Dublin, Ireland - January
I tip my head back and the Irish whiskey burns down my throat on its way to my stomach. I slam the shot glass down on the bar and slide off the barstool. As I walk to the back of the pub, I pass by my target's table. James Doyle is a man in his mid-forties, reddish-blonde hair, green eyes and known terrorist. The Irish government is just having a little trouble proving it.
That's where I come in.
I take note of the men sitting at the table with him. I recognize them from the surveillance photos that Simon sent me. Two are his bodyguards, not particularly important in the criminal scheme of things. The fourth man, however, is extremely important in Doyle's terrorist network. His name is Brian Walsh. He is Doyle's second-in-command and bomb specialist.
The job was to kill just Doyle, but I'm feeling charitable towards my anonymous employer of the moment. I think I'll throw Walsh in for the heck of it. A nice little bonus.
When I enter the womens restroom, I go into the stall furthest from the door and check my weapons. Throwing knife tucked into each sleeve of my leather jacket, mini stun gun in the inside pocket of my jacket and a much more deadly handgun tucked in my jeans, at the small of my back.
I leave the stall and check my appearance in the mirror above the sinks. Black wig with bangs, black sunglasses, brown leather jacket with fur lining and brown leather gloves. The sunny, but cold, winter day in Dublin is a valid excuse for the gloves, which will ensure that no fingerprints are left behind.
The old-fashioned pub in Dublin doesn't have surveillance cameras and the wig and sunglasses help to hide my features from anyone with a good memory.
I don't feel entirely clearheaded after drinking seven shots of whiskey, but I'm anxious to get the job done. I've tried to keep myself busy over the past two months. Idle time leads to thinking about things that are better left in the past. Two months in the past. When I killed Xavier Sanchez last November, seems like a lifetime ago.
I grip the sink and shake away the thoughts that are trying to intrude on the job. My plan is to follow Doyle and his terrorist comrades to the car they have parked in the alley behind the pub. Where I will pull the trigger.
Maybe I should hold off on the kill and plant a bomb under his car. Seems like a more fitting way for Doyle and Walsh to die. After all, they do love to bomb public places, where innocents get killed.
Despite being a tad drunk, I don't feel very relaxed. I feel anxious and wound up. I close my eyes and roll my neck back in an effort to relieve some of the tension.
Gabriel's face flashes through my mind.
I grind my teeth and reach back to grip my gun. The action soothes me, gives me a sense of control. It doesn't last long.
I can hear Gabriel's voice in my head when we made love for the first time, 'I love you, Anna'. Then I hear his bitter last words to me, 'I hate you so much that I think it's killed all the love that I had for you'.
I grip the gun handle so tightly that it causes my hand pain. I feel no comfort from it anymore. My left hand is still gripping the sink in front of me. I pull the out of my waistband and use the back of the hand holding the gun to push my sunglasses up and wipe away my tears at the same time.
My pain turns to anger. It's the only way to cope. Anger at myself for hurting Gabriel. Anger at Gabriel for not believing me when I told him that his dad was a monster. Anger at Xavier for being a monster and forcing me to kill him. Anger at all monsters for making my job necessary. Anger for having to be born into this existence.
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Killing Me Softly - Teenage Assassin - aka Young Love MurderTeen Fiction
This isn’t a love story, it’s a love adventure. First love’s a killer, but so is seventeen-year-old Annabelle Blanc. She was raised to be an assassin and taught to never fall in love. She’s at the top of her game until she meets Gabriel Sanchez. Tot...