“Hey, Cole. Do you know my full name?” Uncle asked.

The question caught me off guard.

“You never became curious why you and your twin never carried a surname.” He continued.

Mom’s name was Anne Lee.

Dad’s was Brennon Callahan.

Reimi and I never carried any of their names.

We were just Cole and Reimi.

“You’re Von Callahan,” I answered.

“Both of you, is Callahan.” He said.

Uncle told me to stir up a storm in Morocco. He wanted the name of The Prideful to be known overseas too.

What a gaffe.

3 hours later.

Man seen killing 20 people in the local bazaar.

This should be enough. I just shot them up with a Tommy.

I ran and hid inside an abandoned car. It was fine.

I had 2 more days to stay in Morocco before going to Asia.

I left my brand at the scene before fleeing.

“This car is too hot.” As I said with sweat falling.

I went out and walked away calmly to not get attention.

I passed some people in a costume party listening to some sea shanties.

Maybe Great-Great-Great Forefather even sang it.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Leave her Johnny, leave her…” I sang with a soft voice.

He probably had the largest kill count considering he was a pirate. He wasn’t in the photo album. There were a dusty pair of cutlasses at the storage.

How funny, two families laid with blood and destruction met and had probably the deadliest generation.

Cole Callahan and Reimi Callahan.

Our cousins in the restaurant left the killings to us. They were Mom’s side. Dad’s side of cousins are nowhere to show up and say hi.

Uncle Von has daughters. All away in a job or something.

Mom was a single child so we don’t have any cousins on the Lee side of the family.

I walked away and stayed at my hotel. I slept a whole day.

My coat is dirty, I should clean it up.

Should’ve known that the place would be filled with cops.

Should I wear a suit and tie below the coat or just wear a turtleneck below the coat?

Picking takes too much time. I wore the one with the turtleneck.

“Looking good, killer,” I said as I finger gun the mirror.

I took my knives and the barbed rope.

…………

This feeling… Someone’s looking at me.

I walked to the window to find where that person is.

“There it is.”

I gave the person the finger and walked out of my room with everything I have.

“Check out,” I said at the receptionist.

It’s my last day in Morocco. I should have fun. Just stay away from the bazaar.

Police and military on high alert. I should ask Uncle to pick me up. He has a yacht. He should be able to use his connections.

I was checking through my phone for news in the States.

They’re all about my spree yesterday. I left all my bloody handprints near each victim. They should really see that as a clue.

It’s literally a handprint. There won’t be any fingerprints.

I walked around the city to get some air.

Vroom. Vroom.

Jeez, sports cars. I have a vintage car to avoid attention. I think it just adds more. In the era full of modern cars, having a vintage one is a bit eye-catching.

As I walk down the street sipping my coffee, I saw a lost kid.

“Hey, you lost?” I asked. It was a little girl. She nodded as she shook my hand. I asked her name.

“I’m Sophia.” She answered.

I brought her to the police station for her to be safe.

She was 8-13 years old.

When she shook my hand, it was a firm grip. She probably uses a bat.

Bold of me to just waltz to a police station when I killed 20 people last night.

She seems like a good kid.

Anyways, I should find my way to the pier. As I walk, I kept thinking.

“Who is it that took the pictures of every killer in the family throughout the decades?”

From the 1700s to the 1980s.

Something that we can’t explain is happening.

This thinking makes my head hurt like hell. I’m nearing Dock 12 anyways. Uncle’s yacht should be there.

My next stop is Portugal or Spain. The trip will probably take 3 days. The captain isn’t here yet. I should find a nearby coffee shop.

I saw a group of teens, they were just living their lives like normal.

I sometimes envy them. I grew up with death around me.

I stopped and look through the horizon.

“What a gaffe.”

Reimi is probably on a job somewhere in Morocco or she already has been out the country.

Uncle might be doing more deals and contracts for jobs for his assassins.

The cousins are just running the restaurant, all peaceful and quiet.

I leaned at the pier’s barriers. Thinking of how fun it could’ve been growing up peaceful.

25 years of life, most of it studying the art of death.

I should probably go back to the States.

Killing people for so long, it becomes boring. I should retire and sell clothes or something.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, when I turned around it was the captain.

“Come, it’s time to sail.”

I followed him to Dock 12, he explained that Uncle had to pull some strings for this voyage to work.

I boarded the yacht and we were on our merry way.

I read some books and did things to pass the time.

I went to my room and laid on my bed.

There was a note in my closet.

“Don’t trust anyone. Try not to die.”

I took hooks and a knife with me.

Sleep with one eye open. I can feel when there is bloodlust around me.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Heels? A woman. I don’t remember there being a woman aboard. It was only the captain and 3 sailors. All of them were male.

I stood up and hid in the closet hoping to get her by surprise.

The footsteps came closer, I saw the shadow. It was a woman. When she came into the room, she had a gun.

She’s of Caucasian descent. Blonde with a bun. She has heterochromia. Green-eyed on the left, blue on the right.

She looks like a sharpshooter.

This will be fun.