D. K. Dailey - Golden Dreg Quake, Book 1, Golden Dreg World: Baby Box Assassin (Dystopian Post-Apocalyptic Young Adult Series)

Golden Dreg Quake, Baby Box Assassin is part of a three book series set in the Golden Dreg World.

Listed in reading order:

Book 1: Baby Box Assassin

Book 2: Survivalist

Book 3: GeniusConnect

Come along as the Golden Dreg World expands - look for additional series at online retailers and on the authors website and sign up for The Dailey Dose Newsletter for the most updated details. Visit goldendregboy.com OR goldendregworld.com.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text 2021 by D.K. Dailey, Golden Dreg Quake and Golden Dreg World are trademarks of D.K. Dailey, logos by: The Killion Group Inc.

Cover Design: Christian Bentulan

Developmental & Copy Editing: Razor Sharp Editing

Proofreader: Ladybug Author Services

Blurb copy: The Killion Group Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in articles and reviews. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the authors intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained from the publisher.

ISBN 978-1-952190-73-5 (1st Edition, paperback)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available Dailey, D.K., Golden Dreg Quake, Book 1 (Golden Dreg World): Baby Box Assassin1st edition.

Summary: In the future, an impending quake will destroy and divide the world and its up to former assassins and a few high school geniuses to pick up the pieces.

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On my self-publishing journey, I have built a team around me. Of which I am so grateful for. Id like to thank all of those people who have helped in the past and in the present on this journeyyou know who you are.

N ever leave a trace.

Gloved hands are the first step to leaving no trace. The supple leather caresses my hands like silkthe only thing that feels good in this moment.

Kill the intended targets and possible witnesses.

This guy I lie next to is definitely dead. And if there were witnesses, I wouldnt be waking up next to a dead guy.

No blood stains the gloves or me. His liver-spotted hands are chilly and stark against my dark skin, somehow yanking me back into his frozen hands as if he were still alive, still in control. I have to pry his cold, dead hands, finger by finger, from around my neck. Waking up in the grip of death sends a rush of adrenaline through every part of my body. My skin vibrates, my brain two times too big for my skull.

Untangling my curly strands of hair from around his bulky pinky ring takes entirely too long. With my gloved hands, I snatch off his ring and all my hair dangling from it and stuff it into my pocket. The patch where my hair was ripped out throbs. I wince but cant touch it with my gloves on.

The room is dark. A fancy hotel suite, that much I can tell by the custom patterned chairs that have been knocked over, the gutted silk pillows, the broken lamps and torn curtains bundled on the floor. Expensive white sheets cradle broken chandelier glass, as if someone took the sheets, wrapped them around the chandelier, and swung from it like a monkey until the light fixture shattered.

I gasp and cough, adding to the raw burn in my throat. Bursts of light and then darkness dance in my vision, swishing, blinking past like silver bullets. He choked me to sleep. I must have blacked out, but luckily a needle protrudes from his neck where I stuck him. Knives litter the area near us, which means there was a struggle. Killing with a shot of poison is always my last resort, an option I keep tucked away along with other weapons on my person.

My adopted father, John, shoots his targets between the eyes or cuts their throats; and Shawna, my adopted mom, uses poison. I prefer to be up close and personal. A merry family of assassins we are. But maybe I should rethink my method, considering a target nearly killed me.

I touch my neck, gasp, and gulpanything to ease the pain. My silver charm presses cold around my neck but I grasp at it anyway. The tiny heart charm is on backward. After swinging it around, I cup my hand around it for comfort. For a moment, my eyes close and Im not bothered by the dead body, only thankful that I am alive and he didnt break the only present my birth mom ever gave me.

Ive never been choked. Stabbed, shot, poisoned, struck with a bottle, dragged by the hair, beat up, hit with a car, yes, but never choked. The ghosts of his hands are still around my neck, cutting off my air, thinning my breaths. I cough, but it only makes my throat drier, makes it sting.