Remember the tight-rope incident? I gave that soccer player an option to walk between two buildings and he almost made it. Had it not been for the wind that gave Chicago its nickname he would've survived.

Lay advised me to have contingencies in place. By simply tying one end looser than the other, it would guarantee that no failure could come on my part, because in the end, the target would still die.

I took that lesson to heart. So, even if I gave this drunk woman the option to choose her fate, it was sealed before she even decided.

Because all the drinks were poisoned.

And the foam frothing from her mouth was a clear sign that fate wasn't on her side. I looked back at Ash who stared at the scene in stunned silence. His eyes bulged as if he was watching a car accident in slow motion. His legs trembled, and he slowly took a step back from me.

"Did...did I save a monster?" he vacillated. Then he rushed out the room without another word. When I followed him, he was already gone.

Yes, he did save a monster. I was a monster born and raised by other monsters. There was no changing me. If he thought having me join the Locusts would make me see the light, he was wrong. In the end, his Auntie will die by my hands, and his father's organization will crumble. As much as I hated my family, the thought of ever betraying them was out of the question. If Noa was a loyal assassin till his dying breath, the one person I admire most in the world, then even he knew that family shouldn't betray one another.

***

I scrubbed out the memories of the night with a hot shower. I collapsed into bed, thankful that Ash had left. That meant I didn't have to be bossed around because of some stupid initiation. While Ash was probably tossing and turning all night after his first kill, at least I know I did after mine, I fell asleep quicker than a baby after drinking warm milk.

My dreams, however, made it seem like I didn't even fall asleep at all.

I was in my father's study. I noticed the painting of his old farm hung up besides his scythe he used to glean his victims. I saw the bookshelves filled with books and scrolls, a map of the world, a table in the center of the room that could project a holographic map or intel, and many other toys my father kept for himself. I heard the door open up behind me and my heart tripped over itself.

See, my father hated whenever we were in his study by ourselves without his permission. I've been on the rough end of his stern scolding and the occasional back hand across the face. When I turned around and expected the worst, I was met with the opposite.

It was Noa. He was alive. He looked young, maybe 15 or 16—a year or two before he died. He closed the door gently and tip-toed across the room. Noa was up to no good. That wasn't like him.

Noa went up to my dad's desk. He was looking through the papers, and trying to log onto my father's computer, but showing fits of frustration upon failing. He rummaged through the drawers, trying to find something.

He spent a good fifteen minutes sweeping the room. He checked beneath the desk, pulled out a hundred books looking for a secret entrance or something, and even pulled down the scythe from the wall and almost gagged while holding it.

He sat in my father's chair disappointed. He then spun it around to stare outside the window at the lake. He looked up to the ceiling, almost throwing in the towel, when his eyes glided towards the painting of the small farmhouse on the prairie with a couple of cows grazing and chickens roosting.

Noa stood up and gently grabbed the edge of the frame. He lifted it off its nail and gasped. He set the painting down on the chair and unveiled a locked safe with a keypad. Noa turned it on. Four digits were needed to access whatever my father was keeping secret. Noa thought to himself and started punching in four-digit codes. The last four numbers of my dad's social security number, which my father found "almost as useless as the government itself;" my mom and dad's anniversary; my dad's birthday; my mom's birthday; my sister's birthday; my birthday.

Nothing.

Noa had one opportunity left before the safe locked him out for the next 24 hours. Noa fiddled his fingers on the steel casing. Finally, he decided to push aside his own modesty and punched in the numbers: 7758.

The safe zipped with a beep and popped open. Noa threw back the door and reached for the content inside.

A single USB.

Noa knew what this was for. He went to the holographic display table and plugged the USB in. The projector from the ceiling started up and the table came to life.

A virtual image of a file labeled "Top Secret" appeared. It had a seal of an eagle with its wings spread. In the center was a shield designed with the American flag whose border was protected with arrows pointing outwards. With its claws, the eagle held a wavy banner that read "Pro Salute Nostra." On the outside of the seal ran the ATO's full name on it: The Anti-Terrorist Organization created in the late 2020s after a young boy brainwashed by a terrorist organization took the lives of thousands of people on the White House back lawn. Noa reached his hand forward and opened the virtual document to the first page. It read: "Operation Sweeper."

Noa hesitated before flipping forward. This document held secrets that my father didn't want anyone in the family to find out. Noa took a deep breath and turned the page.

Abstract: In order to assure the wealth and prosperity of this nation, the cycle of poverty must be eliminated.

Reading that first line made it seem like good old big brother was looking out for the best interests of the poor. Perhaps starting some job programs to get people up on their feet, or a system of healthcare to treat those who couldn't afford treatment so they wouldn't be in debt trying to survive.

Then I kept reading alongside my brother.

Poverty causes people to take desperate measures. Gangs, terror groups, and various other criminal organizations thrive on the cycle of poverty.

A diagram appeared showing a simple cycle. In the first bubble it showed the image of a poor person, in debt, sick, with large families, and using drugs to escape their nightmarish life. The second bubble showed a person leaving school and joining a criminal organization that produced the amenities to escape temporarily or provided the hope of escaping poverty: brothels, drugs, gambling, etc. The person ends up making some money. The third bubble showed the person engaging in the amenities they once provided, eventually falling into debt, being sick from withdrawal, having too many mouths to feed, and eventually landing them back at bubble one.

Noa looked confused, then he reached forward, and a fourth bubble branched out from the second bubble. It showed the person being educated, as they rose from their desk with a gun and was facing the direction of a city.

People seek to escape the cycle, but their ineptitude prevents them from doing so properly. That's when poverty spills over to the streets of the hard-working rich and middle-class.

Images of bloody conflicts from the past half-century appeared. It showed bodies outside the White House, wars in the Middle East, assassination attempts on major political figures, marches in the streets for change that turned deadly.

Such destruction can be avoided through the elimination of poverty permanently.

Noa turned the page and a slew of collages appeared with various labels. Transports, Relocation, Discretion...

Noa tapped on the Transports label. An image of luxury bullet trains showed it filled with people covered in grime, large families, and many who haven't shaved in years (including women).

Noa turned to the label Relocation. It showed community houses built in suburbs outside of major cities. New York, Chicago, L.A., D.C. and more. All the houses were built the same with elaborate brick mortar foundations, pristine gardens, lovely chimneys, and two car garages.

Noa tapped on the third label Discretion. It showed social media plans with smiling faces standing outside the new houses. Families playing in the street.

This was too good to be true.

Noa swiped ahead and found another set of collages. This time, the labels were much more blood-thinning. Liquidation, Waste Treatment, Disposal.

Noa's hand was floating like a hummingbird above the display. He finally gulped and tapped on Liquidation.

It showed ventilation systems installed in the houses connected via the chimneys, sealed windows and doors, and invisible smoke spreading throughout the houses.

Noa took a step back, holding his hand to his lips like he always did when something terrible had gone wrong. "Oh my God...they're relocating the homeless and poor to kill them."

Noa skimmed ahead through images of body bags filling trucks, disposal in waste treatment plants that did unspeakable horrors I was too queasy to even look at.

That's when I heard my father's voice seep from the cracks of the walls behind us, scaring both Noa and me. "What did I tell you about coming into my office?"