Ashley Ringo pulled up to the DZ, and checked her watch. 1700 hours, on the dot. The mission took place in half an hour. That gave fifteen minutes to prepare, and then fifteen to infiltrate and commence with the mission.
As a killer for hire, that was just how it was done. Get there early, prep, head in, get the deed done, and get out. One, two, three, four, five. She'd done so plenty of times, from her days as an Army Ranger to her mercenary days, and now, as a freelancer, that simple five-step mantra worked wonders. Ash needed it to; her schedule was often busy as all get-out.
Much like today. This mission wasn't the toughest one, but it still had its difficulties. She had to meet with some higher-up on behalf of her asset. Normally, she'd just meet the person on her own in the person's home or force their car off the road to have an intimate discussion. A gun to the temple often cleared up any misunderstandings, and if it didn't, it make sure a misunderstanding never happened again. But, the problem was-
"Hey mom? Mom! Can we get tacos after this?"
Ashley turned around in the seat of her normal, nondescript black sedan, and stared at the asset. Her asset. He was a spitting image of his father, though he took a blend of his white father's and black mother's tones to end up in a light caramel complexion, with his dad's nose freckles and pale green eyes. His hair like his mother's: dark brown, curly, and hard to manage, currently cut down short and stuffed in a hat. He had most of his teet, though a upper right incisor had come out just the week before. Dinosaur shirt, a pair blue shorts, and shoes that lit up when you stomped. All standard 8-year-old fare.
Ash looked at the boy, and gave a stern negative. "No. We have food at home." She saw the disappointment coming to his face, and steeled herself for the arguments he would make. 'But you said if I was good,' 'The food at home is terrible,' 'We never go out to eat, does that mean we're poor,' etc, etc. She couldn't tell him the reason why was because she was a contract killer, and hanging about public places all the time was a recipe for disaster.
And she couldn't tell him that she wasn't used to being around him, either.
"Junior," she said with a sigh," If this meeting goes well, I'll consider it," she said, "but seeing as how you're getting D's and C's, I don't think that's a viable option."
"What's viable?"
"It means 'possible,' 'likely to happen.' Now, just be quiet, yeah? Play your Robot Blocks game."
She ignored her son's complaint of getting the game wrong (again), and focused on the mission.
The DZ was Franklin Elementary. The Asset was her son, Maxwell Junior. The Mission: Sitting down with the teacher at the end of 'Bring your Parents to School Night.' It should be a cinch, and it was for most parents, most mothers. But most mothers didn't think they were terrible, and most didn't have trouble connecting with people. And none of them probably killed people for a living.
Ash sighed. Maybe tacos after all of this wouldn't be a bad idea. Celebrating a difficult mission success was a normal thing, after all.
