The midnight warriors, p.1
The Midnight Warriors, page 1
The Midnight Warriors
Nirmani Walpola
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between any person is just coincidental. This book is the sole copyright of the author and can’t be reproduced in any form without the sole permission of the author. To contact the author for these permissions or other engagements email the publisher:
editors@emerald-books.com
BISAC Categories:
YAF056000 YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Science Fiction / General
YAF062020 YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Thrillers & Suspense / Espionage
Summary:
Clara, the most popular girl in school, and Damien, an antisocial prankster, have nothing in common except their friendship. But each of them withholds a secret from the other: they’re both secret teenage assassins from the same organization. Follow Damien and Clara from their points of view as they balance their lives as regular middle schoolers with their sworn obligation to save the world.
Copyright © 2021 Nirmani Walpola
All rights reserved.
Print edition ISBN: 978-1-954779-13-6
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
History Project? You can have it if you like
Chapter 2
Don’t Prank Your Leader
Chapter 3
Sneaking Out, Netflix, and Kidnappers
Chapter 4
Meet the most boring teacher of the year
Chapter 5
I listen to the worst plan on the planet and then
realize It’s Actually Good
Chapter 6
My Principal Turns Into a human pretzel
Chapter 7
Mrs. Garcia drags me home from her soap operas
Chapter 8
“VIP” service From a criminal. This should be good.
Chapter 9
My best friend’s an assassin and my enemy. (What could possibly go wrong?)
Chapter 10
What’s worse than going on your first mission with two strangers? Possibly Nothing.
Chapter 11
I offend a vicious tiger
Chapter 12
Watching Sci-fi movies saved my life
Chapter 13
I try to make friends with assassins, and it doesn’t go too well
Chapter 14
we fight and lose…Our food
Chapter 15
Boy Talk
Chapter 16
I meet…my aunt
Chapter 17
Let’s go into the past
Chapter 18
Spy mode activated
Chapter 19
Strangers are just friends you’ve met, but decided to ignore
Chapter 20
The fastest reunion I have seen in my life
Chapter 21
Chaos in slow motion
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Dedication
To my ever-loving grandparents, Acha and Seeya and Achiammi and Seeya, who have stood behind me the whole time I wrote this book: This one is for you.
Chapter 1
History Project?
You can have it if you like
Clara
If I had known that today I would have to save my best friend from being murdered by the most dangerous criminal leader in the world, I really wouldn’t have gotten up this morning.
My alarm rang. I rolled over to see that it was four in the morning, the time when I’m supposed to wake up. I only slept for four hours, and I felt like absolute junk. Getting up this early is the worst—no matter how many times I’ve done it. I couldn’t sleep in or snooze. In order to protect my secret, I had to get out of bed, I had to finish my homework, and I had to go to school.
I turned on my bedside lamp and covered it with a blanket. I quickly closed the dark curtains that hung from the ceiling ‘cause I didn’t want my mom to know I was awake yet. More importantly, I didn’t want my dad to know.
I got out of bed and sat down at my old cedar desk. My mom had given it to me for my sixth birthday. It was the same one that she had as kid, but it was still in mint condition. Looking through my messy pile of papers, I found the exact thing I was hoping to avoid.
Other than birthday invitations, chocolate wrappers, and other crud, I had one important document, my history project rubric. My best friend since forever, Damien Richards, was my partner on the project. Mrs. Leborn assigned the project as 50% of our grade. The assignment was to write an autobiography and include a little bit about our family history. Easy enough, right?
I wish. Nothing’s easy when you’re a Lemondola.
And why didn’t you do this? I asked myself. Oh, that’s right. Because you were busy texting Paulina, and you told yourself you would do it in the morning.
I did convince myself to do it in the morning, since I was texting Paulina Demos, my closest friend since third grade, to help me with some math. She’s in Algebra I, and I’m in a regular math class this year.
It was hard, and since my nights are occupied, I couldn’t have her over for even a half hour.
Bad move, Clara. I could have kicked myself.
When I first got the project, I thought it wouldn’t be that hard to write about myself. Now, I didn’t know what to write.
Definitely not. “Hi! My name is Clarissa Aventurine Lemondola. My dad’s one of the world’s richest and nicest people, and I’m a hired assassin killing criminals with my mom. Yipee!”
It’s not even funny, so don’t try laughing. I really am an assassin. I’m not like the stereotypes you see in movies with the shady looks and bad catchphrases. Assassins (at least my kind) are always good, even though history (and everybody else in the world) portrays us as bad guys. Think of the saying “give a dog a bad name and hang him.”
Who do you think came up with that?
I’m part of a group called ANW, or Assassins Nationwide, which takes in kids as young as five to be trained to target bad guys. Our targets are serial killers or other deadly trouble the world wants to get rid of. I better not tell you any more.
It wouldn’t matter if I was her kid or not, my mom would kill me if I ever told anybody. ANW never tolerates this, not after—never mind. Just know that if there are bad people in history, well, let’s just say they were taken care of, courtesy of us.
So how are people recruited? Good question.
My mom’s whole family since the eighteenth century were ANW leaders. When I turn thirteen and complete the final level of my training, that responsibility will come to me.
So why let a teenager be in charge of a criminal organization?
The million-dollar questions just keep rolling in.
I could become a full leader if I wanted or I could wait until I’m eighteen. Besides, I still have non-assassin obligations ahead of me, like school and being a teenager. Anyway, the leader is responsible for choosing kids they think are worthy and teleporting them to the headquarters in Los Angeles, California, where I live.
Once you’re teleported, if you like the organization and pass the trial, you are given the opportunity to join. If you don’t want to join, you would be memory-wiped, and it would be like it never happened.
Well, not instantly. Each leader has a little tool for the purpose of erasing memory that is top secret. My mom would never let me use hers, since there are a couple people who I already knew I would want to use it on. My mom wasn’t having that.
That part was creepy, but it was better than going up to a kid and saying, “Congrats, kid! You’re an assassin. You’ve got ten minutes to decide if you want to accept this offer or you will be memory-wiped.”
Once you’re in, you get a uniform and weapons, and you start your training. I’ll explain more in a bit.
When you turn thirteen, like I said before, you level up to become an “adult” assassin. You join a team with four other assassins you trust and go on missions with your team. I like that part the most.
The four assassins, roughly about the same age, are grouped together (after being watched carefully by the leader) and level up together. Then they work together and help each other.
As for me? I will level up just like everybody else, but before I officially can, I have to have my prophecy dream to confirm that I am the next ANW leader.
What’s that, you say? It’s…well…we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I really shouldn’t be telling you all of this. Some things are meant to be secret.
Believe me, I wish I could tell you everything.
Now, here’s the twist: each ANW assassin has to wear an eye mask to cover their identity. You guessed it: you have no idea who the other people in your group are.
Hold up: I bet you’re wondering what type of organization kills people without even knowing each other? Like my mom says, “It’s for our own good.” And for publicity.
There are assassin tribes all around the world who don’t keep their identities secret, but Giovanna Lemondola, my great-great-great-great-grandma, created this organization 300 years ago, not to be a hero, but to make a change in the changing world.
We’re only called by the first letter of our names until we get our codenames when we level up. For example, I’m called C, but my mom is known as Poppy, her codename. Like I said before, we wear masks, like the ones you would see at the carnival in Venice.
Back to the history project.
My family? Easy. I am an only child, and I have no cousins. My parents are also only children, even though when I ask my mom about it, she just changes the subject.
A couple times, though, I have seen my mom finger a special rose-gold rose pedant, and softly cry over a photo with two girls around my age. The girl on the left has black hair, with a Cheshire cat smile. She’s elbowing a blond-haired girl on the right, who just smiles knowingly at the other girl. The blond girl is my mom, so who was that black-haired girl, and why was she so important that my mom would cry over her?
That’s suspicious. I don’t ask about it, though, since assassins like to protect their privacy a lot. That’s the number-one thing. My grandparents from my dad’s side are alive, even though my mom’s dad died when I was five. I have a few second cousins, but other than that, it gets lonely, to be honest.
Being an only child is not fun most of the time, especially when your dad’s in charge of a multi-billion-dollar business, which means I only get to spend time with him on the weekends and, if I’m lucky, sometimes at night. When you’re a billionaire’s child, most people who seem to adore you are two-faced. One minute they’ll be sucking up to you, and the next, they laugh you off like a day-old dirt sandwich.
But because of my mom and my friends Paulina and Damien, it isn’t super-bad having no siblings. They make up for it 120%.
About myself? That’s easy, too. I’ve lived in Los Angeles all my life, and I love anything sweet. I can get a sugar rush easily, so people keep their distance when I go with them to get ice cream.
I am considered popular, but only to anybody who doesn’t know me personally. I honestly don’t care, since I have friends and everything I need. I don’t need much, and I like it that way. Also, being a billionaire’s daughter is sweet (even with the struggles), and comes with many perks, like being invited to mingle with the rich and famous, even though I like peace and quiet most of the time. I have enough work to do every night.
Just as I was about to write about my ancestors, the door opened, and my mom came in. I ran to my bed and hid under my blanket. My mom chuckled.
“Clara, I brought some hot chocolate,” she said as she tried to yank my covers off. “We had a late night,” she acknowledged.
Don’t remind me.
As a level two, I practice with everybody ranging from ten to twelve years old, girls and boys. I don’t mind practicing with anyone except one person.
D.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m good with most people, but there are some exceptions.
D joined at the same time I did, and my mom wanted us to get to know each other, so she paired us up. We were both only five, but for some reason, our tempers flared, and the next thing we knew, we were fighting. Ever since then, we’ve both made excuses to avoid fighting the other, and my mom doesn’t say anything about it. I have a gut feeling she is keeping us from training together.
I really want to find out who D is, and maybe even be friends.
On second thought, no, I don’t.
When my great-great-great-great-grandmother started this group, she obviously wanted to hide people so they wouldn’t be targeted. So, she had the great idea of training people in the dead of night. Then, they could get stronger without enemies noticing.
Just wonderful for people who need to get some sleep in the 21st century.
Wait, did people actually get sleep before technology came around?
I perked up at the smell of my mom’s homemade hot chocolate. It was a family recipe, and it made you feel like you could throw a car with one sip.
Of course, my mom won’t share the recipe until I’m a leader.
Mom left the room and I sat up. I grabbed my phone and texted Damien.
If we didn’t get an A on our history project, I would end up with a B as my final grade. Don’t get me wrong—Bs are fine, but I really wanted to make my parents proud, even with my whole life turned upside down. I hoped Damien would get the message and try to finish his part of the project before it was due, or my grade was done before I could say “hot chocolate.“
Chapter 2
Don’t Prank Your Leader
Damien
I hid behind a small bush looking for someone. That someone’s name was C. Top assassin and hit-girl of our level two class for kid assassins. That’s what they call her. I call her a bunch of names, including Plastic, Princess Plastic, Whiner Girl, and some others that would get my throat slit if any adult heard me.
In our organization, recruits are only known by the first letter of their names. Let’s just say that the first time we met, I ended up with a black eye and she ended up with a leg bruise. We were both five at the time, but she fought as hard as she does now. I remember going home with my whole head hurting once.
I honestly wonder how I keep this from my parents, especially when I come home visibly injured.
I saw C lurking about, looking for a sparring partner, but I had to stifle a laugh when I saw all the other assassins steered clear. They also knew her strength very well. Now that I think about it, the only other person who could beat her was our leader, Poppy.
Poppy (a codename) is a petite woman with delicate hands, but an attitude so strong, she would make all the Disney, Marvel, and Netflix villains cry. I’m pretty sure most of the cartoon villains are based on her. Most people who encounter Poppy at night don’t live to tell the tale.
Poppy is C’s mom, but I’m the only kid who knows that. I know for a fact that Clara is also here somewhere, but because of the rules ANW has, it’s ridiculously hard to find anybody. Meanwhile, I started looking for C again, but she had mysteriously disappeared like she does every night. I tried following her once, but Poppy grabbed me by my shoes and told me to get back to work. She could flip a whole family and not break a sweat, but she just held me up by my shoes and turned me upside down. The whole world went flying, and I think I nearly threw up.
I really wonder how people deal with Poppy when she’s not an assassin.
You’re wondering, What in the world is he talking about?
I’m part of this secret organization that trains kids to be assassins. Yes, kids. It’s called Assassins Nationwide, or ANW. That’s all you will get out of me about our purpose… Coincidentally, ANW headquarters just had to be in the woods behind my house. There is a secret road that every assassin takes through the woods. Once you enter the woods, you walk in for at least 15 minutes, and you have to watch out for booby traps. They’re just the usual smoke bombs, mouse traps, and flying axes. Nothing an assassin can’t handle.
It’s just an extra precaution, since assassins are supposed to be up and ready at all times. When you finally enter the ANW headquarters, you come upon a ground filled with sand, like the floor of a Renaissance fair.
Around the arena, there are khaki tents everywhere filled with assassin kids and teenagers going in and out. These tents hold weapons, food, and other amenities. The tents are arranged in a U-shape, with Poppy’s tent in the center. It’s similar to a circus tent, and instead of khaki-colored, it’s a deep royal purple.
Poppy’s tent is the neutral ground of ANW headquarters, and it’s like the counselor’s office at school, except instead of comforting advice, you find axes and swords hanging across the walls.
If you exit the tent area, you get to the combat circle, which is where most assassins train and hang around. You see nunchucks, arrows, and black eyes there most of the time.
The last circle after the combat circle has two very special landmarks. One is a small white podium, and the other, a large tower. To me, it looks like a large wine glass, even though Poppy said it’s “shaped like a golf tee,” whatever that means. I have no knowledge when it comes to golf.
Clara’s dad and my dad played golf almost every Sunday, and I was always there to pick up the balls and keep track of their scores. At first, being a gofer was fun, but that went downhill real quick.
I dodged a random sword and flipped over another assassin. Poppy interrupted the exercise and called to us. “Assassins! Older level twos! Make your way to the podium, now!” Half the kids on the ground ran to the podium. They ran toward Poppy, hoping to get a good spot near the front of the stage. “Level twos! Listen up! In a few days, everybody who is thirteen will be able to level up. Do you remember what you need to do?” Poppy asked, watching us like a hawk.
