((This idea came as a spin off to what someone said at a NaNo meet...So here it is, all 758 words of it! ^^))
“Look, I don’t care how you do it, just stop him, he knows too much!” The shadow of a short stubby, bald headed man paced backwards and forwards behind the shining mahogany desk. Life was hard as the leader of a widely renounced company like Ekia.
It was even more trouble when your PA was on some sort of extended maternity leave to a Caribbean island courtesy of the compensation you paid her for a poorly constructed flat-packed bookcase. How was anyone meant to get some evil plotting done around here?
It had seemed like a good idea at the time, find a gap in the market, invest in it, use your gross capital to fund a secret invasion; but nothing ever ran that smoothly.
“What do you mean you can’t?!?” He hissed down the phone, “I don’t pay you to sit around doing nothing while my freedom is at risk!”
He stopped to rap his knuckles against the table as his teeth grinded together.
“What? You can’t quit! You have to hand in your four weeks notice like all other employees!”
A short beep at the other end of the line signified the end of the conversation. Cursing, he threw the handset down onto the desk.
“Honestly,” he muttered to the black ball of fur that lay in the corner of the room, his cat, “If you want something doing properly, do it yourself.”
He approached the polished pine wardrobe that stood in the corner of the room and drew it open. An array of identical black leather jump suits hung down before him, “Decisions, decisions.”
The jump suit wasn’t terribly complimentary of his figure, but you had to wear the right gear to be an assassin, you couldn’t have any old Tom, Dick or Harry throwing knives at people for the sake of chumps change and calling themselves an ‘assassin’, those wannabes were nothing more than petty thieves in the shadow of a true hit man.
Unfortunately, he was not a true hit man, nor was he a wannabe, but it always felt good to wear leather. He yanked open a draw and fingered through the razor sharp blades, he slipped them don the sides of his boots, slamming the drawer shut and opening another.
Grabbing the first two pistols he saw, he slipped them into holsters on his belt. He grabbed the katana that stood propped up against the wall just behind the door and slid it into its sheath on his back.
He pulled open the door to the office that adjoined, “Just popping out for a minute, if anyone calls, say I’m in a meeting and take a message.”
With one final glance at the photo of his young, blonde, Swedish wife, he slinked out to do his business.
It is surprising how few people notice an untrained assassin stalking his prey down the busy streets of central London, in fact it is surprising how few people took time out from their own self-centred worlds to notice an assassin at all. After all, why suspect something that is right under their noses?
Although potentially hard to find his target, it turned out a mere formality. With the variety of hi tech gadgets he used (care of his personally funded under cover research team…and MI6 weekly magazine). The problem however, lay in the perfect murder; eliminating someone’s existence without anybody raising an eyelid.
It is at this point I hasten to inform you that this death had no relation to a personal vendetta, but as I’m sure any self respecting business man would agree a matter of eliminating risks. You can’t simply let someone criticise your company and get away with the added ego bonus, you have to ‘convince’ people that you are indeed benefiting them…even if you can only do that by blackmail and petty threats.
Thankfully, these were his speciality.
It was a lucky break that lead to the death of magazine editor Rupert Bloom. Who would have expected that aged 34, married with two kids and a pregnant wife, living comfortably with his two Bentleys and single black Mercedes convertible in the London suburb of Richmond, poor Rupert would throw himself onto the Piccadilly line at precisely 13.07, the same time that the delayed 13.05 arrived in King’s cross station.
The reason no one would have expected this is perhaps because that is not in fact how it happened, but as far as the public, police and one proud owner of a multi national company are concerned, it is the truth.
