The Assassin

The Assassin.

For the third time, Gregory opened his bag to check his equipment. His touch lingered on the silk cord, thick and ominous as a hangman’s noose, and the duct tape lying beside it. His camera had a fresh roll of film and was ready for action.

His fingers caressed the sheath of Betsy—a Hibben Survivor knife with a blade that gleamed with ten inches of deadly promise.

He patted his trouser pockets, ensuring the handcuff key rested within their depths.

Anticipation made his hands shake as he lifted the cup of coffee to his mouth. He focused his eyes on the door and glanced down at his watch.

She’s late. I hope nothing has happened to her.

Only a heartbeat passed before the cafe door creaked open, and she stepped in with effortless grace. She entered like a breath of fresh air, stirring the stagnant afternoon ambience. She scanned the room, her steps light and careful like a timid mouse. Her golden, wavy hair cascaded down her slender frame, each silky strand catching the muted, ambient light. Each lock shimmered as if spun from pure sunlight.

I wonder why such a beautiful woman lives alone.

As she glided further into the room, Gregory’s gaze landed on her legs—long and lithe—they might have been sculpted by an artist’s hand. They were legs men went to war over—they promised paradise. It was such a shame. So young and so beautiful, but he had a job to do. He needed money.

The clink of crockery echoed around him as his senses tuned in to her every movement. The subtle rustle of her dress against her skin was a siren song he couldn't ignore. He could almost smell the faint floral scent of her perfume wafting through the air towards him—sweet jasmine mixed with something more exotic.

She moved with an ethereal grace making his heart pound as though it sought to escape his ribcage. But beneath his fascination lurked a thrill of anticipation, mingled with sorrow.

The barista, a face he recognised, stretched her arm across the counter to deliver the usual order. The espresso sat in its petite cup, dark and brooding like a stormy night sky. Steam curled up from its surface, carrying a captivating blend of bitter and sweet aromas dancing like an enticing waltz. On a separate plate rested a slice of cake—its sugary frosting shimmered under the cafe’s soft lighting like dew on a morning leaf.

He studied her movements, as she swept her gaze around the room—eyes darting around like a sparrow in flight. She absorbed every detail of her surroundings without making direct eye contact with anyone.

Men occupied various tables, their hushed whispers blending with the subtle chime of silverware on crockery. A ripple of unease appeared to pass through her as she tightened her grip on the plate and coffee cup. Her knuckles whitened under the strain, betraying inner turmoil contrasting with her composed exterior.

With cautious precision, she weaved through the labyrinth of tables towards her haven—a secluded corner spot that offered refuge from prying eyes. Every step was deliberate and calculated to avoid drawing attention to this ocean of unfamiliar faces.

Gregory could almost hear the syncopated rhythm of her heart pounding with each tentative footfall echoing off the cafe floor.

The timidity radiating from this woman was clear—it filled every inch of space between them and spoke volumes more than any conversation they might have had. He continued watching as she navigated this public sphere with such visible trepidation, emboldening him even more.

He had researched her movements for several weeks. He knew her routine perfectly. She would finish her coffee and cake and begin her walk home, her eyes darting around nervously as she left the village and walked down the lonely lane leading to Fordwich and her cottage, nestled in the trees.

He would follow her to her dwelling, miles away from any neighbours. The isolation was so profound that he knew any terrified screams would ricochet off the expansive wilderness, swallowed whole by its vastness.

He fantasised about Betsy’s ten-inch blade as it would flicker in the dim light, sending tendrils of terror down her spine. She would first beg and then submit—in the vain hope he would spare her life after he was done.

It was the same reaction he’d seen in those who had come before her—a creeping dread and resignation that painted their faces in awful anticipation.

He could visualise her lips pressing into a thin line, swallowing hard against fear clawing at her throat. A silent prayer would appear to escape with each ragged breath she took, pleading for life beyond this petrifying moment.

It was such a shame to kill someone so young, innocent and beautiful, but ten thousand pounds was a lot of money. It must look like an accident, they told him. A robbery gone wrong or a rape and murder. The instant he saw her, he knew it would be the latter of the two evils.

She finished her coffee and stood, her chair scraping against the tiled floor as she exited the bustling cafe. He lingered for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on her retreating figure until she disappeared around the corner. With calculated caution, he rose from his seat, giving her a head start before slipping out himself. Keeping a cautious distance, he shadowed her path, blending into the darkness as he maintained a watchful eye to avoid raising suspicion.

God, is she gorgeous or what? It’s such a waste.

#

Exiting the cosy cafe, Kumiko’s steps echoed on the pavement as she embarked on her journey homeward. The chilly night air nipped at her exposed skin, raising goosebumps on her legs.

Every few yards, she paused, her ears attuned to the faintest of sounds. She scanned the gloomy street behind her with unease prickling her senses. The distant hum of traffic mingled with the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze, creating an eerie backdrop for her solitary walk.

A flicker of movement in the shadows heightened her suspicion that someone was lurking behind her again. This familiar sensation of being pursued heightened Kumiko’s senses. However, she maintained her steady pace, each step echoing louder in the silent night as she pressed on towards her house.

Arriving at her home, she approached the weathered wooden door, its paint chipped from years of wear. She slid the key into the Yale lock, feeling the metal edges against her fingertips.

With a gentle twist, she turned the key and pushed open the front door, revealing the dark interior. As she crossed the threshold, the cardboard strip wedged in the doorjamb slipped to the ground. It landed with a quiet tap on the polished wooden surface.

The scented lavender air freshener wafted towards her, mingling with a hint of mustiness that clung to the air.

Inside the door, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, taking in the familiar sight of her living room. She pressed the switch and a soft glow emanated from a lone lamp in the corner, casting long shadows across the floor.

So, no one came in this way.

She stepped inside and calmly checked each room. The familiar scent of polished wood and faint traces of the scented candle hung in the air of her bedroom undisturbed. No signs of forced entry—every piece of furniture sat in its rightful place. A sense of relief washed over her as she noticed the untouched array of photos on the mantelpiece, their smiles frozen.

Venturing into the kitchen, she ran her fingers over the cool marble countertop. The refrigerator hummed in the corner, a comforting sound that spoke volumes about normalcy. She swung open its door, revealing an array of stacked groceries bathed in cold light.

Pouring herself a tumblerful of fresh orange juice, the golden liquid swirled around the glass walls. Lifting it to her lips, she took a sip and tested the tangy sweetness spread across her tongue—a small but significant victory after another boring day.

She placed the glass on the polished parquet floor. Opening a cupboard, she removed and unfurled her crimson meditation mat. After lighting an incense burner, with graceful movements, she shed her attire down to a delicate lace bra and matching panties before easing her toned and athletic body into the Lotus position.

The room enveloped her in a tapestry of scents—the subtle aroma of sandalwood incense mingled with the fresh aroma of pine trees from the open window. As she closed her eyes, the lamp’s soft glow painted patterns of light and shadow across her serene form, as she delved into a deep state of meditation. The sound of the replaced cardboard falling onto the floor caught her attention.

With a fluid motion, she rose to her feet.

#

Gregory crept toward the quaint cottage, the scent of pine trees lingering in the crisp night air. As he reached the window, a soft glow spilt out from within, casting shadows on the dew-kissed grass. Peering through the glass, he spotted the woman seated gracefully on a crimson mat, her eyes closed in serene concentration. The lamplight danced across her peaceful features, illuminating the tranquil aura that enveloped her like a protective cloak.

I wish I could take her back to Venezuela with me. It’s a terrible waste, but I have my reputation to consider.

A grin spread over his face as the piece of cardboard fell from the door. With silent steps, he crept through the dim hallway towards the living room. Watching a woman’s face when she caught sight of his shining blade always gave him pleasure. Gripping his weapon, he kicked open the door and stormed into the room, his knife held high where it would cause the most terror.

The violent impact against his left shoulder and the crack as his clavicle broke came as a total surprise. Unprepared, he was flung back along the passage as if a truck had hit him. The pain in his shoulder was incredible. He couldn’t move his arm. The woman in her underwear moved more gracefully than any ballet dancer. He thrust his blade at her, his voice screaming with torment and anger. “I’ll kill—”

The kick smashed into his right kneecap, making him screech with pain as he tried to take a step towards her.

He jabbed at her again with the knife, but what felt like an iron bar slammed into his forearm. Instead of moving away, she closed the gap.

Her palm strike shattered his nose and front teeth. His vision blurred, and he dropped the knife. As it fell from his grasp, his world turned in slow motion.

The blade tumbled groundward like a shooting star, falling from the heavens through space and time. Disoriented and terrified, he clung to the wall in an effort to remain upright.

It’s only a woman!

As he staggered forward, coughing and choking, a fourth strike hit him, smashing him back into the wall again.

The crack of his broken ribs sounded like dead branches breaking from a tree. His mind refused to believe what was happening to him. No woman could move so fast or strike so hard. How dare she treat his blade with such blatant disrespect?

Another blow to his right hip smashed the joint. He fell to his knees, blood pouring from his mouth and nose. The woman stood before him. A smile on her face.

“What took you so long? I’ve been waiting here for you for six weeks. 

The woman was dominant in a black abyss of pain. A vast swamp of agony encompassed him. Betsy lay only inches from his hand.

She’s only a woman.

A smirk curled the corner of her mouth. “Go on, pick it up. I dare you.”

Crimson blood oozed from his swollen lips. His sight was fading, and he had serious trouble breathing. “Fuck you, bitch.”

Her laugh was more of a giggle. “I’m sure you’d like to, but today is Friday the thirteenth. Unlucky for some, I guess.”

“Go to Hell.”

“You first. Give my regards to the other government hit men down there.”

His breath came in gasps, darkness encroached on the edge of his vision. Now he knew why the reward for the job was so high. “What are you?”

“Death to scum.” Her kick knocked him backwards with a grunt of pain. His sternum splintered from the enormous force of the blow. The bone shot through him like a fragmentation grenade. From where he huddled against the wall, he stared into eyes of stone, lacking compassion. The last thing he saw before the final blackness was her satisfied smirk.

She checked his pockets, removing his papers, wallet, and Venezuelan passport. Her eyes widened when she read the reward on her head.

After dressing, she ran into the bedroom and pulled a case from under her bed. Inside was a notebook and a frequency-hopping radio. Opening the notebook revealed a list of eight names. She crossed Gregory’s name off. It only left two.

She pressed the call button. The radio came to life. “Falcon One. Report. Over”

“Ninja One. Mission accomplished, send cleaners. Six down, two to go, Returning home. Out.”

She dropped the would-be killer’s papers, passport and wallet into her bag, picked up her case and left the house, vanishing into the woods like a shadow. It was only a three-mile walk to Canterbury where her car was parked.