The Assassin, The Agent, The Heir

The assassin had a job to do. He knew that, and repeated it over and over in his mind as he stalked through the gathering snow drifts close to the house. Despite the infernal white flakes starting to come down harder above him, this was a job he was confident he could execute. Sasha would be out by then, the children asleep in their beds, leaving him free to take care of his target once and for all.

It was past sunset, though in the winter that meant little. In daylight, the house might have been something to behold, but then, with most of the lights off besides those in the foyer and internal rooms, it was almost creepy - the slant of the snow-covered barn roof was ominous, the stone archways formidable. The assassin’s target was certainly a man of taste, if deplorable character.

Out of the corner of his eye, the assassin saw another figure approaching the house. This one limped a bit, like one of his legs was asleep, and appeared to be wrapped in a huge coat. The agent exhaled sharply through his nostrils and quickly ran through his story one last time before jogging over to the figure.

“Awful time to be out, huh?” he asked.

The other man nodded, continuing his trudge to the lights up ahead. “You don’t have to tell me! I just came off the road, it’s brutal out there.”

“You been traveling in this weather, too? We ought to get inside before we’re frostbitten,” the assassin said, seemingly offhanded, but carefully choosing his words. He didn’t recognize this man, but one in a profession such as his could never be too wary. Apparently they were the right words, though, since they earned a hearty agreement from the traveller.

At the door, the traveller stomped a few times to loose the snow from his boots onto the concrete steps. The assassin copied, dusting off his shoulders and shaking out his overcoat’s collar too. When the strangers knocked on the door, the assassin grimaced inwardly. He’d hoped to slip in unnoticed through a loosely latched window, but his plans were fast going south. A witness, an entrance through the front door, and the gathering snowstorm didn’t bode well for his hope of getting in and out quickly.

They were let in by a gangly young person wearing thin-rimmed round glasses and a navy sweater that complimented his lightly curling dark hair and warm complexion. He was perhaps twenty five, surely not more than twenty eight.

“Sorry to bother, sir, but we’ve both been out in the snow and hopefully you’d let us rest in here a while?” The traveller’s tone was respectful, though he had to have at least ten years on the door’s answerer.

“Er- Well, I’ll have to ask my father, but come on in for now,” the young man replied uncertainly. As if summoned, the assassin’s target appeared behind his son and sized up the two men on his doorstep.

“Welcome, friends,” the target said with a wide smile. “Please, come in. My name is Jeremy Hughes, and this is my son Sebastian. We’d be happy to have you both, you may stay here until this storm blows itself out. What, if you don’t mind me asking, are your names, gentlemen?”

The traveller gladly gave his name (Luke Burgess), and when Luke and the Hughes men turned to him, the assassin tried to remain casual in his delivery of a false identity. “I’m Ron Hoffman,” he answered, through barely gritted teeth.

“Hello, then, Misters Burgess and Hoffman. You’re just in time to join us for dinner.”

While the little party awaited the arrival of the others who’d be dining with them, their host insisted that the two that had been outside leave their coats to dry and stand in front of the house’s main fireplace, in hopes of warming up. For the assassin, this meant that keeping his weapons concealed would be that much harder. His overcoat covered the bumpy surface of the belt underneath his vest nicely. With the coat gone, the assassin felt more than a little exposed. He prayed that the strange look of his clothing would be chalked up to a rough journey, and nothing more.

“Mr. Hughes?” The assassin’s head jerked up at the sound of the voice. At the top of the stairs stood a young woman wearing a gray dress, followed by three broad-shouldered men in dark suits. Her hair was different than the last time they’d seen each other, but there was no mistaking her. “Would you like me to tell Mrs. McBride that we have two more joining us for dinner?”

The house’s owner waved a hand negligently. “No, no, I’ve already taken care of it. Come, sit with us a minute before we go into the dining room, Miss Olson.”

“Sir, I don’t think that’s part of my job description.” But one of the suited men, bodyguards, he guessed, nudged her down toward them.

“There’s a good woman,” the elder Hughes said. “Gentlemen, Isabella Olson, from Hughes Engineering’s legal team. Or something. What is it exactly you do, dear?’

‘Isabella’ chose a seat on my left side, as far away from Jeremy as possible in the parlor, and offered a tight smile. “Mostly just busy work for your legal team, sir.”

“She was supposed to be leaving today, actually, but I insisted she stay. There’s a real storm brewing, I didn’t want her to get caught out in the middle of that.” Hughes clapped his son on the shoulder. “This one was leaving, too, but as his old dad I’d prefer he didn’t, either.”

“Hughes Engineering?” Luke asked. “You’re the J. Hughes?”

“The very same,” he responded proudly. “I built my firm from nothing, now we’re the top engineers in the state- in the whole South, I'd wager.”

Burgess was obviously impressed, so the assassin made an effort to look awed as well. At the moment, however, he was worried about Isabella Olson - or Sasha Petroff, the agent that had been placed undercover to observe Mr. Hughes before the assassin was sent in. There was no telling how long it would be before the snow melted enough for both agents to leave the house, which meant it could be days before the mission was actually carried out.

“Miss Olson?” The younger Hughes had caught her slipping away toward what the assassin assumed was the kitchen.

This upset Jeremy Hughes considerably. “No, don’t disappear just yet, Isabella. You’ve got to eat with us tonight, you’re one of our guests, after all.”

Her face was flushed a shade of pink that the assassin knew was a forced reaction. He hoped for a moment alone to speak with her, and make a plan. But he had no such luck, because suddenly Hughes proposed that they make their way to the dining room, and stood up to make his point: that they were moving whether everyone liked it or not.

A high vaulted ceiling and a long table, set for five, were the main features the dining room boasted. When the group reached the table, Hughes began directing them to their seats. On one side, the assassin, Hughes himself, and Luke Burgess. On the other, Sasha (“Isabella Olson”) and Sebastian Hughes. As soon as they were all seated, the assassin felt a series of pressures applied to his foot by a high-heeled shoe. Short then long, long, long, three long in a row, one short, then short, long, short, short. Agent Petroff, spelling his name in Morse code.

Joel, her shoe said. Couldn’t get out. Sorry.

The assassin acknowledged her message with a small incline of his head. The taps began again.

Right knee. Move.

Questioning this a little, he scooted his right knee away from Hughes (he was seated at Jeremy’s left hand) as much as he could. Then it hit him. Of course. Her hands seemingly rested in her lap, but in actuality were pointing her gun, formerly holstered agains her thigh, at Hughes in case things went awry. Joel slowly eased his own weapon from underneath his vest and aimed it to the right, at the businessman’s body. If he had to fire from that angle, Luke Burgess would most likely be collateral damage, but he was a witness anyway. 

The assassin tapped his own foot on the floor next to hers. Three bodyguards. Don’t know where they went. Above the table, she locked eyes with him and nodded slightly. Under the table, he felt her kick off her shoes in case they had to fight their way out.

“So, what’s next for Hughes Engineering?” Burgess asked both Hughes men. “Any big projects coming up?”

“Well, I’ve designed a few things - nothing that could be widely produced, though. Son?” Hughes grinned like the Cheshire Cat at Sebastian, who swallowed nervously.

“He’s drawn up plans for a weapon of mass destruction,” the kid blurted, to his father’s dismay. “It’s like a comic book, or something. Insane, really.”

The assassin’s eyes darted from Jeremy to Sebastian and back again. “What?”

“I gather that the FBI didn’t tell you that,” the older man said, a dangerous look on his face. “Or the CIA, or whoever sent you.”

In an instant, both agents leapt up from their chairs, guns trained on the businessman. As soon as they did, the three suited men Joel had seen earlier entered and beelined for Sasha and himself. The man in the lead threw out a punch, which Sasha ducked easily. His momentum carried him past her and she delivered a kick to his face then flung him onto his back, hard. The second bodyguard landed a blow to her abdomen, then another in quick succession, but one the third swing she caught his arm and twisted it behind his back. For half a second her legs swung around his neck, then his face was in the carpet. Sasha knelt beside the two felled men and stabbed needles into their thighs, their muscles relaxing immediately. The assassin still held Hughes at gunpoint while all this went down, and tried to warn the other agent, but it was too late. The third man had gotten her into a headlock and held tight, effectively cutting off her airway. Fighting for breath, she tried to step back and lock his leg to throw him over her shoulder, but she was significantly smaller than him so this proved to be challenging. Face turning bright red, she finally managed to snatch a fork from Sebastian’s place setting and shove the prongs deep into her detainer’s hand. He roared in pain and the moment he released her, she vaulted over the back of a chair and used it to sweep the bodyguard’s feet out from under him. Keeping a foot on his chest, she jabbed him with the knockout serum too.

“Oh, God!” Luke Burgess yelped. “What’s going on?”

“You too, Isabella? That’s a shame, I liked you,” Jeremy lamented.

“It’s not personal.” She turned to Burgess and the young Hughes, who had retreated to a corner of the room during the scuffle. “Do you think you can get out of here? Mr. Burgess, the road may be slippery, but it’s important that you get as far away as possible and forget you ever saw this.”

The unlucky guest nodded, eyes wide with fear, and scrambled toward the door.

“And me?” Sebastian asked.

“You too.”

He followed Luke without another word, but looked back over his shoulder at Sasha after a few steps. “You’re going to kill my dad?” 

Sasha confirmed his statement with a quiet “yeah,” and the heir made his exit. The agent returned to the table, picked up her weapon that had been discarded in the fight, and aimed it once more at Jeremy Hughes.

“Your fighting style’s a little more acrobatic than I remember,” the assassin quipped.

“A lot’s changed since Barcelona,” she replied. “Now let’s get rid of this guy, he’s caused us a lot more trouble than he’s worth.”

“Ah, but Miss Olson - or, Agent Olson?” Hughes interrupted. “I’ve seen what you can do now. Why aren’t you going to be the one to kill me?”

“Because it isn’t my job,” Sasha snapped, holding her gun in her left hand and her shoes in her right. “I’m ready to get out of here, too, so if this can wrap up any faster that’d be great.”

“But you seem… better suited to the task, than this fool who stood here and watched while you took down three of my best men.”

Some muscle in her face twitched a little, and her gaze flicked to Joel. “He was assigned to actually take you out, I just went undercover. My part here was done this morning when his order was given.”

“Yet your job cleared the way for him to do his. It seems to me that you’ve done most of the work here,” he continued. Both agents could see that he was trying to manipulate them into turning against one another.

Neither would take Hughes’ bait, however. The assassin hit him across the brow with the butt of his gun to shut him up. “No one’s falling for it, Hughes. She’s like a sister to me.”

“He’s here to kill you, I’m here to make sure he does.” She watched as the man dragged a finger across his bleeding forehead and winced, unamused.

“Maybe,” Jeremy Hughes said, with a short cough of madman’s laughter. Bright scarlet blood gushed from the gash on his temple and down into his eyes when he raised his head to address the assassin and the agent directly. “But first, let’s finish dinner.”