by Declan Finn
And on that day, he wouldn’t have cared.
But on that day, they didn’t either.
And they will burn. I swear, Peter, they will burn.
Chapter 10: The Ninth Circle
Even after everything you’ve been taught, if you do not use your mind and discipline to focus your body, then it will make no difference - you will be unsuccessful, Kyle. I taught you well enough to know that there are certain things that an Assassin never does. Lying to another Assassin, even a Trainee, is one. The other is that we never betray our Brothers and Sisters. Never forget that.
Peter Hur, 2089
February 1st 2094
Kyle Elsen sat across from Major Antonio Rohaz, gun in his lap.
“I’m sorry,” Kyle said. “I should have seen this. This explains things that I…should have been able to piece together myself. They were mysteriously well-prepared, from what I could tell.”
Rohaz arched a brow. “You don’t have any security footage?”
“What security we have was turned off beforehand. Apparently, it was shut down before Master Hur went to visit you. But why would they not have told me about this?”
Major Rohaz stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. “Even if they had evacuated, they would have left people behind to lay down cover fire—would you have evacuated, or stayed behind?”
Kyle blinked. “I would have stayed, and killed all of you.”
Rohaz smiled. “So he heard what I had to say, and I assume that he sent you to a contract in another part of town.”
A nod. “He did.”
“Peter loved you. He would have wanted you to live.”
Kyle blinked. “Oh.”
Rohaz nodded sharply. “I’ll make an appointment to have Derek Ruedés train someone. Will ten o’clock tonight be okay? I know some charming dark alleys to meet him in.”
“Of course. Thank you. For this. And for what you did that day.”
Rohaz’s smile flickered. “Of course. May I ask what you’re going to do to Derek when you find him?”
“I will hurt him.”
***
Derek Ruedés walked into the studio cautiously, as he always had. He may have been thrown out of the Assassin’s Guild, but it wasn’t because he was stupid. Bad-tempered, lousy at tactics and planning, but he wasn’t stupid. He actually excelled at hand-to-hand combat, and could cut through a horde of Corporate Raiders with just a Recon-1 tactical knife and a banana. And he knew how the CEO of the Mercenaries didn’t like him very much…and that was putting it mildly.
He stepped into the training facility, which was basically just a glorified gym with an over-large mat area. The mat was about 20’x30’, and a standard blue color, though it had seen better days. Someone had either replaced it or flipped it over. He had to remember to replace it before the stuffing was really knocked out of it.
Derek stepped forward, looking around. Either he was early, or the person he was supposed to train hoped to get the jump on him. He didn’t see a trap, but that was usually the point, wasn’t it?
One of these days, I’m going to stop being so paranoid. And I’ll be dead five minutes later. Derek stepped onto the mat, and it didn’t feel any different from normal, so no one had messed around with it. He had always wanted to see what would happen if someone put a pressure plate under this thing. It would probably end with a whole new meaning to the old song “It’s Raining Men”.
He took a few more steps, and sighed, relieved. Derek moved into the center of the mat and started to stretch, beginning with a full split.
Unfortunately, he could do a full split. Because his crotch hit the mat, and then he heard the click.
Derek sighed. Yup, this sounds like my luck.
“Okay,” he called out, “should I even ask how this should go, or should I just roll off the plate and put one of us out of our misery?”
“Hello, Derek.”
Aw, crap. Derek cleared his throat. “Ah, Kyle, how’s the second-best assassin in the city doing?”
Kyle stepped through the side door of the gym and took a look at the traitor. Derek had seen better days. His body had always been whipcord thin, and his face was handsome… Or so Kyle had been told. Derek’s blond hair had grown so long it needed to be pulled into a ponytail, and the bright blue eyes looked like there was a chemical addition to the brightness. Derek’s left arm was a mass of weapons scars, probably from training with all the mercenaries over time. And there was some additional scarring on his face that gave him more character than Kyle remembered him having.
“Derek,” Kyle said casually and calmly, “I think we need to talk.”
Derek rolled his eyes, pressing his hands down to push up slightly—very slightly. “What did you have in mind?”
Kyle shrugged, and started strolling across the mat, staying in front of Derek as he walked from one end of the mat to the other. “You see, there is a problem out in Chinatown. Someone used assassin-level techniques on a victim there. One of my targets. Can you imagine who would not only have the skills and abilities required for that sort of thing, but also who would dare target one of my contracts?”
Derek smiled and was tempted to laugh…if it wouldn’t have blown him in half. “Well, aside from any mercenary I trained, half the Exiles in the city, should I continue?”
Kyle stopped pacing and just looked at Derek. “Convince me,” he said flatly.
Derek shook his head. “Seriously? Let me see, Kyle. I helped kill every last one of your ‘friends,’ everyone who ever tolerated you, and somehow, I should believe you’re going to let me go?” He looked at Kyle for a moment, and thought. And it was obvious to Kyle that he was thinking, he could practically hear the gears grinding. “You know, Kyle, I remember a lot from back then. Pretty much everything. And that you never killed anyone unless you were paid for it. You were someone who would never kill out of revenge. Because revenge isn’t in your code. Revenge just isn’t done in your world. So, I believe you. I believe that you would let me go.”
And Derek then did something strange. He smiled. “I also especially recall that you liked to snipe or to stab your targets. I don’t think you ever used bombs in your entire life. Not once. Outside of demolitions class, that is.”
Derek pushed up from the mat, rolling backwards and jumping to his feet. There was another click, and that was it. Nothing happened. Derek smiled. “I also remembered you were also too smart for your own good. Why bother with a bomb if you could just put in everything that makes you think that there is one?” He smoothed out his shirt. “Anything else?”
Kyle’s eyes narrowed, but it was obvious that he was homicidal. Derek grinned even wider. It was nice to see Mr. Cool-Calm-Collected so close to losing control. “Nice to see you, buddy. Let me know when you get a personality.”
“Aren’t you going to try and kill me?” Kyle asked, his voice more curious than upset.
Derek stopped mid-turn, and looked back. He glanced up and down at Kyle, and cocked a perfectly-sculpted eyebrow. “There’s no reason. You presume that I care. I hurt you, Elsen. I might as well have killed every last person you ever cared about. Ever. And until you find someone who can pay you enough to kill me, you’re just going to have to live with that knowledge. I can your impotence.” He shrugged. “And if I were going to kill you, I wouldn’t try. I’d just do it.” He paused a moment, and chuckled. “How about this, if you’re so dead-set on venting your anger, come on. You have to train with someone at least once a day. I’m here. Let’s train a little.”
Kyle blinked, then cocked his head. With a move so fast, Derek barely saw it, Kyle flicked a throwing knife at him. At forty feet, Derek had plenty of time to sidestep the blade. Instead of running, or even taking up a defensive position, Derek stepped back where he was, even though Kyle was on a direct course for him.
Kyle’s foot came down exactly five feet away from Derek, when it was Kyle’s turn to hear the click. Kyle blinked, and looked down, only then appreciating the fact that
this part of the training mat was in segmented squares, not one solid piece. When he had come in, he had only thought about how convenient it was that he could just lift up a piece of the one-piece mat to plant his device.
He hadn’t considered that Derek would booby trap his own training area.
Derek gave a little amused smile. “You see, Kyle, you’re not the only one who can play this game. In fact, I play it with every merc who comes here for training.” Derek took a few steps back, and threw his arms open in a c’est la vie gesture. “If they’re not observant enough to hear the click before I arrive, well, less work for me.” The smile vanished, and the eyes deadened as Derek’s voice sounded like Kyle’s. “Now it’s time for you to wonder if I’m bluffing.”
Kyle’s mouth twitched with suppressed rage. “When did you learn tactics, Derek?”
Derek gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I knew I wasn’t the brightest kid in the classroom, Kyle. Only I made up for my lack of book smarts with practice. Lots of practice. Give me time to study my target, and I can do almost anything to him. I spent a lot of time studying you, Kyle.”
Kyle’s eyes narrowed. “Is that why you killed my target?”
Derek sighed, and hung his head in exasperation. “You know what, Kyle? Read my lips: I didn’t kill your lousy target. Do you know why? Because I did study you. You want to know what I found? You were a prodigy. Fine. You were taking college-level courses at age 13. Good for you. But you’re isolated and alone. And that’s all you’ll ever be, until you can get your head out of your ass, and into the real world. You haven’t evolved or changed at all. Like me, you don’t have friends. Unlike me, who stays detached because I want to get out of this hellhole one day, you have no friends because you can’t have them. Because you don’t know how to get them. That’s why I didn’t kill your target, Kyle. I don’t care about your lousy targets. Or your clients. Or you. You’re a function, Kyle, a robot. Nothing more. There is no mystery about you.”
Derek made it to the door. “Have fun with the bouncing betty. When you do, please turn off the lights on your way out. And, next time, if you’re going to kill me, just freaking kill me. Don’t try talking to me death.” He gave Kyle a little wave, kicked the door open, and said, “Happy hunting!”
The door swung closed behind him with a metallic thunk.
Chapter 11: Pyromaniac Interlude
I have a puppet that calls me Master. I call him Frankie, on occasion, whenever the whim takes me to do so. As for the rest, I can snap my fingers and get these idiots to do whatever I want, whenever I want them to do it. It’s fun; I will not try and deny that to whomever has the fortune to read this detail of my exploits. I can’t be stopped, not ever, because I have all of these people here who are willing and able to take any bullets that should happen to come my way. And besides, for anyone to even try to attack me, they have to find me, and doing that, in this hellhole, will be hard enough without them trying to kill me afterward.
And who in this city is going to be able to find me? The druggies? The self-named “’Children’ of Thanatos?" The Corporate troops? They are idiots, one and all, and not worth wasting the energy of my thoughts on. Perhaps it might be the last “professional” assassin, Kyle Elsen? Everyone in the city can see him coming, and if he tries anything, he can burn with the Corps, burn with the Children, burn with the druggies, and indeed burn with this whole fucking city. I really don’t care either way. I get what I want no matter what happens.
Not bad for an Albino from the Wastelands... From the hell once better known as Los Angeles. You might disagree with that statement, if you’re reading this. It’s hard to be certain if anyone ever will. I know none of these morons are ever going to catch me, but it still makes me wonder if anyone is ever going to get to see the records I’m keeping of our body count, either before or after I die. At my last count, we were at over a hundred. I’m hoping to break two hundred by the end of the week.
To say it again… not bad for an Albino come from the Wastelands.
Chapter 12: Time To Leave
France, 2094
Amit opened the door with the latest girl on hand. He shoved the blonde through the door, laughing, and called out, “I’ve got another one.”
When his knee exploded, he stopped laughing.
“Shalom, motherfucker.”
Amit looked up to see a short woman looking at him, holding a fairly large gun on him.
Mandy looked to the new girl. “Are you coherent?”
The blonde blinked, and nodded. “Yes. ”
“Good. At least you speak English. I didn’t want to run through every language I know. Again.” She glanced at her watch again. “We’ve got an hour before the pick-up guys arrive. Follow the trail of bullets through the warehouse until you get to the cells. Ask directions if you need to. We’re going to blow this popsicle stand shortly.”
The newcomer blinked, with wide blue eyes, and she asked, “Why can’t we leave now?”
Mandy glared at her. “Because this operation is run by a member of the ruling council of the Islamic Republic of France. Local cops are in on it. If they see any of us wandering town, the jig is up. Welcome to Paris. Next time, vacation in Texas. Now get in the back, and choose your weapon.”
The girl left, and Mandy looked to Amit. “Hi.”
Amit looked up and grimaced at her. “What do you want?”
“I’d say world peace, but that would be a lie. I’d be out of a job.” She gave him a little smile that creeped him out a bit. “How about the names of everyone you work with, now and forever? How about everyone up and down the supply chain? And a pony?”
Amit growled. “You can go to Hell, you stupid who–”
His other kneecap exploded, and she said, “Things that I want, you wouldn’t be able to give me. Don’t get up, I’ll be right back.”
Mandy went into the back and looked over her haul of “cargo,” wondering what to do next.
The women were one issue. And there were many, many issues. It had taken her some time to get accustomed to their…well, their whining, really. “I wanna go home,” “I don’t feel good,” “I want my mePhone.”
For the love of God, why don’t these women grow up!
Mandy briefly considered getting them all safely stowed away the one place that she knew was clean: Kevin Anderson’s apartment in Paris.
She smiled. It was where they had met. Where she had put two bullets into the chest of his body armor. But, first things first.
After a brief interrogation with the music-loving White Slaver, Mandy had gathered the routines of the trafficking ring’s schedules earlier. Thankfully, she only had to wait a few days for them to arrive.
The other issue involved the crates filled with gold bullion. She had convinced the women that she wanted a barricade in case the slavers making a pickup got any funny ideas. It was perfectly true. The thought of bringing it back with her had crossed her mind. But it was mostly just a matter of how to load it all up. She still had to carry three dozen women in what she hoped was a big rig.
What would Kevin do? She then rejected that premise, as he would probably go on a wild rampage, slaughtering everyone who got in his way, and blowing up the Arc de Triomphe while he was at it. And he wouldn’t have even bothered with the money.
I’m crazy, but I’m not Kevin Anderson crazy.
Mandy shrugged it off, and decided that when the truck arrived, her plan would have to be flexible. If only the truck showed up, with just a driver, that would be easy – she would have the women load up the crates in the back of the truck, using the crates as camouflage for any and all border guards. The slavers had people to wave them through, she didn’t. She would have to get creative…Or just bribe them with the gold.
Mandy frowned. Damn it, but I don’t want to give them my gold. Maybe I can just shoot them…which would turn into a running shootout, which would probably cost me the money and get the girls shot. Damnit. Okay, I guess I could afford to lose a bar or
two. Or three. I hate having morals some time
She studied the women she had, and was grateful that she must have killed the slavers right after laundry day. There had been enough fresh clothing to dress all of the girls – I have serious problem calling these people women – so she would at least be able to get them to the border without a trail of body odor leading authorities to the truck.
Mandy only had one problem: Why hadn’t the others in the slaver’s command train called in? She had looked over the entire building for surveillance devices, so she knew that no one else could have looked in and seen that the place had been shot to pieces.
Which makes me wonder, when does the shooting start?
Chapter 13: Canine
San Francisco, February 2, 2094
Terry grumbled softly to himself, cleaning the last of the enamel off the broken teeth he had found earlier that evening. The Burners had fried one of the people he knew in the area—a man whose name he had never known—a man with gold in his mouth. Gold he hadn’t been willing to part with, no matter how much Terry had threatened him.
Now, Terry was getting a small part of it. The Burners had destroyed the rest. The only reason he was even getting what gold he had was because they had knocked two teeth out of the man’s mouth. One of them had a little gold in it, and Terry figured that would buy him dinner for the night, and someplace safe to sleep for the evening, away from the Burners.
Under other circumstances, the enamel would have been worth keeping, but the damage the Burners had done was, as always, too much. Selling damaged material of that sort would get him no money at all, and an attempt to sell it would build him a reputation as a fool who didn’t know what value was.
