be there.”
Though my body betrays me and my dick twitches just at the sound of her name, I refuse to let my stepbrother notice. “Fuck Claire.”
“Don’t tell my wife, and I will,” Blake ensures, peeking from the bathroom doorway and humping the air, pretending it’s Claire’s body.
“I’ll kill you,” I guarantee with the tap of the firearm on my hip. Unlike Blake, I don’t make idle threats.
“Come to Christmas.” He demands, stuffing toilet paper inside his nose before walking towards the door they’d snuck in.
“Don’t think about leaving. Clean this shit up.” I order, pointing to the bodies. “Or I’ll go fuck Danna,” I promise before disappearing out of the window and into the night.
I was beginning to get over Claire, and this prick comes in talking about her. If I show up at that bougie family’s house and she’s not there, I’ll kill everybody in the house besides Poncho.
