Page 5 of Trigger Happy Ending

Agent O’s my boss. He’d call himself my mentor (more like master), maybe even a father figure (far from it). He once could’ve been though. A father figure, I mean. Maybe even a small, fucked-up part of me wanted him to be. But no guardian would ever do what was done to me.

O will tell you he trained me; the reality is he abused me.

And yet, here I am, at his beck and call like a faithful dog. Stockholm Syndrome. It’s a real thing.

The minutes drag, and I find my eyelids feeling heavy as I stare at the steady sheets of rain lashing the stained-glass window behind O’s desk. Now seems like a good time to play my favorite game. It’s called “I could have been anyone.”

Sometimes, I pretend I’m a nobody with a nine-to-five and a mortgage.

Other times, I’m an overstimulated mother who enjoys reading smut and watching Bravo.

Today, I might be an overachieving academic with a knack for flipping homes.

I try not to go too in-depth with my imagination, particularly around being a mother. I have to stop myself from wondering what it’s like to grow life and sustain it, rather than take it and destroy it. Motherhood is a security risk for women like me.

Actually, fuck this game. It’s depressing.

I reach into my pocket for my switchblade, flipping it open. I consider carving FUCK YOU into O’s desk. You know, just to be cunty.

Instead, I choose to press the tip of my knife into the pad of my middle finger. I draw a pinprick of blood and watch as it slowly drips down my skin. My first kill flickers through my mind, as I stop the droplet of blood from reaching the palm of my hand.

You never forget your first kill. Or your first fuck.

Of course, you remember them for very different reasons. I’ll let you guess which one was more satisfying.

I was eighteen when I became a murderer. When most girls were beginning college, I was forced through a series of brutal initiation tasks to see if I had what it takes to graduate from the Academy, the Agency’s top-secret school for hired guns. I passed with flying colors. Taking a life, especially for the first time, is a transformative experience. It stays with you. Completely and utterly rewrites who you are from the core.

It changes you.

Forever.

My eyes glaze over as the memory fades away.

Finally, footsteps approach, and the door opens, flooding the room with a familiar strong cologne and even stronger ego. Agent O carries a folder, closing the door with a harsh click. He glides in as if he hasn’t kept me waiting for a fucking eternity.

He reminds me of Patrick Bateman from American Psycho—not because of his looks (O’s tall, broad-shouldered, has a thick head of silver hair), but because he quite literally is an American Psycho. I’m not sure how high up the food chain he is at the Agency, but I know he must be ranked high. He calls the shots, briefs the missions, and has basically been the one constant person in my life since my mom died.

“Angel.” He smiles. It’s not friendly. “It’s good to see you.”

O never uses my real name. It’s always Angel. Never Raine. A quiet theft of self, one syllable at a time. He takes his seat across from me, unhurried, positioning the folder carefully in front of him.

“How was your ride?” he asks, sitting back like we’re father and daughter catching up.

I smile. Because that’s what you do when you’re a good little weapon.

“Fine.” (It wasn’t.)

My switchblade snaps open again. His mismatched eyes lock on my knife.

Ugh, those rotten eyes. One sapphire blue and the other a pale, milky orb. A glass eye. He could’ve picked something close to normal, but no, he chose a grotesque shade of white.

“You look well.” His voice walks the line between fatherly and something creepier. His eyes do the same thing. “We’ve got a lot to discuss. I trust you’re not in a rush?”

This illusion I have control over my own time is infuriating. Even if I was in a rush, it wouldn’t matter, O would still take as long as he wants.

I bite back the words clawing up my throat. I want to rant and rave, demanding to know why I’ve been requested here. I just finished an assignment. I should be back in Boston researching my mother’s murder. Not that I can let O know I’m doing my own digging. He’d see red. Punish me, probably, because even after all these years, my mother’s murder remains classified.

I dig the tip of my blade into the armrest, resisting the urge to throw it between O’s eyes. “No.”