I woke up in the situation room.

No, not the one in the White House. My father modeled his after the real situation room he once visited on an intimidation contract he was hired to carry out. I wish I had more of those. All you had to do was show a target that you mean business and could've killed them but will instead spare their life if they follow these simple demands that the contractor delegated.

The fact that I woke up here meant that something either important or really dangerous was happening. I've only been in the situation room once when my brother died.

I still remember my mother crying, and my father yelling at me. I've never seen him so angry before in my life. "Hesitation is weakness in our field. And look at what your ineptitude cost us."

He got closed to my face, his eyes stinging red with anger. His sandy hair was a trench of gray follicles lining a ridge in his hair. His full beard, usually trimmed with precision, was wild from rage. His calloused finger pressed against my forehead as he growled. "You did this to him. You killed your brother."

Although today no fingers were being drilled into my temple, the fear of what was to come remained.

"Look who's finally awake," my sister grunted in the black plush chair next to mine. "Look Zay, you need to take your hits with more grace like I do." She cupped her hand beneath her chin like some sort of angelic model posing for some tabloid magazine.

"Are you okay sweetie?" My mother asked from the head of the table. She sat beneath a seal that resembled the RC logo. It showed a sickle balancing an entire city upon its precarious blade. When I once asked my mother about it, she said that the RC keeps society running. "I hope daddy wasn't too rough on you."

I rubbed my neck. It throbbed like a flu-like body ache. My father could cut through bricks with a slice like that. Knocking me out was him going soft on me.

"Let it be a repetition of an earlier lesson I spoke in this exact room," he appeared from behind me. He placed his hands on my shoulders, massaging them just a bit before leaning in to whisper, "Never hesitate."

He kissed me on the cheek. I rubbed my cheek against my shoulder.

"Now, before you stopped short of finishing the job, I did notice your reflexes have ameliorated gracefully. I was impressed enough to invite you in on the next big family project we'll be working on."

He stepped in front of the room and the lights began to dim as a projector illuminated images on the wall. "Project Tartarus." He stood tall in his gray suit and white tie. He held a laser pointer and flashed it onto the wall.

"For over many years the Reapers have been in constant battle with a group of degenerates that believe that the reins of society should be given to the weakest among us. In that time period our organization has struggled to mitigate this problem, first through negotiation, then through manipulation, and even all-out war that flooded the south side. None of that worked."

He examined the room. "But the RC has been going about this wrong. For years we have been trying with diligence to behead a beast with a rubber spoon. What we should have been doing instead is starving it."

The slide turned to a field of crops swarmed by locusts, an image bluntly referring to our rival gang: the Locusts. If we existed to protect those who have the most to lose, then they existed to fight for those who have nothing to lose.

"Countless heads of the Locusts have been killed by our group, but killing the lead insect does not stem the swarm. We must uproot the very fabric of their power."

The image changed to a gif of charred fields of wheat, burned by people wearing hazmat suits and spraying geysers of fire at fields of crops. "We starve them. We ruin their feeble grasp on social security. And when their future has been erased, the present will fade alongside with it."

The slide transitioned into a dark slate. "Now, how do we accomplish this? Any guesses?"

"We hit their weapons stashes," my mother suggested. "Take away their firepower."

"Great idea, but they will always find a new chain of supply," my father said.

My sister raised her hand gracefully and announced, "We don't hit the stashes, but their pockets. We intercept their drug trade, poison their prostitutes, burn their gambling centers."

"The Locusts are bigger than we give them credit for," my father clarified. "They have expanded, establishing branches in various cities across the United States. And although we are a well-run organization, they have far superior numbers."

That was the key. The numbers. With the inequality gaps in society, there were far more deprived individuals than there were privileged. The Locusts had the message that appealed to the deprived that my family sought to keep in that state.

My father pointed his laser pointer at me. "What about you Za-Za, any guess?"

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I knew my father wouldn't move this thing along until he had gotten a response out of each of us. He was that teacher that simply wouldn't press onward unless every single student participated or else felt his wrath of extreme patience.

"The food for any gang is not just money, but people. A gang is only as powerful as its members. So, to starve the Locusts," I pointed at the blank screen against the wall. "We scare people from joining. We show them that the leaders can't protect them, that it's too dangerous and hopeless of a cause to join the gang. Then we watch as their army dwindles, and the strength of the Locusts fades."

My father was intrigued. He rubbed the tip of his bead and wondered, "And how do we reduce their strength in numbers?"

I wasn't aware that I was now the leader of this meeting. But I entertained my father as vaguely as I could. "We remind them that even the poor have something to lose."

My father clapped his hands once. "That's why Za-Za, you'll make a great future leader of this family someday."

I wanted to recede back in my chair. There's nothing I wanted less. Sadly, I was stuck with them for at least another six more years before I could flee the coup.

My sister sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes. "If Kaorc were here, he wouldn't like that statement daddy."

"Well your older brother..." my father faced the dark wall. "Although he is a gifted assassin, he lacks the brains to lead this family. But, that's another matter. He's currently carrying out an important scouting contract for an anonymous client overseas. For now, Project Tartarus will be in our hands."

The slide on the wall changed. It showed one of those old homemade videos that displayed a row of tattoo artists putting the finishing touches of a design on the right upper arm of multiple customers. When the ink dried, a lonely grasshopper stood etched onto their skins, one of the first initiation rituals for the Locusts. For them, every member joined the gang as a solitary grasshopper, but upon completing tracks, they could join the swarm.

"Our goal is to reduce this," my father explained. "Each of you have been assigned two neighborhoods. Your targets are the branding centers in each of those neighborhoods. I'll take the Englewoods. I don't need my girls coming across too much trouble. Cara, you'll take West and East Garfield. Lay, take care of North Lawndale and Grand Crossing. Za-Za..."

He examined me again. I knew what he was thinking. Can I trust her? It had been three years since the accident and he still believed I was the same girl that got his son killed.

"You'll get Washington Park and Royden, and I suggest you handle the former first by tomorrow."

This was a test. If I knew my father, he was a fast finisher. Englewood was right next to Washington Park on the south side of Chicago. He wanted to keep an eye on me, make sure I didn't crack.

But Royden was further south and was probably up there as one of the biggest strongholds of the Locusts. It used to be a separate suburban town outside Chicago, but it was now home to some of the highest-ranking Locusts members in Chicago. Hitting their branding centers was the equivalent of showing Kansas that a Tsunami could swallow them up too.

Lay interrupted my father's stare down. "So we go in, get loud, blow up some centers, and that's it?"

My father shook his head and turned towards all of us. "That would be going back to the stash theory—they'll find a new center, maybe blame the explosion on a gas leak. No, I want you to kill each and every single soul inside these centers and leave the bodies some place the rest of the neighborhood can see."

He turned to the next slide and it showed some grim images of examples he was looking for. "Ornaments lining streetlamps. Fresh meat in front of the supermarkets. A new delivery of textbooks for the schools, or even displaying them by the parlor windows. We will send a message to all those thinking they should involve themselves in this foolish enterprise—they'll die, and they'll die before they can ever be a part of the swarm."

The presentation ended. "I've sent you the exact locations of all the branding centers in the family group chat. That's all for now my lovely ladies. Reap with pride."

While my mother and sister left to head for dinner, my father stopped me before I could join them.

"Za-Za, I meant what I said. If you keep up your good streak, you'll hold the keys to this family very soon."

He walked past me and placed a hand on my shoulder. Without facing me, he said with a stern voice, "I might even consider forgiving you for killing your brother Noa."

I flinched at the mention of his name. Noa was the nicest older brother a younger sister could ever ask for. In a family where everyone talked about death and murder, he was the only one to take me to amusement parks, malls, and concerts. He distracted me from the family business.

And he died because of it.