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please Daddy and God, who seemed to be one and the same to her.
    The next morning, her mother solemnly came into the room with the dawn and sat down on the bed.
    Daddy had died in a car accident.
    Javier was a careful man and he couldn't possibly be killed in an accident. God wasn't finished with him; Daddy always said there was too much work to do.
    Her father's death didn't become a reality until the closed-casket funeral.
    She brought her doll with her to the funeral parlor, and in a fit of tears and rage, she bashed it against the casket several times in front of grieving friends and family. Her mother dragged her out of there, kicking and screaming. The doll was left beside Daddy's casket.
    She wasn't going to the aquarium with him, and would never go to an aquarium ever again.
    It didn't take too long for her to learn her father had been assassinated.
    After his death, her mother took her to live in the U.S. with family, and she learned to find comfort in violence.
    In the bathroom, she splashed cool water on her face and wondered how many people she killed. When the Spanish military kicked her out for botching a hostage mission in Afghanistan alongside other NATO soldiers, she was desperate for work, and was picked up right away by a PMC. Now, she made her living as a mercenary.
    She stared at her slender, well-toned body with its caramel color and hundreds of scars. Her nest of black hair fell just above her shoulders, and her wide, mousey eyes seemed too big for her face. She'd been shot twice beneath the left breast. The sad face of Mary stared back at her over a canvas of chiseled abs, a reminder that long time ago, she had broken her promise to keep the Sabbath holy, but she always kept room in her heart for God.
    She knew it was stupid to think about her father and the past, but this always happened to her between missions. The guilt of her own religious hypocrisy used to turn her into a puddle of tears while she begged for God's forgiveness.
    Vega was a sinner of the lowest order.
    "Come out here and look at this shit!" Miles called.
    "You know I don't watch cartoons," she replied to Miles from the bathroom.
    "I'm watching the news. Get out here!"
    She stepped back into the room and sat back on the bed beside him while spun a combat knife in the center of his flat, open palm. "Fuckin' unbelievable," he pointed at the TV. “In Detroit, a sick man walked inside of a bank and bit a security guard's face.”
    "So what?" Vega asked. "Turn this shit off."
    But she didn't move. Instead, she watched as the news reporter claimed the attack was the catalyst which provoked a round of riots in Detroit.
    Miles chuckled. "Well, we get to watch the whole thing on TV. Why don't we cuddle and watch the riots together?"
    She sat on the edge of the bed and looked into his cocaine-addled eyes. "I'm bored, and you're high."
    "What's your point?" his voice came from behind her as his rough hand moved along her shoulder blade.
    Vega tilted her head slightly to expose her neck, and she could feel him slide in closer behind her. The edge of his pursed lips brushed against the curved flesh that joined the shoulder to the neck.
    She shut her eyes and listened to the surreal, rambling newscast.
    A Detroit Tigers baseball game had been interrupted by the violence, and the city of Detroit was on fire.
    Miles's lips inched upward along her neck. Her muscles instantly relaxed, and she drifted backward into the sheets, her senses suspended in freefall. Her legs curled beneath her until he moved them aside. She became his doll, and she was posed at his whim.
    Vega could hear the disordered reports of looting and violence. She heard about children who disappeared. Her eyelids fluttered open briefly, and she saw the picture of an African American girl with a bright smile appear on the screen. The girl's name was emblazoned beneath her picture.
    SHANNA.
    IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION PLEASE CALL THIS NUMBER.
    She closed her eyes as more names were