Tsumibito's P.O.V
I let my eyes fixate upon the empty blackness of the night skies via car window whilst she sits right next to where I remain positioned. The epitome of everything gracious, the embodiment of all that is beauty and loveliness -I'll give her that.
I detest her in a manner, detest how she so easily works her way into my brain, detest how the scent of her remains a permanent imprint in the pits of my memory, detest how she has so effortlessly managed to pique, capture, and hold my attention so firmly in a matter of months.
I discard all thoughts revolving around she, blink severally, take in one large whiff of air. Finally, the glass dome that is the gallery comes into view and the adrenaline begins to leak through my veins, to heighten my pulse. I turn in my seat to face her in muteness, drink in the sight of her as she takes in the magnificence of our surroundings.
She looks nothing like her usual self with her appearance altered in that manner.
"Rosa," I call out, and instantaneously, she cocks her head to look at me.
"You will be walking in in my absence. I will not be accompanying you. However, I should guide you through, aid you in identifying our target."
"What! Tsumibito, I..."
"Trust me, Rosa, yes?"
She says nothing, only arches a single brow and glares poisonously while I reach for the inner pockets of my blazer. I retrieve a tiny velvet box containing a pair of diamond studs, hand it over to the hesitant female. She pops it open and I watch in fascination as her eyes grow wider at the glimmering sight.
"How will we communicate through this again?"
"Those are standard spy transmitters. Both are connected to my earpiece," I begin, showing off the little piece hooked to the skin on the back of my left ear, "the microphone embedded into the transmitters should permit me hear everything you say, even whisper."
I reach out to assist her in putting them on, take notice of how she subtly shudders at the slightest contact of skins. Still, the female works well to conceal emotion, a good thing, a favourable thing.
"Your name this eve is Aliya. Aliya Ophir, daughter of a Nubian tycoon from Africa named Nahum Ophir."
I reach for the space beneath my seat, retrieve a silencer, fill the pistol's magazine with rubber bullets and hand it over to the overly-calm female. She reaches for the hems of her navy-hued flowing gown and lifts it, strapping the gun to her left thigh holster.
"One last thing before you proceed, Rosa."
And I find myself slipping off the GBH ring from my ring finger, taking her palm in mine delicately and slipping it right onto her middle finger.
"Incase you move to slow for him or your reflexes fail you, stub the pointy end of the jewelry into any part of his flesh. Otherwise, do not act with haste unless I instruct, Obal. Clear?"
"Clear."
"And this is our main man," I finalize, taking out a passport-sized photo of the culprit from my inner pockets and handing it over to the lass.
She marks, analyzes, memorizes in humble muteness, returns the photo shortly after.
"Soon as you identify him, work your charm, enchant him as best as you can. I should handle the rest."
She nods her head affirmatively, spares me a single glance as if in deep thought, utters not a single word.
The co-chauffeur swings her door open allowing her to alight.
I observe, earnestly mesmerized by how her body seems to move with such grace, the confidence she exudes without mercy as though the world were at her feet -even though her heart mourns with terror. By her side is the new co-chauffeur I'd hired only days back. She glides past glass doors until the figure of her disappears behind a throng of art spectators. Now, time to set my plan in motion.
"Joktan, are all the surveillance systems down? Mhmm, a good thing. Pin-pointed Serug's brother's whereabouts? Good, make him disappear," I speak through my burner phone before switching my focus to the seat ahead of me.
"Ludim, drive off to the alley way right down the corner," a simple command that has the man igniting the engine and gliding off.
I punch in a single button, push on the leathery seat to reveal a briefcase, take hold of it.
For a precious twenty six minutes, I sit put, I wait in patience, I count down the number of seconds Serug -the fucker- still has left to ravish life and all its bloody magnificence. All is eery quietness as I alight the vehicle and proceed towards the abandoned cathedral only a couple of meters away. It takes me another seven minutes or so to mount a series of interconnected staircases and pad down creaking moonlit corridors till I come up to the rooftop of dusty building.
The night is one chilly. The cumulonimbus clouds have gathered in promise of heavy showers and the winds blow with a sense of rage. I tread lightly towards the edge of the cemented roofs, briefcase clutched firmly in my palm. I rest the leather case by the erected brick edge, pop the locks, take a pair of binoculars from the inside, observe.
And there, in all her glory, is stood the glorious Miss Obal Sephar in the faithful company of a young lad possibly in his early thirties who converses and chats so animatedly about one thing or the other, throwing head back in laughter -his head shaking whilst he does.
And both gaze upon a captivating fallen angel art piece, flutes of fine vintage wine clutched in palms.
I switch my focus, let my gaze roam and scrutinize till I come up to my target; the serpent Serug himself.
"Rosa, Serug just graced us with his presence. To your far left."
She giggles at a romantic thing spoken to her by her current companion, brings flute to her crimsoned lips, tips, sips. She nods her head, smiles a smile so sultry. She spins on her heel, swaying hips as she works to move along. The hems of her gown sweep the marble floorings with each stride and her right thigh remains visible. She is indeed a woman divine. A spade is a spade not a big spoon, they'd said.
She makes to bump into the fellow then apologizes profusely, instantaneously piquing the man's curiosity as well as his interest. The man has always had a thing for melanin beauties, a genuine weakness of his. And again, the sensual smile curves onto the female's lips, her single palm gently pressing into his chest for short seconds.
Keenly, I observe as his arm slithers around Obal's waist, and the stem of the flute she clutches onto so harshly nearly snaps at the force of her hold. He leans in to whisper lowly into her ear, tucks loose locks of hairs behind the female's ear. Smoothly, she moves her focus towards a war painting, breaking down information so eloquently, so fluently.
Impressive.
The man's palm glides against her backside, groping her arse. And the flute nearly slips from her grip. I realize quickly that I do not take too kindly to his unsolicited touches and caresses. Well, not for long.
"Rosa, bare with me only for short minutes," I coo soothingly via the piece, pleased by how her muscles visibly relax.
She is vexed. Her mask of neutrality is gradually slipping. So, I ponder, contemplate, settling for the only reasonable solution.
"You look gracious tonight, did I tell you?"
She shifts her weight from one heeled foot to the other, tilting her head slightly as a subtle smile begins to curve on her lips. I retrieve a snipper from the case, fluidly assemble all part of the fire arm, clasp the weaponry to the stand tightly.
"That gown clings to your curves, hugs your body in ways I wish I could, Rosa."
Much as she works to hide it, via the binoculars, I can clearly paint out how my words plunge her mind, how they cause some sort of effect on her rationality.
"In this moment, I'd love to feel your lips on mine, I'd love to feel myself buried deep inside you whilst I make you moan my name repetitively like a fucking mantra."
Her head falls back whilst she chuckles at a thing the bastard Serug just whispered, but I see how her fingers toy with the gems of the necklace snaked around her neck. Through the lense of the snipper, I take aim of my target, rest my middle finger by the trigger readying myself for execution.
"Rosa, tilt your head to the right for me? Yes, just like that. Beautiful."
And with remorse lacking, without batting an eyelash, without pondering any further, I pull the trigger, shattering glass wall whilst the copper bullet slams into and pierces through traitor's skull. Ruckus brews and blossoms, screams and shouts and pleas for aid ensue while the scarlet spatters onto Obal's skin.
For a nanosecond, a second, a whole minute, she stands transfixed to the marble floors spearing stares down at the body that thuds into the grounds -her mouth slightly agape. The co-chauffeur moves amidst the vengeful throng, yanks her by the wrist away from the scene and towards one of the exits.
I move with tranquility, detaching parts of ammunition and packing up the pieces back into the case. Tranquil as ever, I make my way from the rooftops, down multiple hallways and fleets of stairs till I come up to the rusty metal barrier that is the door.
As I pad over to where the vehicle remains packed in the shadows of tall buildings, I take notice of the dazed and disoriented Obal who approaches the bodywork of the vehicle. We both take our respective positions inside the vehicle, each one lost and drowning in their own train of thought and memories.
The vehicle reverses and glides down tarmac roads, and from a great distance, lightning sparks and thunder claps in the high night skies.
"Tsumibito, how does it feel? Murder, execution, killing?"
I look upon the female and she slowly mimicks my movements, her glassy eyes burrowing firmly into my own. Zilch emotion in them. Cold tonality too.
"First kills are the worst. I have been bred and nurtured in this lifestyle, Obal. Treachery is the equivalent of execution, I don't do it just for the merry of it. It is a thing that pulses through my venations, a second skin."
She maintains her calm, keeps a strong grip on her quiet, until...
"Who was the first person you executed?"
I take in a deep breath, exhale slowly. Ah yes, the faithful memories, the gnawing demons that surface at the query.
"My mother..."
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