thanks, Tigra; over at Lucasforums where I am the resident critic I have few willing to tell me when I messed up.
Action Adventure / Heart of the Assassin (Analysis)
Heart of the Assassin
Now
I felt the trigger break clean, the gentle cough of the silenced weapon, the round already halfway to its target. The man fell forward and I waited a moment before approaching.
He wasn’t who I was after. Bodyguards cover my usual targets, and this guy had just accepted the wrong man’s money.
As often as you see it in the movies, a gun cannot be completely silent unless you accept some serious drawbacks. The bullet has to be sub-sonic so it doesn’t make a noise as it travels. That means you have to be a good shot. Second, you can’t use a revolver; the gaps in the cylinder allow the noise out. Automatics are the weapons of last resort, and you lose the ‘automatic’ part because the slide cycling first lets out noise, and even if it did not the click of the cycle would. So you use the slide block to stop it. Felt recoil is greater because the gas that would initiate the cycle has to go forward into the suppressor. You end up with a silent single shot pistol that has to be cycled by hand.
I picked him up, lifting the dead weight and leaning him against the windshield of the car he had been guarding. I crossed his arms, tilting his head down bent forward as if asleep or deep in thought, one leg bent on the hood, the other hanging down. To someone who didn’t expect trouble, he looked like he was merely relaxing. My opponents might be fooled, but if they were worth what they were paid, not for more than a second.
I slid out the Dutch made mini grenade, sliding it between his back and the glass, the spoon against his back. Then I eased out the pin. I had cased this job very carefully as I had been taught. La Rive Gauche was one of the best eateries in the city. Try a hundred dollar a plate dinners of rich French food. Imported wine that would pay your rent for a week, that kind of thing. It was on the third floor of the building, with a good view of the harbor.
I knew that because I had eaten there less than a week ago on my internal sweep. That was how I knew that someone eating even at one of the window tables could not see the street directly. There were only two ways out of the high-class restaurant, the main door, and the back stairs. I had this side covered.
I moved nonchalantly down to the alley, slipping around the corner then flipped on my Blackberry. I keyed in the sequence that brought the four cameras up. One covered the rear entrance, another the roof, the other two different angles on the car. I know that cell phone companies ban the use of their systems for this kind of work. I won’t tell them if you won’t. I waited.
The door started to open, and I saw one of the travel team guards freeze in the door then back up. Standard procedure, if switching from an enclosed space to an open one send one guy ahead on point at least five meters ahead of the principle. Anything wrong, he merely backs up, and you go for plan B. Or he eats it and you go for ‘run like hell’. There was a long moment then the same man came out of the door, walking rapidly toward the car.
My estimation of the competition went up a notch. They had obviously scoped out the rear entrance and didn’t like it at all. Narrow alley; forgive the pun but a straight shot either direction for 20 meters or so. The only cover was the two dumpsters one on either side of the door. Doable if you were up against one man, but against a team a deathtrap. When I saw the section of the Movie Sin City named the Big Fat Kill I knew what was going to happen to the mobsters.
Spoiled the movie for me.
But if they could get to the car, they might be safe. An armored Mercedes Benz would stop just about anything.
The man looked at his late partner, then nudged him. He had less than a second to realize that he had been booby-trapped before the grenade erased him from existence. I had replaced the standard five to six-second fuse with one out of a smoke grenade, which has a delay of just one second. Mercedes won the bet, because as two bodies were blown across the street, I could see that the car was dented and scratched, but the hood and windshield stood up to the explosion. I pressed the button. There was a thump of metal, the back of the car bounced once sharply on its shocks. An instant later the back of the car suddenly opened up like a flower of metal as the .50 caliber armor piercing bullet punched down, the depleted uranium exploding into a fireball engulfing the gas tank.
Like I said, almost anything.
I could almost read the team leader’s mind.
So there were two of us, eh? One close one far; now the back door must look pretty good. I drew my pistol, cycling it, catching the brass before it could hit the ground.
Now it was a toss up. Try the front in a rush, get to another street and grab a car? Or out the back like bunnies, run down it to the street and again acquire a vehicle? I was covered either way, so it really didn’t matter.
I saw the back door open, a head sticking out. A waiter. They had grabbed him obviously to shove out in case I was standing out there gun in hand like some idjit out of a bad movie. Then the waiter disappeared, and I saw the team leader take a quick look. He came out, his remaining partner popping out back to back, each aiming in opposite directions, eyes checking not only the alley itself, but the overhead too. You wouldn’t believe how many people die because they forget an enemy can be above or below them. There was a motion, and the target came into view. Pierre La Batiste, a mob boss of the Union Corse, the French version of the Mafia.
They started to move down the alley, one man ahead, the other behind looking at the back trail as they started to run. I pressed the second button. The three claymores I had planted went off pretty much simultaneously.
That’s right three. Two had been placed on opposite sides of the door on those dumpsters, the third on a trashcan across from the restaurant. 600 balls the size of a BB swept death across the two scenes, and all three went down in a bloody mass. I ran down the alley, turning into the crossing one they were in. I checked them all. If one of the guards had been alive I would have left them, but I wasn’t going to let them shoot me in the back.
All dead.
I walked down the alley toward the cross alley, and pulled the slippers out of my inner pocket. I took off the bloody shoes, slipped on the new footwear, and cat footed it down an alley to my car. I popped the trunk, setting the shoes on a piece of plastic, and took out the boots that were there putting them on. The bloody shoes were bound and sealed into a plastic bag. The police would know someone had run down that alley to the bodies. Any idiot in forensics could tell them how tall I was from the stride distance. But they would be looking for evidence such as a bloody pair of shoes.
I climbed in setting the package on the passenger seat, started the car, and drove.
First I stopped at the building where I had set up the Barrett a klick and a half away. Couldn’t leave that… I liked that gun.
I passed a trash truck five kilometers away on its route, and as the men moved onto the curb to pick up I flung the package into the open maw of the compactor, pulling off half a block up and waiting. They dumped the cans, one of them flipping the switch and the shoes disappeared into the truck’s back. There were fifty trucks moving around at any hour of the day or night, and they all dumped in the same landfill. What do you think the odds are that they might find those shoes now?
Good enough that I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.
I headed home.
Then
I was perfect for them. I had no family, no links to the world. I was a foundling who grew up in an orphanage. Unless you have spent time in one you cannot imagine what it is like in an orphanage. Picture the worst prison movie you have ever seen then shrink all of the characters to children from newborn to eighteen. Now consider that our only crimes were that we didn’t know who our parents were. The same stereotypes emerge, the same degradation, only writ small.
I was always a fighter. I fought back even if the size disparity was so great that I could never win. Picture a seven year old throwing himself at an older teenager like a wolverine. That was me.
When I turned ten I became smarter. As David Weber said in the book Crown of Slaves, if sheer righteous fury could accomplish anything worthwhile the wolverine would have inherited the Earth. It wasn’t that sheer ferocity would not succeed. But why throw yourself at the enemy, pinning his defenses so that others would win through? It is more satisfying to be the one who lived to gain all of those advantages. Who is better remembered, the ones who died in the battle, or those that survived Agincourt?
I became more like the shrew, an animal that must hunt just to survive. The same unquenchable ferocity in something that tiny should be amusing until you see them hunt. A shrew must eat it’s own weight every day just to avoid starving to death. A dime shrew, a tenth of an ounce will attack a mouse that weighs more than an ounce if the choice is death or survival. But it preys on animals sometimes a hundred times it’s own weight and must attack from ambush to succeed.
I would ambush them instead. Even an eighteen year old was smaller if they didn’t know you were coming. Soon the bullies knew that to mess with me was worth their lives. A couple of near fatal ‘accidents’ were enough to convince them of that. Yet I violated the hierarchy of such places. I did not myself become the new oppressor. I would remove the ‘king’ and leave the kingdom without him until another foolishly tried to take his place. Somewhere inside part of my mind all those years ago I had drawn a line through humanity. Above were those who needed to be protected, below those who oppressed, who were my prey. I was the sole being in my view who lived in that shadowland between being the oppressors and the oppressed.
Were my services necessary? Ask the oppressed, or better yet, ask the oppressor.
Before the original Gulf War, the army had a slogan; ‘be all that you can be’. You might say I took those words to heart. When I turned eighteen I went to the recruiting center and enlisted.
I was a terrible soldier. Within weeks of being assigned to a unit my sergeant was unsure what to do with me. It wasn’t that I didn’t learn or couldn’t understand the regimen. I soaked up why physical training weapons training, hand-to-hand combat and even small unit tactics were important like a sponge. If you looked at those scores I should have been assigned as corporal.
But if I wasn’t in charge those lives weren’t important to me. When it was ‘my’ fire team we waltzed through a sim with little loss. If someone else was in charge we won, though sometimes I was the last man standing. Others in the squad would try to convince me to work with them. Sometimes these ‘motivational chats’ would get ugly.
I dealt with them the same way I did in the orphanage. After the first month the ‘chats’ stopped.
I had a chance to see my psych profile from then much later. I was ‘unwilling to accept command authority’. I tended to ‘question orders from any superior’ and was ‘a loner’.
In a war, I would have been decorated with more gongs than anyone but Audie Murphy. In a peacetime army I was a bomb waiting to blow at any moment.
Then some guy with the Agency saw me. I was separated with a General under Honorable Conditions discharge, and my new life began.
The first thing you have to remember is that the CIA among other agencies are not allowed to assassinate the people they defined as enemies. Not since Gerald Ford signed the Executive Order in the mid 1970s. Have you ever wondered how men like Saddam Hussein Yasser Arafat and Osama Bin Ladon became dangers to America when the ‘Agency’ was supposed to protect us? Look to Gerald Ford, better known for disabling golf opponents than enemies during his tenure.
But there were ways around that stricture. The Agency created a school that trained operatives from around the world in diplomatic protection. Driving, spotting and eliminating the designated enemy. And at the same time, the faculty looked for people like me. Out of every hundred maybe two were tapped as I was. The others went on to do exactly what they were trained to do, freelance professional security officers. But those two percent…
Who better to penetrate such security than someone trained in its organization? Those special student were never trained in groups, once one of us was chosen, we received much more personal handling. A year of that, and I was ready.
So I was listed as a ‘security specialist’ and became by definition a freelance operative. But my job wasn’t protection. It was assassination.
I was once your government tax dollars in action.
It’s funny really. The Director of the CIA could sit in front of the Joint subcommittee and swear that the CIA did not fund assassins. Because my money came from where ever they needed it to shunt it. I killed two who were probably targeted by Health Education and Welfare of all people. They couldn’t go after the big dogs, but there were a lot of small mutts they could squash. I was trained to kill them from any range, with any weapon from the pen sitting on your desk to the Barrett sniper rifle that can reach out and touch someone two kilometers away.
They didn’t just pick me because I was good at killing; they also picked me for my looks and build. My hair was a sandy brown; light hazel eyes in a nondescript face. I could walk by you on the street and thirty seconds later I was forgotten. By using something as simple as contact lenses, glasses and parting my hair differently I could walk by again and you would not recognize me from before, and I was still as forgettable. If I added hair dye I was essentially invisible.
Once I had graduated. I spent five years operating in a lot of countries and meeting a lot of people. All of them remembered those meetings. At least for the seconds before they died.
But in one of those rare dichotomies while my skills made me one of their best pupils, it again made me a rogue. You see while to the military I was a loose cannon, to the men who trained us I was too moral. I wouldn’t kill on command, regardless of why. I loathed the users, the parasites, some of which are the best supporters of America.
People think hired killers are a rare breed. In fact we are not. It’s just a matter of quality versus quantity. 90% were what I can charitably call idiots. People who thought of killing as a sport. Have you ever seen a movie entitled ‘I love you to death’? The lower echelons are those types, fools that took payment for kills, but weren’t smart enough to keep their mouths shut afterward. The upper echelon are the actual mob ‘hit men’ that blow each other away in gay abandon and almost no efficiency.
Then you have those hamstrung by ideology. Whether by government or religion, another 9%, some are pretty good, but your targets are chosen because of your beliefs. Even timing is chosen by them a lot of times. So good men die because they ideology is different from yours, and for no other reason.
That leaves the 1% who truly are professional. People like me. The type of man I killed was more important than the money. I killed the users and abusers.
The Agency and I had a falling out of sorts right before the Younger Bush took office. So I left, and put up my shingle as it were.
Now
My pied a terre in Philadelphia was a small condo on the east side, about $350,000 worth even with today’s depressed market.
The one thing I had taken to heart; you need someplace safe, no matter where you were. So if I operated in a city, I bought a place there. None of them were ostentatious; the largest was a two-bedroom house on five acres in the Colorado mountains, the smallest a studio in Marin County. This one was a one bedroom with attached office. A Swiss bank that watched the local real estate markets handled all of them. If I retired, I had several million dollars worth of property that I could liquidate as necessary, and even in the worst nations all of them would go up in value rather than down. Me? I was merely Herr Marco Lauren, the real estate agent with an international portfolio.
There was only one thing in my apartments that went everywhere I went. A laptop.
I took a shower, toweling my hair dry as I booted up. The system I had was specially designed. No matter where I was in the world, customers could find me. Originally a programmer working for the NSA had done the programming. I wasn’t stupid enough to believe they would stay true in their loyalty to me. Sometimes throwing someone like me to the wolf-pack would salvage a political career.
So I went to a kid I knew from the home. He had ended up on the wrong side of the law because of his skills. So far on the wrong side that legally he couldn’t even touch a touch-tone telephone until he finished college.
For fifty thousand dollars he had decompiled the NSA program, then built an almost an exact duplicate. What he left out were any back doors or ways to access the system without having the unit in you hands. I had warned him as if we were still inmates, I mean ‘orphans’ that if I ever even thought he had added one of his own, I would remove the only person who could access it personally, and he believed me.
He had also created the computer equivalent of a suicide pill. Any attempt to access the system from outside, or putting in the wrong password twice set off an automatic reformat of the system. Even removing the drive would do that. As it booted up the system automatically checked all of the peripherals. If it didn’t have exactly the same hardware or software, right down to the battery, it would also eliminate all evidence. The system had been set to accept my own typing speed and style. I never learned how to type with ten fingers I had always used two though I typed relatively fast. So a skilled typist would set off the same alarm.
All they would get is a blank hard drive. I had promised if he kept his nose clean, I would let him do any upgrades. Clean meaning he might finally accept a Federal paycheck, but if he ever told them about me, he’d get a bullet and a shallow grave
One of the upgrades was the system used to allow clients to contact me. All of us had code names, but if you happened to put ‘Angel of Death’ in Google, you would find me if you followed the right links. ‘God of Death’ gives you about the same. Everyone in the know whichever side of the street they worked on knew that. It is the persistence that pays off. Each site had a lot of pages that lead to boring treatises about Azrael, the angel that is supposed to have been in charge when Moses struck Egypt with the last plague, to Pluto, god of the underworld.
But if you kept looking, all would lead to a button marked ‘contact us’. I got all of those e-mails through a maze of subsidiary e-mail addresses. Each would be encrypted with a special cipher. If you’re interested it is called a rotating dynamic random system. The cipher changed literally every few minutes. Without knowing the exact second it had been sent, you couldn’t read it without several hours of work with a Sun Microsystems mainframe.
Once encrypted they were sent, shunted here, shunted there, shunted everywhere… but finally to me. All required a ‘valid’ e-mail address for me to reply, and I would ask what they wanted. Those in the know knew they must specify whom they wanted dead. I would look over the situation, then reply with a price for my assistance. No haggling, no quibbling. Once I accepted, one third would go into my escrow account in Switzerland, the rest on completion.
Believe it or not, there are rules in what we do on the professional level. Don’t target each other unless we actively interfered. Don’t poach other professionals’ targets, don’t kill families and don’t kill anyone you weren’t paid to kill.
Of course there were those that thought ‘professional killer’ meant stupid. Hire you for the job, then kill you so they don’t have to pay. Or they hire someone else to kill you.
If anyone tried to track me down, they found themselves looking through a farrago of e-mail sites, none of which was my own. But every one warned me that someone was trying to back-trace me. I knew that because that tripwire was what told me when someone was trying to find but not contact me. Those that tried to find me met me on my own terms.
Not what an intelligent person would ask for.
The ISP automatically checked for anyone snooping around, then routed itself through a dozen different nets before accessing my mail. I sighed, sitting with a glass of wine, looking at it.
There were job offers galore. If I had been willing to kill significant others of sexual or financial stripe I could have worked 24/7. The assorted wives, lovers, business partners et al would have filled my days with bodies.
Those were for the idjits.
Then the ideological pleas. ‘Please kill [insert name] here because his death will help nation [insert name] here.’
Those were for the 9%.
Then the ones who lived only because someone like me had not yet been hired to remove them from existence. Parasites, monsters; things that belonged in whatever your religion’s version of hell was. Those beyond the law; beyond politics, beyond ideology, beyond something as mundane as love or money. They were my bread and butter. Not worth the powder that would put a bullet through their brains as people. But they had money, bodyguards, weapons, protection from politicians, even laws to defend themselves. They were not taken easily so they were premium price targets.
There was one. A weapons dealer deported back to France by the US in 1971. He still had connections, and through links to his own organization he supplied weapons to terrorists. He supplied them to anyone and everyone without caring who they might kill. He lived now in Marseilles, growing fat as people died everywhere. There was no proof he had done anything since. Middlemen handled everything. The US could not touch him, his connections reached even into the French Parliament and intelligence networks.
I looked over the situation. He had half a dozen of the local mob bosses in his pocket. They supplied muscle to protect him. The State Department’s ‘Special Ops’ section, those trained like I was had tried to take him down, and they’d left bodies laying across the Cote De Azure. Unfortunately, most of those bodies were their own men. They had failed miserably.
But while money will buy you out of any problem money will buy you a solution as well. A man’s son had become a victim of a terrorist bomb. A very wealthy man, willing to spend anything to have the weapons cut off at their source.
And he was willing to spend it, Try a million US worth. Two if you would videotape the target’s death by torture. I almost went past it. The rich man wanted him dead too badly. But I looked at it, and went over what my own files had on the target. While tough his security was not impenetrable. I could do it.
And if anyone deserved to die, it was Guido Camarecchi. He was supposed to be in Paris in three weeks for a meeting with his bankers.
I arranged tickets. Philly to New York; New York to London; London to Paris. I would arrive at least two weeks before he did, and have a chance to scout out the area.
Satisfied, I went to bed.
Now
Six time zones, eleven hours of travel. I arrived in Paris well rested. I almost always sleep on such flights. I had arrived and was through customs before I remembered the date.
17 July. A day I remembered very well. I found a flower shop, and bought a dozen Belladonna lilies. Then I asked the proprietor where the local cemetery was. As I rode the cab over, I looked at the flowers. Belladonna; beautiful lady in Italian. There is a plant by the same name that they used in the Renaissance to make a woman more attractive. It makes the eyes wide and doe-like. It is also a deadly poison in higher concentrations. The lily and the plant are not related.
I stepped from the cab, looking at the flowers for a long moment.
People like me should never visit cemeteries. We have spent so much time in our lives being the grim reaper the other side eagerly awaits our arrival. It wouldn’t be dying; it would be going home. If we were religious, we might even think that all those we had sent on were waiting; ready to drag us into a grave we passed.
But I had always celebrated her death in this way. By laying flowers on a grave; it didn’t matter whose. After all she never had one that I knew of.
I picked a stone that felt right, kneeling to set the flowers beside the grave marker.
“I know this isn’t your grave.” I whispered. “But when this day comes, I must mourn you.”
God I missed her. She had been my chance to walk away from my life, to be rather than just exist. I stood, then walked away from the grave. Ahead of me was a woman. She carried a bouquet, and paused, then knelt with unconscious grace to set them on a grave. I started to turn onto another path and I caught a glimpse of her profile.
It felt like someone had shoved a knife in my heart and twisted it. It couldn’t be her.
I didn’t change my course; I gave no outward sign of what struck me. I kept walking. At the next footpath I turned, looking at the stones as if searching for a name. I could see more of her face now, but still I didn’t react. It couldn’t be her. I picked up my pace, merely a man who had finished his family duty and now was heading home. I cursed that part of me that had hoped it was really her. I cursed my own heart, the one I was sure I didn’t have except for moments like this.
It couldn’t be her. Fujiko was dead. She had been dead for two years today. I knew it because I had heard her die.
Then
When you’re ‘working’ for the government it’s easier. Every expense is paid, you work maybe twice a year, because they don’t want you to burn out. But when you really start working on your own another set of statistics come into play.
The biggest problem with my job is you burn out fast. The average life expectancy in my line of work is five years. Either you die or quit by then. Some go a lot farther, but not many. It takes a special person to do this on the average of once every two months for five years.
A lot of them quit. The average payment per job is about $100,000 a job. If you bank it all - carefully mind you - and live on cheeseburgers, you have just under half a million at the end of a year, just under three million after five years. With careful investments, you can live out your life on that much money.
The rest die. The reason some die is they become so sure of their own superiority. You get sloppy; you get a pine box without a headstone.
Worse yet, you can get addicted to the kill instead of the hunt. You start enjoying that little squirt of adrenaline when you see the man’s head explode as a bullet punches through it.
Face it; you have those who get hooked on drugs, or god, or whatever you want to OD on. In my line of work, you get hooked on death as it were. You need that jolt to keep your heart going. Maybe you accept that commission where the buyer wants you to gut the man like a fish, that kind of thing.
After seeing what my targets had done there were times I was almost willing to send them to a hell where what I did to them before they arrived seemed tame in comparison.
But others… They get sick of it. You don’t want to pull the trigger, even when you know you have to. You hesitate, and again it’s pine box time.
I was at that point. Not that I had become sloppy or enjoying it, just that I was sick of it. Every death was a weight on my soul, dragging me down. What good was I doing? If you have ever read about Hercules’ labors, you remember the Hydra, a monster with nine heads, one immortal, the others dividing every time you chopped one off. Hercules succeeded by burning the stumps of the mortal heads, and burying the immortal one beneath a stone.
That analogy was almost perfect, but there is another way to look at it. If you have ever studied mythology, you might have heard of King Canute, a legendary Saxon war chief who thought he was master of the world. Someone told him that the sea was greater than he was, and for forty years, he went down every day to battle the sea, as he grew older and older.
I knew exactly how Canute and Hercules felt. Every time I killed a monster another would take his place. I could kill for my entire life and still be where I was this very minute. What was I to do? I did not have the strength or the infinite patience that admittedly rather stupid demi-god had. I also wasn’t as stubborn as Canute. I knew my work was a stopgap, nothing more.
I was starting to burn out.
*****
I had been setting up for a job in New York when I first met her. My target this time called himself the General. The highest rank he had ever reached when his little African nation was still a colony had been private first class. Back in the 60s he had been in the forefront of his people’s push for independence. The then president had promoted him to sergeant, then to captain. He had proven ruthless in carrying out whatever the president had ordered. According to the UN, he had been instrumental in the destruction of two entire tribes in his homeland.
The president ran afoul of a surface to air missile one bright day, and the new president had tried to purge the poisonous insect. The General, as he had started to call himself at that time then had begun an insurgency; a terrorist organization in everything but name. For twenty years he had slaughtered anyone who stood in his path.
The Security Council and General Assembly had been unable to gather support for official action. After all, the last time the UN had sent in troops it had been when they forced Katanga to remain part of what is now Zaire. The war dragged on, and the only ones who were enjoying it were arms merchants, and diamond smugglers who were selling hundreds of carats of ‘blood diamonds’.
The UN had sent in medical teams in the first five years, trying to undercut his authority. In retaliation, the General had sent in his men. The children recently vaccinated against ills children in other nations didn’t have to worry
It took less than a week to plan. The only time he was out in the open was when he met his girlfriend. I had a few days left before he would visit her again, so I decided to relax. My cover was as a post grad student. If anyone asked I could bore them to tears about levels of pollution from the 16th century to the present.
So I went to a nice restaurant.
Just having money and training doesn’t make you fit into the upper echelon who paid most of our bills, it is a matter of honing that training, using it to learn to fit in. I had learned to pretend to be the dilettante I appeared to be. I could out-snob a French maitre de, pick the best wine to go with any dish, sneer with the best of them. When I was working I was the part. I was not pretending to be that snobbish little prick; I was the prick.
I had gone to the restaurant primarily to maintain my cover. A spoiled little rich brat on the town. I had stopped for dinner, and was finishing my after dinner Armangac when I noticed Fujiko. They had come in as I finished my main course, the tall husky man with the almost miniscule Asian woman on his arm. From what I could hear she had a delicate accent, probably native Japanese. She was with the stereotypical boorish American. All he needed was gold bling to make him a lounge lizard.
He started an argument just after they had finished the main course and I had signaled for the check. It had begun as a low voiced disagreement and had reached the point where he was loud enough to disturb the other diners though her voice never rose above a low tone. The maitre de was headed over to ask them to leave when the woman just got up and walked out.
I paid the bill, and had reached the street when I caught up with them. He was beside a Lexus, and was berating her when I exited. From the commentary it sounded like the blind date from hell. He’d expected to get laid, and all that had gotten laid was his dreams. She still spoke softly. While his end of the conversation was loud enough to hear across the street, hers was not.
He stalked around the vehicle, climbed in, and roared off. She watched him go with as much emotion as she had shown inside when she had walked away.
I walked to my car, clicking the alarm off. Her head snapped around like a turret locking on target. I looked after the car, then my eyes came back to her. “It appears you have been stranded. I am going to Third Avenue and Park. Would you like a lift?”
She regarded me, then her head nodded gently. “Please.”
I walked around, opening the passenger door. She slid in all long leg and sinuous curves. If I hadn’t have business in town, I would have enjoyed this chase a lot more. As much as people concentrate on the end, I love the chase more. Like hunting, I enjoy the preparations more than the kill. I don’t get off on that perfect shot. If the prey was easy I couldn’t see the reason for it. I enjoy the stalk, finding the best place to make that shot from. Everything culminated in the clean break of the trigger, but if that was all you enjoyed, you missed the real fun.
Because my prey not only thought but fought back.
In sexual relations it was the same. I enjoyed the chase. It wasn’t the end of it that interested me. That didn’t mean I was a love ‘em and leave ‘em type. It was just that I wasn’t that emotional. Women would be around me then left, usually in puzzlement. I was there, but I wasn’t really there if you understand what I mean.
“Where can I drop you?” I asked as I started the car.
“4th and Park.” She told me. That is where I parked before…that.”
“I wish I could erase that.” I sighed. New Yorkers are almost as bad as drivers in Tokyo. A lot of my attention was ahead of me. But I noticed that she was watching me. “Bad enough that you have to meet the ugly American, but right in front of me.”
“I have found some Americans to be…kind.” She said.
“What did you think of the food?”
“Excellent, but overpriced by your standards. Nothing like I am used to.”
I pulled up at the parking structure, climbing out to open her door. She swung her legs from the car as gracefully as she had gotten in. I held out my hand silently, and she looked at my face for a long moment before taking it. She stood, about an inch shorter than I, eyes downcast. Oriental women not born in this country tend to be shy with men; their society makes them that way. But if they are attracted…
She looked up just a little to see if I was looking at her.
“If you had not just gone through such a trial, I would invite you to dinner another time.” Her eyebrow quirked. “Or make it for you instead.”
“Make?” A brief smile. “You are a cook as well as a knight errant?”
“Yes.” I said. “When I am not tilting at windmills I sometimes cook. But I need someone to cook for. Otherwise it’s just fuel, and I don’t care what I eat.”
“Ah.” I felt she was enjoying this as much as I was.
“But I specialize. I can make chili for any palate, though I like it rough. I make proper Chicken Kiev or Beef Stroganoff, and I can make spaghetti and mousaka.”
“Why proper Russian dishes but the others are merely named?”
“Because Stroganoff is properly served with Russian Fries or steamed potatoes while most Americans eat it over noodles, and Chicken Kiev is served a lot of times with noodles though is best with rice. Besides most Americans wouldn’t know a decent mousaka if it bit them, and think you can use any kind of pasta and still call it spaghetti.”
“I understand.” She considered. “I have never tried mousaka.”
“Stewed lamb over baked noodles.” I said. “Served with a salad topped by calamata olives and feta cheese.”
“It sounds… interesting. You said if.” She looked down, then back at me. “Is there a when attached?”
“I am free tomorrow.”
“I am not. But Saturday I am.”
“Then let us meet here. I live a block that way, and if you feel pressed beyond your wishes you are close enough to walk.”
“Agreed. Say eight?”
“May I ask your name?” I asked.
“Maritoko Fujiko.” She replied.
“Paolo Santos.” I gave her my cover name.
She nodded acknowledging our introduction, then turned going into the parking structure.
A proper dinner needs preparation. I spent an hour preparing it, making the stewed lamb from fresh ingredients. I spread it over the noodles, sliding the dish into the oven to bake. I hadn‘t spent this much time on preparation for about three years. I had a brief fling. She had seemed to be an excellent audience for a home cooked meal, but she had assumed dinner meant sex. When I had not ‘made my move’ she had assumed something was wrong and it turned ugly.
Picture the argument I mentioned above. Now place me in the woman’s place, and move it to an apartment complex hall.
So this is not something I did often.
I walked down the block, and she was there, a long black cloth coat shrouding her form. If it were a fantasy world I would think of a vampire bride or an Oriental Buffy the Vampire Slayer. She looked up seeing me, and turned. The coat was open, her hands deep in her pockets. Beneath it was a knee length chengosam with sandals.
I offered my arm, and she took it. “I brought wine if that is all right.”
“As long as it is a proper wine for the meal.”
“I believe it is called retsina.”
“You do know what retsina is?” I asked.
“A resined white or rose wine. Originally it was to make it easier to transport and store but now it is tradition.” Fujiko replied pedantically.
We walked down the block to my building. I took her coat, hanging it, and brought her into the kitchen as I made the salads. I motioned, and she sampled the olives as I opened the wine.
“A good choice.” I said, setting a jar of water between the glasses. “It’s not your everyday Kourtaki.” I looked at her, and she smiled.
“From a little village in Attica.” She acknowledged admiring the pale golden color and pine resin aroma.
“Very expensive tastes.” I said. Retsina is an acquired taste, like single malt scotch. But nothing goes better with Mediterranean cuisine.
I poured two wine glasses and we sipped as I moved the salads to the dining table. We ate appreciatively, making small talk. I found her grasp of history as broad as mine. Politically she was a bit away from me, though neither of us really liked the modern crop of politicians. Our tastes in music were so close as to be frightening. We both liked Fleetwood Mac for example.
Yes, we agreed, Mick Fleetwood would make an excellent president; as long as they let Stevie Nicks be his vice president. Better than the man jokingly called the ‘Shrub’ who now sat in that office.
She sighed as she finished her dinner, leaning on the table with both elbows. “Wonderful. My compliments to the chef.”
“Why thank you my dear lady.” I cleared the table. “I have baklava, though it is from a deli. My pastry leaves much to be desired.”
“I will let that slide.” She murmured in appreciation at the pastry.
I put the kettle on. “Tea?” I asked.
“Please.”
“It is in bags, or I can make a pot of green tea if you wish.”
“That sounds fine.”
I made the tea, and adjourned to the living room. She was looking at my books as I brought the tea service in. “Interesting collection. History, science fiction, fantasy, poetry… little else.”
“Not much else I am interested in.” I commented.
The evening wore on, both of us enjoying the small talk. I walked her back to her car at midnight.
We parted without doing more than touching hands. We met three times more and every time I felt closer to her. A woman with her own darkness I never got to penetrate. She would be dead less than a week after that first meeting, something that made every moment more poignant to me.
The last time we met, I hugged her. For a long moment, she merely let me, then her own arms encircled me and we stood silent in the early morning darkness beside the same parking structure. I felt at peace for the first time in my life.
She died the next evening.
Now
As I said above, the most fun is the stalk and set up. Camarecchi stayed in one of two places when he was in Paris. Sometimes, at the George Cinq near the Champs-Elysees, the rest of the time at a ‘cottage’ on the outskirts. Both had their own advantages, and disadvantages. The hotel was centrally located, more refined, and easier for his contacts to enter and leave. The sight lines were shorter and cluttered, requiring his security to restrict their fire. There had been one attempt to kill him there. Some idjit who thought doing good would carry him through.
It might have worked if the idjit had been willing to die.
If you have studied the assassinations of American presidents, you will see that all were carried out by lone gunmen. Let’s not look too closely at John Kennedy. In every case but his, the killer was usually within arm’s length. It is a statistical certainty that if you are willing to get that close, you can guarantee the death of your target. But only if you are willing to die yourself.
We’ll never know what the young man, Francois Lambier, was thinking. He had dressed as a waiter, walking down the hall in the opposite direction, and had stumbled through Camarecchi’s security line. For one brief second, he was there. All he had to do was draw his weapon and shoot his target.
But he was busy looking for an exit line, and one of the guards noticed it. He had started to draw, and was cut down.
The cottage was even more difficult. While called a cottage, summerhouse would be more like it. Five bedrooms, an office, dining room and parlor, carriage house, barn, usually six servants when he stayed there just for relaxation. When he had a meeting there were just his associates, and their guards. Nine when he and his family were there, thirty if it was business.
I drove by the land, looking at it from a safe distance.
The main building stood in the middle of fifteen acres of land worked by a local family. They grew walnuts, grapes for a rather interesting vintage, and grain. The family split the profits from the sales as if they were 1920s sharecroppers. This time of year almost half was under cultivation. That made it harder either to approach or to watch the approaches. A careful man could slide through the grain fields or the orchards, but a smart defender knew they could. The only way to guarantee getting to the house was straight down the drive, and that was a deathtrap. On top of that was a 100 meter circle with nothing to hide behind. An obvious kill zone.
I stopped at a small inn and ate a ploughman’s lunch, bread cheese and sausage washed down with a rough vin du pays. I could slip into the house, provided I did it before Camarecchi arrived. But could I stash something in the house they would not notice?
Of course I could.
But that was only one option. Never focus on only one when there are other possibilities.
As I drove, I happened to look toward the hills. Up there I could see a flash of light. The road turned, and I lost sight of it. If I had been working for the other side…
Disturbing.
*****
First rule of security, you have to understand the mentality of your opponent. A professional assassin must do three things, get into position, carry out the operation, and most importantly get out alive. So he had to know his target intimately. Looking from a distance to see the best approach or fire line. Checking the target’s schedule, knowing where the target would be, then choosing the best place for the kill.
As the person stopping him you have to extend your search further out. Is that hill within a kilometer and a half? Then an enemy can set up a .50 caliber sniper rifle. You set up a counter-sniper to take him out. Does the person have the proper IDs? That was the glaring mistake at the George Cinq; no one had checked the IDs of the hotel staff. I couldn’t use that route now of course.
So first you figure where he can be hit from, then you place teams where they can catch the killer. As much as it looks good in the papers to nail a killer while approaching, it’s more satisfying to dump the body of the one you never reported. After asking him who sent him, of course.
*****
I moved further back, considering. Let’s say he was really that paranoid. So sure that someone like me was already working out how to kill him. His normal schedule was a help to me and a hindrance to those who protected him. He had to be here at one time, here at another, and here to finalize whatever he planned. If his security had any real say he would be locked in the wine cellar on his estates and only allowed out on random weekends.
That didn’t mean they couldn’t cover him, only that if they wanted to cover every single threat they’d need a battalion of troops.
Of course that is an exaggeration, but not by much. Picture this; the next time you are out walking, stop and take a look around. How many buildings are high enough that the roof or top floor is in clear view? How many cars come by? How many straight lines can you draw from where you are to those places? Because to someone who is a target every one of them is a potential place for someone like me to be waiting. Why do you think the Secret Service floods any venue the President or Vice President are going to visit with hundreds of agents a week or more before he arrives?
But the only ways to guarantee nothing happens is to place agents in all of those places, or assure they cannot be used. So you check them first. By the same token, if you are the killer, you know where they might look.
I first divided the possible target venues. The cottage was first, the bank second, the George Cinq third. I set them in that order for only one reason, the amount of possible collateral damage. It is just a euphemism for unnecessary casualties, but it fit. A gun battle in a hotel would risk a half a hundred lives. The bank would risk maybe half that many. But if I had set up the hit at the cottage there would be little or no bystanders. Even if he kept the cook and a butler, that would mean only two innocents.
I picked some spots watching my secondary target; the bank where he kept his records and funds. First I checked the area using a map. If you knew what to look for, there were places to watch from there too. I placed ‘dime’ cameras at each, looking into the openings where someone would have to be to watch my possible approach. Then I considered that someone trained as I had been might watch from a bit farther back, and placed cameras there as well. All of them transmitted to a central location, and I could access up to twenty-four hours of recordings by accessing them. Also, the recordings were rigged so that any attempt to access them dumped them to yet another location and deleted the originals. I set up three such emergency dumps.
Before I made my reconnoiter the next day, I did some quick disguise work. Not much really, just some shabby clothes, an old shirt above faded denims and rundown sneakers. My hair had been slicked down with grease so that it looked as if I hadn’t washed it in weeks I walked the street past the bank; eyes downcast, one of the many lower working class that wander the world. I had a bag of food I had brought at one of the shops nearby with a copy of Le Figaro tucked under an arm, to all the world a man heading home after a hard day’s work.
The bank was on a wide street. It was a structure rebuilt to old standards, with guards who also acted as doormen. Inside I knew they would have much better security. When Camarecchi was in town his own men flooded the place and were armed well enough to stop a terrorist hit squad. They would have checked every building within a 900 meter standoff to stop someone from using an RPG, and within a kilometer and a half to avoid pesky little people with high powered sniper rifles up to .50 caliber.
I wasn’t going to attack him here. The sight lines were long enough for the weapons I have named, but by the same token they’d had years to figure out where to watch. My cameras were placed in four of those spots, each at different ranges.
I made only one pass. If I had made more I would create a pattern.
Patterns are important to a security officer. An enemy will have to check everything, and no matter how good his disguise, you will spot him.
Example, picture yourself standing on a street corner; your entire purpose is to watch the opposite corner. Record anyone who passes more than once. If you try it on a smaller scale, say for an hour or two, you will notice patterns. If you do it for days, they begin to emerge more clearly. A person will change his clothing every day, but you will recognize him from the way he walks, perhaps the way he stands. Maybe he reads all the time, or is impatient, looking at his watch. Not even training will change this. It is the nature of that specific beast.
I once watched myself in a ten-hour training exercise where I was reconnoitering a target. I changed disguises ten times during that period each disguise chosen by someone else, yet I was able to spot myself every time, not from the disguise, but from my own normal movements. It was sobering. If I had been on an op, I would have been dead.
I went back to my safe house, and waited. I had always enjoyed French wine. I poured a glass, and considered if this would bear any fruit. Were they going to check it that carefully?
The next morning I checked my traps.
Most of the recordings were empty or worthless, of course. A lot of the spots an assassin might pick were too close and easily monitored by the enemy. Three came up empty. The last though…
I saw the slight flash of movement, not enough to make you suspicious, then a hand, and the camera inside the door went out. I leaned forward, watching from the second camera. All it had caught was an arm in a black coat with a gloved hand. A few moments later, the second camera also went out. Whoever it was had seen the first camera before the angle could catch the intruder. Then the intruder had slipped below the camera angle, slid in and taken the second.
Classy work. This one would stretch my capabilities.
I switched to the camera outside. The figure approached slowly, extending a small hand mirror. All I could see was a person in a long coat and hair in a braided fall. Small, slim, a woman or a small man. The mirror disappeared, and the figure pressed into the wall. Definitely a woman. She reached around; feeling, then the hand came back, the camera, a device a cube only the size of a postage stamp clenched in the fist. Then it was slammed to the ground, and her foot came down hard, crushing it. Again with the mirror; now she dropped almost to the floor, scuttling inside. Very classy.
She came back out, and I froze the image, staring at the face.
It couldn’t be.
Fujiko, a look of concentration on her face looked back at me.
I definitely needed a drink.
Then
She had been pensive that last night we spent together. We had spent the day wandering. Though there was no way she could have known, I had completed my assignment the night before.
It had been a pain, but worth it from the aesthetics view. The General spent the night alone with his girl. No ifs ands or buts. The security men had prevailed in getting sheets of lexan to replace her windows, but they didn’t know about one pet foible of our friend the General. He liked to sit looking out the window as his girl serviced him on her knees. In the summer he did it with open windows. Only an inch or so, but enough for a shot.
I had picked the lock of the apartment across the street, less than 200 feet away a few days earlier, and watched him at his play. His security chief always stationed a man there. The man obviously forgot the first rule of ops such as ours. I had been in position an hour and a half before the security man arrived. He didn’t bother to check the owner’s belongings; after all it had been almost 18 months since the General had begun this little tryst.
When I slid the closet door open, the security guard was too busy watching the show across the street. He caught one bullet in the back of the head, and collapsed like a boneless puppet. Unlike the average revolver, which is made to point naturally, most automatics require you to learn to alter your grip to get the same accuracy. I had taken to carrying a Walther model 99. The design with the easy to modify grip made it perfect. Light pull, easy to point, easy to clean, highly accurate. A certain little techno-dweeb made a silencer that made it about as loud as a movie one as long as you kept the slide lock up. I pulled out the FN FAL rifle. He had made this one too.
The target was in the midst of it when I knelt, and put one silenced bullet through that black heart. The girl didn’t notice for several seconds. By the time she began screaming, I had gone over the roof to the next building, then another before I went down into the street. I had a gym bag with the rifle broken down in it. I pulled out my cell phone, dialing the contact number.
“It’s done.” I said.
“Good. The funds will be transferred by tomorrow night.”
I slept the sleep of the just. The next day Fujiko and I wandered the streets, seeing the sites. I promised her chili, and this time she got to watch me make it. The beans had been made the night before, and she watched as I diced tomatoes, fried shredded beef in chili sauce, then allowed it to simmer as I poured a beer into a glass. I didn’t drink a Lone Star. Instead I sipped a Newcastle.
“No wine?” she asked.
I gave her the look you might have expected. “You can drink wine with it.” I said gently. “But chili is proper with beer. Which would you prefer?”
She settled for red and I poured her a Rioja. She sipped the sweet wine as I mixed the meat and beans, spicing it, then let her taste. She gave a sigh of delight.
“Now that is the wimpy chili.” I said. I dashed some cayenne pepper on it, and a dash of habanera on it. “This is proper chili.” She took this bit with more caution, and I saw her eyes widen. I handed her a glass of milk, which she chugged.
“I think I will eat it wimpy.”
“Wimpy chili and wine.” I sighed, shaking my head. “I am spending time with a Philistine.”
She started to retort, but then she stiffened. Her hand pulled out her cell phone, and she motioned. I nodded, turning back to the stove as she spoke softly. I heard her sigh, and turned back. She looked sad.
“Trouble?”
“My reason for being in the city is over. I must go home very soon.”
“Must you?” I said softly. She looked up at me. “Fujiko, we’ve spent so little time together. I wish I had time to know you better.”
“I do not think you would like the person I am, Paolo.” She replied.
“I’d like the chance to find out.”
“There is still tonight, perhaps tomorrow as well.” She said after a time. She reached out, resting her hand on mine. “Treasure this time.”
Dinner was somber. I watched her, and part of me wanted to take her by the shoulders, shake her until she listened. Ask her to stay. No beg her to! I was sick of this and I had more than enough money to never work again.
I couldn’t see her eyes. She looked down, never meeting my eyes the rest of that evening. I walked her to the parking structure.
“Fujiko.” She stopped, turning to face me. “Please.”
“What, Paolo?”
“Come tomorrow, please. Give me a chance.”
She nodded, still looking down. I hugged her, and after a long time she returned it. I felt her shiver. Then she pulled away.
*****
I decided I would tell her the truth. Everything. Maybe she would accept it. Maybe she would walk away. But I was sick to death of killing.
I didn’t make dinner. I wasn’t sure she would be willing to be with me when she learned the truth. But if she did I had already decided we would leave, it didn’t matter where. Go somewhere we could be together.
I was impatient. The sun didn’t set fast enough as far as I was concerned. Once the money was in Zurich, I would be leaving town anyway. My cell phone rang, and I answered it.
“Mister Lauren, this is Herr Brinkman in Zurich.”
“I have been expecting your call.”
“Not this one, sir. Someone tried to access your accounts from America to withdraw the money in it. The code they used was the same one you gave us for the expected deposit.”
I felt a chill. Only two people knew that code. I was one. The other was…
I was still standing at the window when a movement caught my eye. Fujiko was walking toward my apartment
A car slammed to a stop, and a man leaped out, a gun in hand right in front of her. He drew down.
I was running toward the door as I heard three shots.
I didn’t wait for the elevator; I hit the stairs running, my pistol already out. I charged down the four flights, kicked out the fire door and raced toward the street. I saw the car race past, and turned at the end of the alley, punching the alarm button on my key chain.
It had been pure chance that I had hit the button so early. Chance and my fury saved my life.
The explosion lifted me up and away as my car exploded. I rolled with the force, tumbling like a scrap of paper before the wind.
I was on automatic. I scrambled to my feet and headed down the street. If this had been a normal situation, I would have completed the evasive action. A quick trip to the airport, use the passport I always had in my jacket. I would be half a world away before they knew for sure I wasn’t dead.
But I knew who had set this up.
*****
I gave them two days. Letting them think I was dead. I didn’t hide, I had checked out my employer just as efficiently as my original target. The new regime had its own enemies, and a desire for something more vicious than rifles and cannons. I had checked their operation out, and decided that their weapon of choice was poetic justice.
The embassy was a joke. Most of the African nations have associate nations that allow them to use existing embassies, like the Palestinians using the Libyan and Saudi embassies before they returned to their still embattled homeland.
But that little African nation didn’t have a lot of friends willing to admit it in public. The State Department had finally given them permission to use an entire floor in a small downtown hotel. I had checked them out when they had first hired me. Their security was not too shabby. A dozen mercenaries who were little better than thugs patrolled the floor with assault rifles. The ‘Ambassador’ was little better than the General I had killed. Another military man with delusions of competence.
I took the elevator to the roof, then worked my way down. They knew someone might attack; they had planned for anything from a lone gunman shooting from across the street to a full sized platoon level assault.
Their security was wired through the entire building, cameras on every landing of the stairwell, the fire escape, and the elevator.
A pity they hadn’t factored in someone like me. The same man that had built my laptop had given me several different programs for doing what he did, simple enough that even I could use them. One found their circuits connected into the building's phone system, another created looped tracks so someone watching wouldn't notice, and a third covered their tracks. All loaded into my Blackberry. I hacked into their security, and set up loops on every camera on the stairs. The only one getting a true feed from them was my Blackberry. There were cameras on the floor as well, and I watched the four mercs on duty. One was in the security room watching the monitors. Another manned the security desk right in front of the elevator. The other two were supposed to be patrolling the halls. Supposed to be was because one was having coffee, kicked back with a newspaper, the other had found a place to snooze.
I picked the lock and opened the door of the stairwell, looking out. The security room was right beside. Bad location, because the ‘panic button’ that would alert the other guards asleep in the room two doors down was in that room. I opened the door behind the guard on security watch and the gun hissed death. I stepped up, pushing the man back into the chair. I moved down the hall, taking out the canister. I opened the door of the barracks, tapped the button, and set it down as I closed the door. I could hear the hiss of gas as I stripped off duct tape to seal the cracks.
Then I walked down to the sleeper. He never heard me coming, and I left him unable to hear. The coffee drinker was next. I left him crumpled over his newspaper.
The guard at the elevator was the only one truly alert. He saw me coming, and started to stand, but he was outclassed. I shot him as I stalked past.
Then I dealt with the rest of the staff.
The first the Ambassador knew about me was when he came awake in his office, with me sitting across the table from him.
“Uh, we need to talk.” He started to say.
“Do we.” I replied. He watched me as if I were a boomslang.
“You won’t get out of here.” He blustered. He
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oneshot92 reviewed Version 1 -
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I understand the need to explain the silencing of the weapon, and you did make some good points. However, if you’re that concerned about the noise of the slide,you don’t use a weapon such as the Berreta 9. You would go with something like an HK or Luger. These companies make weapons that are made of carbon composite materials so that the mechanical noise of the weapon are greatly reduced. In the scenario that your character is in, he could be faced with multiple aggressors at any gives moment. That being the case, wouldn’t he prefer not to lose his option of speed that the automatic would offer? Just a thought.
Again, nice touch with the grenade, but did you consider the possibility of the body sliding free on its own? If this were to happen, the element of surprise would be long gone. Again, just a thought.
Need to give a better image of the scene outside the building. This was left vague, not allowing me to become involved with the story. I couldn’t see where we were at.
Also, if you’re going to use technical devises such as Blackberries to to interfere with security cameras, you need to explain just exactly how you pulled this off. Write what you know and know what you write. Any avid reader of this genre will pick up the lack of knowledge here. They won’t know themselves just how to pull off the act, but they will know that you don’t.
Very good with the SOP for protection detail. This shows knowledge.
You left out a third option. Stay in place and defend until back up arrives.
Claymore? That’s a pretty big statement. Why didn’t you just plant these in the front and give ‘em hell when the exited?
Okay. Opening scene is very messy. If you’re gonna make that much noise, why not just blow up the building? You really need to consider revising this. You showed good knowledge of weaponry here, but failed in tactics 101. Why not just use the .50 cal to take out the target? Unless wanting to make a profound statement, no professional worth his salt would make this much of a mess, and if that was the intention here, you need to state it clearly.
Perfect for who?
Now I know why the mess. Your character is an unthinking, loose cannon. The description you give of the seven-year-old throwing himself into the older teenagers is how a street hood starts out his life. Professional assassins are quiet thinkers. They use their minds to gain the upper hand—even as children.
Also, the whole orphanage thing—way over done. This is so cliche now that it isn’t funny. I would definitely revise this.
Now we’re talking. I love the shrew bit. This is wonderfully done and gives very good insight into the character, but one does not go from a wild suicide machine to this. The character needs to begin like this. Show how he uses his smarts and cunning to avoid larger confrontations, only to be successful in the smaller ones.
. I soaked up why physical training weapons training, hand-to-hand combat and even small unit tactics were important like a sponge. —This sentence is very awkward. Consider revising.
Again, not a good character profile for this person. I can understand the loner bit, but unable to take orders and deal with authority figures is not the making of an assassin. No agency would have picked this guy up for anything other than a suicide mission.
Instead of the general under honorable, I would have him die, only to reborn as a black operator. The agency is a fucked up place and this is how they do business.
What executive order did Ford sign exactly? Also, the CIA has been assassinating forever, they just failed to act soon enough with Osama. Stupidity reigns supreme in all agencies.
All of them remembered those meetings. At least for the seconds before they died. —No good. Lose this line.
Specify what countries and what people. This is essential for the character.
What exactly is a user and abuser. This whole paragraph is vague.
Explain the falling out. The agency just doesn’t let guys like this walk away.
How does an orphan get so good with computers? Again, you need to expand here.
I never learned how to type with ten fingers I had always used two though I typed relatively fast—I’m having trouble picturing this, and what I can see, makes me laugh.
Very nice work with the geek talk. The detail that you used on the computer networking needs to be applied in every other aspect of this story. This is what I meant by, know what you write.
People like me should never visit cemeteries. We have spent so much time in our lives being the grim reaper the other side eagerly awaits our arrival. It wouldn’t be dying; it would be going home. If we were religious, we might even think that all those we had sent on were waiting; ready to drag us into a grave we passed. —This is great here. Shows that he is human and has fear.
Nice touch with the mythology. It shows intellect for this character.
Picture the argument I mentioned above. —What argument? Are you talking about at the restaurant? That’s the only argument that I see.
The sight lines were shorter and cluttered, requiring his security to restrict their fire. —excellent detail here.
the next time you are out walking, stop and take a look around. How many buildings are high enough that the roof or top floor is in clear view? How many cars come by? How many straight lines can you draw from where you are to those places? Because to someone who is a target every one of them is a potential place for someone like me to be waiting. —Excellent. You just pulled the reader into the story. A little later than you really want to, but you did it.
Fujiko, a look of concentration on her face looked back at me. —Good Twist. Not set up the best, as I saw it coming, but good.
Okay, here it is. You show talent for this genre. I like the talk of africa and france. You write about these as if you know the places well. The romance with a twist was nice, but the opening was cliche and messy. You also need to work on your scenes some. Give the reader a more vivid picture of what is going on. You need to pull them into the story. Also work on making the character original. So far, he of a million other characters in books like this. Make him different.
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Tigra reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100% of the Item
Those special student were never trained in groups---students-—just a typo
So good men die because they ideology is different from yours—-did you mean their ideology?
without having the unit in you hands—-your (pg12)
Not that I had become sloppy or enjoying it—-or was enjoying it (pg18)
The children recently vaccinated against ills children in other nations didn’t have to worry—-there seems to be something missing here.
the almost miniscule Asian woman…She slid in all long leg and sinuous curves—-You describe her as being a tiny woman and then say she has long legs…did I miss something?(pg22)
If I hadn’t have business in town—-hadn’t had business in town?
The way you write is tight and keeps me on the edge of my seat…I want more of this awesome adventure. I only found the above errors and think this is ready for an agent to take a look at, no doubt he/she will be as captivated as I was.
Great Job
Tigra
noonnz reviewed Version 1 -
Read 8% of the Item
i like the use of some similes and imagery more than the decription of the particular weaponry. “opened up like a flower” for instance.
i feel the thrill of the chase has been replaced by a clinical view to the kill, like you would expect from a professional hitman. but i tend to think that this is more intended than a mistake.
moving from the warmth in detailing the weapons to the cold detailing the ‘kills’, i am more aware of the movement of the subjects than their feelings. again, i think an intended view.
all in all, it leaves a cold feel rather accompanied by an adrenalin-flush when read.
deathspeaker reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100% of the Item
page 1-”and even if it did not the click of the cycle would.” (comma after “not”)
i enjoyed the small tutorial about “real-life” silencer capabilities. While it does slow down the action for just a moment, it lets us get inside the main character’s head for a bit.
“I crossed his arms, tilting his head down bent forward as if asleep” (need a comma after “down”) -I’m not going to do any more punctuation notes, unless they are major. Please do a once or twice over on it.
“slid out the Dutch made mini grenade, sliding it between” (repetition of “slid” or “Sliding”. knock one out of the piece.)
page 2- you get more repetition here. Lots! You start too many sentences with “I” -I moved-i keyed-I knew. try and reshape the sentences a bit to get rid of some of these. (as a rule, repetition is bad. major repetition is horrid!)
page 3- “When I saw the section of the Movie Sin City” (no caps needed on “movie”)
At this point I am praying for dialogue, or soemthing to cut the constant streaming of a single characters observations.
page 4- still no dialogue or other character action. break up the tedium please, your reader will get bored.
page 5-”I walked down the alley toward the cross alley” (again, repetition)
page 6-I enjoyed the character’s description of the orphanage.
(breaking the page by page…as i don’t think you want 40 pages of notes.)
I like the way you summarized his life without making it too cliche’ or brief.
I am purturbed that I still don’t have a name for the character.
still no dialogue, still no name, still no real character description. (I’m on urbis-page 10)
“Belladonna; beautiful lady in Italian” (should be: belladonna; “beautiful lady” in Italian.)
Urbis-page 17. still no dialogue (which would have me selling the book to a used book store instead of finishing it, by now.)
YAY!!! dialogue!!!
I have to say, the dialogue is well written! Your characters have a solid voice.
“A professional assassin must do three things, get into position, carry out the operation, and most importantly get out alive.” I find myself wondering why this line isn’t present sooner in your piece.
I liked the little section where you engage the reader to look at their surroundings the next time they are in public. very dynamic (and something that will stick with me when I am walking in a busy intersection!)
the part with fujiko being gunned down in front of the apartment is the most dynamic and captivating.
Over all, it was fantastic. Maybe reshape the order of things to get us some dialogue sooner (since it is well done!!!) DEFINITELY go over with a fine tooth comb for punctuation, repetition and spelling.
thanks for the opportunity to read this.
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