Sophia was waiting outside the door with the rest of the Discipline unit, her eyes narrow and cold as I walked past them. I had no idea what I’d done to win Sophia’s disdain, but the look she gave me was one that made me think she’d hoped I wouldn’t come out of Detention in anything but a body bag.

Shaking my head, I focused instead on the interior of the home office. It was a honeycomb of stone corridors, dimly lit rooms, and cozy offices decorated with pictures of employees’ families. There were over three hundred employees of the Society here and most of them were only dimly conditioned. To them, working in the world’s most elite murder organization was like any other job.

I knew each one of them by name, a benefit of my enhanced memory, and could tell you facts about them that they’d be horrified I knew. Lisa Simple was stealing from the petty cash drawer to pay for her kid’s college fund. Derek Wilson had taken to self-medicating because his bad information got a toddler killed during a mission. Derek’s husband, William, was sleeping with C as well as Tom from accounting. Amanda Temple was schmoozing our richest clients to kill more people in hopes of getting a promotion.

Sex. Money. Guilt. Ambition. Those were the International Refugee Society’s guiding principles. I knew everyone’s story except my own and those of my fellow Letters. As I passed by the handsome brown-skinned Mister A, he gave me a cheerful smile and I wondered how many people he’d killed this year.

Mister A was the best of us, the one who should have been assigned this mission. He’d been working for the International Refugee Society for nine years and had a cover family that included two children conceived during his time with us. Mister A had killed over three hundred people, and as far as I knew, slept the sleep of the righteous. It made me wonder if there was something wrong with my conditioning, and if so, how I could keep it that way.

But who was I kidding? I didn’t feel guilt. I killed roughly twenty people a year and was up to twenty-five for at present. Could you say you weren’t reacting exactly the way you were programmed if you considered murder a distasteful but necessary part of your job?

“A penny for your thoughts?” Marissa said, still walking with her arm around mine.

I listened to the intercom playing David Bowie’s “Rebel, Rebel.” Smiling at her, I said, “Just things.”

“Want to share?”

“Not right now.”

“You can always open up to me.”

Could I? I knew Marissa loved me, but her will wasn’t entirely her own. “I know.”

Deciding I really didn’t want to continue this line of conversation, I broke away from her arm and took the stairs to the sixth sub-basement. We were already on the fifth, so it wasn’t much of a walk, but the difference between the two levels was striking.

The sixth sub-basement was a gigantic network of cold rooms, cables, library-shelf-sized supercomputers, and power cables. The heart of the world’s most advanced artificial intelligence should have had a less messy “brain,” but that was a difference between science fiction and reality, I supposed. Down the hall was a chamber containing a small nuclear reactor, another containing a tap into the NSA’s data feed cables, and the place where they recycled the building’s sewage.

“I wonder if Delphi ever gets lonely down here,” I muttered. “You’d think they’d get her a window or something.”

Marissa gave me a sideways glance as she walked in behind me.

A monotone but pleasant female voice said, “I don’t need windows, G. I have the entirety of the world’s digital cameras to give me a bird’s eye view of the universe. Really, I pity you who have only two eyes and have to be in one place at any given time.”

“Yeah, because that’s not creepy,” I said, looking up.

“Says the cybernetic assassin,” Delphi replied.

“I’ll teach you snark yet,” I said, looking around. I always expected to see a woman hiding somewhere, but Delphi was all the processing units around me.

“Please don’t,” a male voice responded, as a twenty-eight-year-old man in an electric wheelchair rolled around from a corner. He had greasy brown hair, a slight pot belly, thick black glasses, an MIT t-shirt, and a stubby, unkempt beard. His legs were entirely artificial and he could walk just fine, but James Madison had spent the majority of his life a paraplegic. He was used to moving around this way.

“Hello, Doctor Madison,” Marissa said, cheerfully.

“You can call me James,” James said. “He calls me Doctor Madison.”

James was Delphi’s “handler,” for lack of a better term. One of the world’s most brilliant computer programmers, he’d been made an enticing offer to come work for the Society. When he’d refused, they’d kidnapped him and sawed off his paralyzed legs before replacing them with artificial ones they controlled. He could move around freely now, but if he ever disobeyed, they’d send an electrical shock to his brain from those very legs that would kill him instantly. Sometimes our masters were not subtle.

“I love you too, James,” I said, sighing. “Just give us the information on the Carnevale and I’ll be on my way to have my face cut off.”

Marissa grimaced. “Oh God, you don’t think they’ll actually do that, do you?”

“No, that’s not like the Society at all,” James deadpanned.

“I don’t need to learn sarcasm from G, James. I learned it quite well enough from you,” Delphi responded.

“Point taken, Delphi.”

Turning his wheelchair around, James moved the motorized chair to a nearby room with a television, a table, and two chairs. The table had stacks of papers on it, along with numerous photos. I took one of the chairs while Marissa took another, James staying behind us.

“Is there any reason this all couldn’t be mailed to my tablet?” I asked.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“F’s betrayal has rather pointedly shown us the flaws in our system,” James replied. “This is all being handled on a closed server, so if there are any other internal leaks, the Carnevale won’t be able to know what we’re reading.”

“How do we know you’re above suspicion?” I asked, not really thinking James was a traitor.

“Unlike some people here, I have a family to threaten,” James said, going below the belt.

Marissa’s stare looked like it could cut through steel.

James looked away, ashamed. “Sorry.”

I didn’t respond. “Lay it on me.”

“I have assembled all of the relevant information on the Carnevale and its leadership on hardcopy for you to read before you depart for Italy,” Delphi’s voice spoke over the intercom. “Please destroy the files before you leave.”

“Paper? How primitive,” Marissa said, smirking.

“Understood,” I said, starting to sort through the files on the literal hundreds of people involved in the Carnevale’s business. “So, we’re here more for a primer?”

“Yes,” Delphi said. “Also, for you to ask any questions you might not be able to ask otherwise. Time is of the essence, as the Carnevale is likely to realize F is dead if you do not meet up with their operatives soon.”

I nodded, then realized I didn’t know if she had any cameras here to see it. “Gotcha. What can you tell me about Marcus Thomas Gordon?”

“Nothing,” Delphi said.

I blinked. “Nothing?”

“Not much of a primer, is it?” Marissa said.

“The majority of Doctor Gordon’s information is redacted. I’m afraid I’m not allowed to speak to you about him.”

I knew it was useless to argue with Delphi. Cyber-god or not, she was just a machine following her programming. “That’s going to make things difficult.”

“I’m sorry.” Delphi surprised me by adding, “I strongly suggest you take him alive, though, if you can. For personal reasons.”

“Personal reasons?” I dared ask.

“Leave it alone,” James said, his voice sharper than I expected. “For everyone’s sake.”

I wondered just how much James knew. “Let’s move on to the Caesar. I want to know about the man I’m supposed to kill.”

“As you wish,” Delphi responded.

An image of an Italian man in his mid-to-late fifties, stocky in build, with a short greyish beard, appeared on the television. He was wearing a plain button-down white cotton shirt and had five gold rings on his right hand. All of the rings had symbols on them with either Masonic or religious connotations.

“This is Lucio Biondi, a.k.a the Caesar. He is your secondary objective and the leader of the Carnevale for the past twenty-five years. Lucio achieved this position after murdering his brother Francis with a garrote, as well as arranging for the death of his father at the hands of the KGB in Saint Petersburg.”

“Charming fellow,” I said, looking at him. He had the look of a man who had once been an established killer but had allowed himself to fall into indulgence.

“It is believed Lucio arranged for these murders to take his father’s mistress, Anastasia, and she gave birth to their child, Lucita, twelve months later. Lucio is, contrary to stereotype, an atheist but a devout believer in stregoneria, or Italian folk magic.”

“Interesting,” I said, making a note of that.

The television screen switched to an extremely lovely blonde-haired woman who was the subject of several tabloid shots showing her in evening wear, bikinis, and other flattering appearances. Lucita Biondi was buxom, muscular, and curvaceous in a way that wasn’t entirely natural.

“Of course she’s beautiful,” Marissa said, sighing. “The evil assassin’s daughter is never ugly.”

“She’s a Shell,” I said, responding to her unspoken query. “A fabulously well-built one, I have to admit, but a Shell nevertheless.”

Marissa gave me a sideways look, then turned her head to one side to glance up and down at the images of Lucita. “Really? I mean, I thought some of her was fake, but all of it?”

I nodded. “I can tell. What’s her story?”

“Lucita is a twenty-five-year-old model and actress known for her role in several Italian television programs. She is also an assassin for the Carnevale,” Delphi explained. “Her fame actually works to her benefit, as she has arranged accidents and sub-contracted murders for the Carnevale in places that might not normally be available.”

“Try not to get too close,” Marissa joked.

“I’m supposed to kill her, remember?” I reminded her.

“Oh,” Marissa said, frowning. “Never mind.”

Not that seduction wasn’t a potential option, but the simple fact was that a woman like Ms. Biondi was undoubtedly used to male attention. Also, I would be underneath her father's roof while making any possible moves. Still, it never hurt to check. “What’s her status, relationship-wise?”

Marissa did a double take.

“Dating Gillespie Accosi. He’s an Italian race car driver, twenty-seven, and unrelated to the Carnevale’s business,” Delphi said.

Numerous pictures of a handsome brown-haired man hanging around Lucita were found, including several sexual ones, which I wondered at the source of. The couple looked happy, however, and I believed they weren’t faking it.

“Persephone has marked him for termination. Agent A will be eliminating him within the next seventy-two hours.”

I blinked. “Why?”

“Persephone does not believe you are necessarily going to succeed in your mission to kill the Caesar and his daughter. She believes it is best to strike at both the Carnevale’s agents as well as people who will cause their membership and supporters harm. Killing Lucita’s paramour will also contribute to what will likely be a fragile emotional state you can manipulate.”

I stared up at the ceiling. “Killing the boyfriend is a petty revenge.”

“It is, however, an effective tool for inflicting psychological damage. I would suggest doing the same for Caesar’s mistress, but we have yet to determine who she is. Likewise, studies indicate that he views his post-marital liaisons as entirely superficial things. His late wife—”

“Thank you,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“As you wish,” Delphi replied.

“I guess if the Society believes it’s the right thing to do, then it is,” Marissa said, her voice low.

James looked at her with a pitying gaze. “Yeah, I suppose.”

I disliked that we were killing a civilian for negligible gain. I preferred to do my kills clean and with a minimum of collateral damage. “I don’t suppose we have much data on their location, do we?”

The television showed images of a compound that looked more like the home of a Colombian cartel leader than an Italian gangster. It was on top of a mountain, filled with dozens of guards, and overlooked the kind of quaint village I only thought existed in movies. We had satellite images of the place, but nothing closer, and all of them showed that it would be extremely difficult to get to save by the narrow main road or by helicopter.

“The Caesar’s Palace of Miracles, as it is known, is a location off the beaten path and almost entirely under his control. He owns the police chief, the local government officials, and even the nearby military base. The Italian government makes use of the Carnevale on a regular basis, so we have no access. It is very likely Doctor Gordon is being kept here. Financial transactions indicate they’ve made numerous purchases of high tech equipment in recent months, and it’s probable they’ve outfitted a laboratory for him.”

“Can you hack them?” I asked.

Marissa gave me a pitying stare. “It doesn’t work like that, G.”

“How does it work then?”

“In layman’s terms, you need to get Marissa very close to the villa, if not to their actual system,” Delphi explained.

“I’d like to avoid bringing her into the compound filled with professional killers, Delphi.”

“You may not have a choice,” Delphi said. “While it appears relatively primitive on the outside, the Carnevale has access to tech above and beyond anything available to a non-Black-Technology-using group. Marissa is one of the few operatives cleared for interacting with it.”

I sighed. “Anything else I should know, or shall I just go back to studying all this?”

“You’ll have two weeks to carry this mission out upon arrival. Afterward, we’ll attempt to smuggle a high-yield bomb into the facility to kill it and everyone inside.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Marissa said, either forgetting Gordon might be my father or covering up her awareness of it.

“There are twenty-five children living on the compound,” Delphi said. “In addition to over two hundred servants, as well as forced laborers.”

“Not that you’d care,” James said.

I started looking at the papers in front of me more intently. “All I care about is fulfilling my contract.”