Hired Hits (Open)

The Death of a Stockbroker

Weskerby City

Osyntry

Auroria ​

Coffee to die for

Antalya, Capital of Aydin

Daylight

Mehmed Pasha Avenue

Carlos watched the well-to-do punters wander the ornate streets with a relaxed gaze, expensive restaurants promised the most indulgent cuisine and row after row of shopfronts displayed everything from couture fashion to the latest phones. The whole district represented the absolute pinnacle of wealth in a nation where the top of the spire represented endless decadence and the bottom deprivation beyond imagining.

Aydin had thus far proved to be corrupt, violent, and utterly decadent, in short, it was just like home. Life in Rio had always been lived at the razor's edge, for every man that made his name another caught a bullet. There was a vibrancy and wild excitement to places where each moment could be someone's last, most places in Eras lacked such a violent mélange, Aydin did not and Carlos loved the place for it.

Carlos cut a relatively unassuming figure in his sunglasses and white linen suit, his hair was braided in neat curls that would have made his Astragonese mother proud and a comfortable felt sun hat rested upon his head. Most people regarded him as little more than another tourist who had come in time for the festivals and strong coffee. He thumbed through a paperback disinterestedly “Corazon en el Fuego” the aged orange paperback read in Verdean.

His mother had loved it, read it religiously, the story of a Verdean matador who had fallen for an Astragonese washerwoman. The story was like most Verdean fare, dramatic, overwrought, and ultimately tragic. The matador had died in a duel and the washerwoman in her grief had leapt into the sea with a weighted basket. It was quintessentially Verdean and yet just subversive* enough that the city's independence era government had banned it for over two decades before finally caving to public pressure.

The book was a reminder of innocence long since lost, a time before the stench of his father's trash pyre and of life before Carlos had taken on the grim mantle of El Sagador. It was of course a curiosity more than anything, Carlos understood concepts like empathy and romance but he did not experience them himself. With the exception of a very small selection of people he had little interest in humanity, they were at best background noise and at worst an obstacle to be smashed.

One such obstacle now offered a lucrative paycheck, Basli Gocurk, the Chief operations officer of royal Aydin oil. The briefing painted a less than appealing picture, an image of pollution, sickness, and ruthless corruption. The Yesil resistance wanted this man dead and thanks to their choice of instrument it would soon come to pass. For two days Carlos had sat in café haunts, gathering intelligence and keeping a close watch on the nearby gated estate.

Gocurk lived an opulent lifestyle by all accounts, catered to by a small legion of servants and kept fat and wealthy thanks to an endless stream of oil kickbacks. Tonight, however, Gocurk was going to discover that hired help and money were little deterrent when death came to collect. The local gossip mill had revealed an opportunity and I would serve as the opening that would allow El Sagador to go about reaping the souls of his victims.

Gocurk might have been a bastard, but he was also a family man and like most benignly neglectful husbands his love languages consisted of expensive payoffs. Every Thursday for the past four years Gocurk’s wife and children had taken all expenses paid trips to the entertainment complex in downtown Antalya, there to indulge in movies and overpriced trinkets, all while Gocurk drank and lounged around like a bloated vizier.

It wasn’t that Carlos much cared about collateral damage, he had liquidated entire families, when necessary, without missing a beat, but collateral tended to add a variable that made hits less predictable. Variables were a hitman's nemesis and so tonight while his wife and spoilt offspring glutted themselves on all the throwaway joy that money could buy, Carlos would strike. He put the book away and took a final sip of viscous aydini coffee, night was approaching, and with it all the fun of wet work.

*Relationships between Astragonese and Verdeans were strongly discouraged during the period of 1913-1978 and most Verdean churches would not marry inter-cultural couples. ​

Night



Carlos moved like a ghost, silently scaling the rear wall of the compound and moving toward the estate's backdoor without pause. The door to the house's extensive kitchen was predictably unlocked, the scent of cooking perfuming the evening air as Carlos drew closer, he raised his submachine gun and slide the door open taking pains not to alert the occupants indoors with a telltale creak of the hinges. Carlos licked his lips with excitement, it had been a long time since he had allowed himself the pleasure of a massacre.

Inside several cooks fussed over various late-night dishes of Menemen and Kofte, oblivious to their new guest. One of the cooking staff looked up and stared with wide-eyed horror as Carlos raised his weapon, several well-placed shots followed, the bodies fell in quick secession, one man collapsing inside a boiled pot with gore leaking into the soup from his open skull. Carlos stepped over the bodies and moved toward the door.

Extravagant tapestries and silk wall drapes covered every surface and his boots tread across feather-soft carpets of exotic animal furs. The stairs loomed up ahead, Carlos noted that a single guard was watching the main entrance with his back turned, complacency would be his undoing. Carlos drew a curved Astragonese knife and tapped the guard on the shoulder, the man turned only to gain a new opening in his throat. Carlos withdrew the blade and let the guard fall back, twitching and bleeding out on the antique rugs.

Ascending the stairs Carlos raised his firearm and fired a suppressed shot at the bodyguard approaching from the landing. The man fell back with a look of glassy-eyed shock as a bullet to the skull silenced his brief existence. Carlos checked his ammo, not even half empty yet, he scanned the hallway ahead and noted the telltale sound of footsteps. Gorcuk had several guards onsite, the night detail was evidently not expecting company given their current performance.

He raised his firearm and advanced down the hall, a maid carrying laundry exited the room in front, he fired and stepped over her lifeless corpse as he moved closer to his target. The study was nearby and if the intelligence had proven correct, Gorcuk would be expecting his evening coffee and Baklava any moment now. Two guards rushed into view attracted by the sound of the fallen maid; Carlos fired taking the first man in the eye with a well-placed shot, the second man roared and barreled into him.

It was like being hit by a small truck, the bodyguard attempting to crush the would-be assassin to a bloody pulp. Carlos kicked out with his right leg, catching the guard in the groin and causing him to fall back in pain. Carlos didn’t give him time to recover and jabbed at his eyes, the man screamed and closed his dustbin like fists around Carlos’s neck. The vice-like grip began to choke the air from Carlos’s lungs almost immediately, he scanned the room frantically....and then he saw it.

Gocurk evidently liked hunting, at least if the rows of severed animal heads were anything to go by and up ahead loomed the horned visage of a bull. Carlos brought his hands up and broke the guard's grip, he then grasped the man's beard and with a violent shove sent both of them hurtling toward the bull's head. A wet sucking sound filled the air with its grotesque music as the guard hung limply with a horn poking out of his skull.

Retrieving his weapon, Carlos moved on, he needed to be swift, Gocurk had likely heard the commotion outside. Reaching the study door, Carlos checked his belt, the vial of black liquid remained intact despite the hand-to-hand combat. The Yesil resistance had given a single directive, to make sure the Gocurk got a taste of his own medicine, Carlos intended to earn his bonus. He kicked the door to the study, gold inlaid doors swinging open on their hinges.

Basli Gocurk looked up with a startled expression, like a deer caught in the headlights of a very large truck. The oil executive was a fat man, bloated by countless nightly excesses and his bearded double chin was slick with grease from the chicken leg he had been tucking into prior to Carlos’s intrusion. He dropped the poultry and raised a placating, ring studded, finger in a feeble attempt to negotiate.

“Whatever they're paying you I'll double it! I know the sultan! He will reward you if you reveal names!” the man proclaimed in a voice that was half sales pitch and half terrified panting

Carlos did not reply, instead shooting Gocurk in both of his legs, the man fell from his chair screaming as the two freshly made holes began to leak warm blood. His ornate robe, formerly a beautiful shade of yellow and green was soon stained with all to familiars notes of crimson. He was weeping in terror and desperately trying to mouth appeals to a conscience that El Sagador did not possess.

“Please! I have a family!!!” Gocurk screamed

“Be thankful they are not here to share your fate” Carlos replied in an Icey tone

Carlos scanned the table and noted the unfinished coffee cup, it was time to put the horrors in the vial to their proper use. Reaching into his belt, Carlos retrieved the black metal container and opened it before pouring the viscous fluid inside into the half-empty coffee cup. He then picked up the ornate vessel and brought it over to where his victim was presently whimpering and dirtying the once pristine silks.

“The contract requested that you get a taste of your own medicine, time for a drink,” he said without a hint of emotion

Gocurk tried to crawl backward but a boot on his wounded leg caused him to freeze as he screamed in agony. Carlos proceeded to pour the lethal concoction of petroleum and tainted water down the man's throat, Gocurk screaming the entire time. It didn’t take long for the poison to take effect, it burned at the man's insides as he vomited and screamed until he lost his voice. Eventually, Gocurk’s head lolled back, eyes bulging and features twisted into an expression of hellish pain.

Carlos turned and left, silence stalked the hallway as he did so, dead eyes staring up at him accusingly as he stepped over one broken body after another.

Somewhere over Craviter

Carlos thumbed through the faded orange novel, the old memories of his mother reciting the book to him as he dozed in a hammock filling him with a rare feeling of warmth. A stewardess placed a coffee cup on his tray table, a steaming black cup of Astragonese espresso. He thanked her and took a long sip from the porcelain coup, flying first class certainly had its perks, even if the destination was a continent as cold as Auroria.

Still, Tardine had a culture, not unlike Rio’s and he would have time to kill when he arrived before the actual terminations began. He briefly saw the image of Gocurk enter his mind's eye, the man's tortured final expression one of unending torment, Carlos simply nodded his head in approval and then proceeded to down the entire coffee.

Muerte en la tarde


San Martin

Tardine

Auroria



The Policeman’s neck snapped like a dry wafer letting out a sickening crunch, Carlos dragged the body into the alleyway and unceremoniously dumped it into a waiting trash container. He set his watch, he would have thirty minutes before the next report was expected by his target’s federal protectors, then the entire district would be flooded with police. He took a deep breath, savoring the salty air of coastal Auroria, then he was moving for the entrance to the Villa.

He pushed the Intercomm on the villa’s closed gate, after seconds that seemed close to eternity a weary sounding voice answered just loudly enough to be heard over the crackling background static. Carlos could just make out the Trevisan, it was a close cousin to his own Verdean but somehow more blended and less direct. It was as though somehow had taken Verdean, itself a bastard dialect of Cojedean, and thrown it in a blender with a pinch of something else.

“Que? "Came the abrupt male voice

“Policia” he replied reaching for the identification he had retrieved from the unlucky victim resting in the hot refuse

The gate creaked open as an aging Tardini man in the white uniform of a housekeeper answered the door, he looked tired and his wrinkled face seemed to radiate disapproval. The butler had a drooping face, very little fat, and enough deep lines that he better resembled a tree's inner core. The old man frowned, his handlebar mustache shifting as he examined the police ID that Carlos provided. The old man raised a quizzical grey eye to regard Carlos, he looked nothing like the stocky man in the picture.

“Madre de dio....” the old man gasped in shock as Carlos pressed the silenced pistol to the butler's face and fired

The old man flew back and crashed into the bush next to the villa’s paved entranceway, Carlos was already moving for the casa proper. He checked his watch the screen reading “27:00” in rapidly descending numbers, he hoped his mark would die quickly. He checked the pouch of his utility belt; the silver feather would need to be placed on the corpse in order to send the message his contract demanded.

Entering the villa’s casa he took note of his surroundings, upmarket Tardini architecture embraced his gaze with an eclectic flurry of warm colors and gentle curves. The homes in Rio were much the same, sensual in both shape and coloration, the interior was tastefully decorated with art from across Eras and clean white furniture and tiling. If not for his timeline Carlos might have indulged in a moment to enjoy the décor, perhaps to pretend he was back on San Salazar*, but it was not to be.

He headed through the kitchen and out onto a nearby patio, he could make out his target’s shadow, Vilfred Valorat, his movements twisted as he engaged in exercise under an afternoon sun, his form covered by a white curtain. The once corrupt politician had made a fatal error, he had grown a conscience and turned prime witness in the state's anti-corruption campaign. No good deed ever went unpunished in Eras and his employers had ordered a swift end to his lapse in moral relativism.

He watched Valorats shadow twist as he engaged in midday exercise, Judo movements of some sort, Skandan? Seinokuan? Carlos could not be sure but the time for recreation was over. Aiming his pistol he fired an aimed shot at the linen curtain, the shackle fell back immediately. Moving across the marbled tile with his pistol raised, Carlos pulled back the curtain to confirm he had hit his target. A vicelike grip caught his wrist and he felt himself being lifted and hurled across the courtyard, crashing painfully into a wooden table.

He leaped up and into a crouched position, his pistol had been lost, blood leaked down the side of his face, the once pristine furniture was now a collection of splinters. Grinning he regarded his target who was staring at him with a cold expression as he moved into a fighting stance, this was going to be a challenge. Vilford Valorat was in good shape for a middle-aged politician, he was tall, and corded muscle definition was visible on his arms and chest, a welcome change from the bloated fools of prior contracts.

The born-again anti-corruption crusader cut a handsome figure, graying hair rested in a neat parting and his well-boned face portrayed a look of natural charisma. Two Icey blue eyes scanned Carlos’s every movement as he crept forward and shifted into an offensive stance, legs taking on the fluid movements of a dancer.

“Been a long time since someone made me bleed, you have studied your judo well...let's see how it does against my Capoeira!” Carlos said with a vicious grin as he leaped forward with a somersault

The deadly arts of Capoeira had been perfected in the endless ethnic gang wars of old Rio where street dancing and execution all too often blended together. Carlos was more than proficient in this violent discipline, years running with youth gangs in the lower wards necessitated that anyone who lived past 30 would master the skill. However, he was genuinely curious to see how the Astro-Verdean artform stacked up against Jud. his pulse raced, not with fear but excitement, Valorat offered him a rare test and he was nothing if not an eager student.

His booted foot narrowly missed Valorat’s face, the older man turning deftly to avoid the strike, Valorat grabbed him by the leg and hurled him toward a nearby stone pillar. Carlos was ready for the throw however and regained his balance, rolling away from the incoming fixture with catlike grace. He moved forward and leaped over Valorat landing behind him and moving into a headstand before spinning with both his legs primed for striking.

Valorat was knocked back, booted feet smashing into his head and shoulder, a sickening crack signaled that the politician's collar bone had snapped. Carlos pressed his attack putting his forward momentum into lightning jabs with his right and left fist, vicious strikes slammed into Valorat’s neck and solar plexus, he stumbled back coughing blood as Carlos leaped forward and kicked out trying to knock his target off his footing. Valorat dodged and narrowly missed catching Carlos by his leg.

Carlos shifted position and with a well-timed kick, smashed into Valorat’s face, blood and teeth sprayed across the white tiles as the ailing defender fell back with a heavy crash. Valorat moaned in pain as he tried to spring forward, it was too late though. Carlos slammed a booted foot onto the stricken politician's leg, shattering it and causing the Valorat to scream in agony. Carlos reached into his belt and produced the silver feather, showing it to his wounded victim.

“Your employers didn’t appreciate your defection,” he said in a matter-fact tone without any malice

Valorat spat in his direction and glared through swollen eyes at his killer with a look of searing defiance, despite his usual policy of zero emotion, Carlos could not help but admire this man. Carlos gave Valorat a deferential nod.

“You fought well, your form was excellent, but flexibility? Lacking, adios” Carlos said respectfully before bringing his foot down and crushing Valorat’s windpipe with a well-placed stomp

“Merde!” Carlos cursed as he retrieved his pistol and noted the bloodstains


DNA, he might not have been in any Tardini database but any genetic traces could be a hindrance in future operations. Carlos checked his watch “15:00” he would need to hurry if he wanted to conclude his Aurorian operation in leisure and not a Tardini prison cell. Securing bleach from the kitchen he methodically removed any trace of his blood with practiced efficiency, then he went for his target's documents.

A meticulous library of financial documents, signed confessions, USB files and implicating photographs awaited Carlos in Valorat’s office. Grabbing a nearby bottle of alcohol, Carlos sprayed the incriminating information before lighting a match and setting the room alight. Moving back into the kitchen he opened a nearby gas valve before heading onto the Patio. He placed the silver feather on the bloodied corpse of Vilfred Valorat and then moved with speed for the rear entrance.

Moments later he was clear and driving at a comfortable pace down the sun-kissed coastal highway, in the rearview mirror a plume of flame filled the previously harmonious sky as the fire in the office reached the gas. Alarms shrieked and smoke flowed from the scenic villa, Carlos wiped the blood from his face with a free hand as he watched the chaos disappear from view.

The Skies Above Auroria

Carlos sipped a glass of tempranillo with a gloved hand, he smiled with satisfaction, Tardini wine was fast becoming a new favorite and he would need to remember to stock his cellar with a few bottles when he returned to Rio. His latest hit had been invigorating, between the frenetic pace and his genuine surpise at finding a target with some fight it had been well worth a few cuts and bruises, he closed his eyes and smiled fondly at the mental image of Valorat's fatal last battle. Now though he would fly back to Rio, his recent spate of activity required some downtime, lest authorities actually exercise their limited brain cells and begin to piece anything together. He would place flowers on his mother's grave, buy some more suits and perhaps visit the pier to partake of the season's best seafood, but the epicurean pleasures would do nothing to scratch his itch, only the morbid thrill of his calling could achieve such a release.

*San Salazar is a coastal district of Rio Verde, noted for its mix of upmarket housing, numerous shops and elegant architecture

Loose Ends

Kiroyev

Yamantau




Carlos gazed out the grimy window at the brutalist nightmare that was Yamantau’s capital. The centerpiece of a nation that had endured first a brutal years-long civil war and then a destructive foreign invasion, Kiroyev was equal parts decadent and broken. Great edifices of power, garrish complexes for the wealthy and influential, rose from the urban squalor around them like ivory fangs jutting out of rotting gums.

Carlos had however not come to admire the grim scenery; the lord of this benighted realm had offered the Verdean assassin a lucrative task. A thug that had proclaimed himself a Tsar, Ygor Szubrov had many skeletons hiding in his closet and likely twice as many buried under the foundations of his palace. To protect the image, he had so carefully cultivated, that of a noble tsar come to end the dark times, certain individuals would have to be removed, no one more so than Irena Kroto.

The premier of Yamantau had outlived her usefulness and her loyalty to the self-proclaimed Tsar did little to assuage his paranoia, she knew too much and Szubrov was unwilling to risk that knowledge becoming public. Enter Carlos, El Sagador was being paid handsomely to ensure that the premier would soon become yet another skeleton in the dark recesses of her master's closet.

He had been watching the premier’s movements for the past three days, her routine was so stringent it was almost painful to observe. Coffee was served at 7 am sharp on a daily basis and the morning run around the plaza was so meticulous that Carlos could have set his watch to her movements. It was amusing to think that the movers and shakers of the world, these would be secular gods who tried so hard to control every aspect of their citizens' lives, were just as trapped by their own routines.

For his part Carlos considered himself fortunate, the art of death was his only routine and it provided him with money, entertainment, and purpose. To imagine an existence like Kroto’s almost made him pity his target, as he sipped his coffee, he decided that what was to come would be a mercy killing. But how best to put an end to such a cloistered soul?

He had the backing of the powers that be, there would be no rapid response from the law, no, this was a question of artistry. Like a painter deciding how best to depict his subject, Carlos found himself in a rare moment of uncertainty. He had no qualms about getting his hands dirty, he frequently killed his victims up close, but in a city like Kiroyev, he felt drawn to distant and ugly solutions that mirrored the grotesque surroundings.

Elegance had its place, murder in sun-kissed locations demanded a certain sophistication, but Yamantau was neither sun-kissed nor particularly sophisticated. Thus, he had decided on a crude, but highly effective method, that of death by rocket. An RPG might have seemed overkill but in a country whose recent history was an endless tapestry of civil wars and bloodshed, it would make it easy to pin such an attack on anyone other than a paid assassin.

He stared through the view screen at the large penthouse window of his target, Kroto was in the midst of her usual evening monotony, alternating between staring out the window at the plaza below and half-heartedly reading a book on the coffee table. Carlos rolled his eyes in disgust, he hoped all Szlav’s were not so predictable.

In Rio’s slums, death was a way of life, at any moment you could catch a bullet or find yourself skewered on the business end of a knife. Reina Muerte* was the supreme god of the poor and she injected a much needed, if rather ironic, vitality into everything. The colors were more intense, the food and drink headier and the midnight trysts all the more enjoyable when you knew that each moment was potentially your last. Yamantau’s premier had not taken this philosophy to heart, she seemed to be living as though death had already arrived.

“Merde! This really is a mercy killing” Carlos muttered almost disappointed

He enhanced the camera’s viewscreen, so close that Kroto’s silhouette was visible if a little pixelated. He began to calculate his firing solution; the computer would do most of the work but he wanted to be sure. She watched from her window, taking in the sights of the plaza below, Carlos wondered briefly what she could possibly find so interesting in such an ugly landmark, then he pulled the trigger.

A rocket-propelled grenade shrieked free from its concealed launcher and hurtled toward the penthouse window. If Kroto was aware of her oncoming end she had little time to react to it, in the space of seconds, the rocket closed the distance and exploded in a violent detonation that shattered nearby windows and set off countless alarms. Amusingly, the incendiary element of the warhead added some much-needed color to the grim grey building, the fire adding a pleasant illumination.

Carlos finished his coffee and then pressed another switch on the console, the launcher he had rigged up days earlier was in a separate building far closer to the penthouse. Not having vigilant authorities providing close security for the premier had afforded an opening that was rare when dealing with heads of state. If the powers that be had wanted her alive, Kroto’s security would have easily discovered the setup in the abandoned apartment across the plaza.

The second button activated and the screen went blank as the camera and everything in the other apartment vanished in a second explosion. Carlos suspected that his attack would be pinned on the traditional rogue's gallery of rebels, ex-regime loyalists, and mafia scum. He found the blatant nature of the hit amusing and also a tad nostalgic.

He briefly cast his mind back to his youth, running with murder gangs in the lower wards, a mob of poor boys pulled to and fro by wealthy masters. Most of those comrades were long dead now, gunned down by police or disposed of when their usefulness ran out. Carlos was different, he had already pledged his life to Santa Muerte, a bargain sealed when he had burned his father’s bloated corpse on a trash fire.

He always remembered the words of his mentor, that aging stick insect whose nicotine-laced reek had made corpses smell practically fragrant by comparison. The old man had sat and watched as a young El Sagador had obediently mutilated his target without a word of complaint. When the deed had been completed, however, Carlos had been unable to hold back his curiosity.

“Why not always kill neatly” he had asked as his master had nodded approvingly at the carnage behind them

“Because sometimes the messy kill is the neatest, every murder is a message to someone and you always tailor a message to the sender, no?” The old man had said with a nonchalant shrug

That wisdom had proven useful many times before, not least in the present moment, El Sagador grinned and then put aside Nostalgia. He would fly out in a few hours and be done with this benighted city, he did have to admit however that he found the freedom offered by Szubrov to be exhilarating, he would consider taking more jobs from the would-be Tsar in the future.

Two days later

The Faishah Isles

Astragon



Carlos walked down the moonlit beach glass of cool palm wine in one hand and his shoes slung over his shoulder in the other. The scents of the evening filled his nostrils with their perfume, the heady mix of night flowers, cigarette smoke, and gourmet cooking filled the air. The woman that followed was equally disarming, her dark hair and golden skin resembling a model from a Dakari portrait*. Carlos had little understanding of affection, but a night of passion was a pleasant distraction.

“What did you say your name was again?” She asked in accented Faishari*

“I didn’t” Carlos replied with a rare smile

He would leave in the morning; she would wake and find more money than she had ever seen on the nightstand and would never have any idea how close she had come to death itself. He smiled, not because of the coming evening but in remembrance of Irena Kroto, a woman who had lived poorly and died spectacularly.

*Verdean folk goddess worshipped in Rio's lower wards, a deity of death and murder that acts as the personification of Rio Verde's seemingly endless spate of gang wars and murders. Can be asked to intercede via an offering of spent bullet casings and red carnations, but will take another life in return for sparing the supplicants.

*Famed Astragonese painter, spent 20 years in the Faishah isles, renowned for his figure studies and in particular his vivid use of black and gold.

*A native dialect of the Faishah isles, heavily intermingled with Mercanti and Hailesha

Виктор Цой - Апрель

Виктор Цой - Апрель

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​

The curious end of Gavrill Albane



On the day his father had died Carlos had smelt the man's reeking breath, it was like a miasma cloud of cheap wine, even the perpetual reek of sewage from the canals had not been enough to mask it. Carlos’s father had been a violent man, a combustible mix of misplaced pride and frustration with his lot in life, and on that day, he had been enraged.

Their tiny one-room apartment had become like the scene from a warzone, overturned chairs and screaming voices ricocheting off grimy stone walls. He had entered the house in a rage, bruises from his debtors visible on his face, a night of failed gambling giving way to a morning of impotent rage. At first, he had just yelled and thrown things, his usual habit after losing money, but then he had struck Carlos’s mother.

He had done that before, but this time as he loomed over her with a raised fist something had snapped, he had his back turned to Carlos, that choice would prove fatal. Carlos had moved without hesitation as if steered by some otherworldly force, the kitchen knife in his hand had moved seamlessly from Carlos’s side to embedded deep in his father's jugular. The man had fallen to the ground, eyes bulging and blood spraying out of his jugular like a broken faucet.

Carlos had felt nothing afterward, no regret and not a hint of fear, instead, he felt only a lingering satisfaction and a growing hunger to do it again.



****************************************************************************

Carlos awoke with a start and wiped the tell-tale cold sweat from his forehead, the dreams always ended this way, with him awake and disorientated. He slowed his breathing, waited for his heart to stop pounding, and stared out the window as the Norsian countryside rapidly gave way to the ancient sprawl that was Luscova.

The ghosts of the past had no bearing in the cold light of day, he had work to do. The silver guard, Norsia’s erstwhile fascist rulers had marked a politician for death, one Gavrill Albane. The details were of little interest to Carlos, he read the briefings to be a more efficient killer and not because he had any concern for the cause or ideology of either employer or mark. Years of murder in Rio had long since eroded any sense of loyalty to any cause save the art of murder and a lucrative contract.

“Who arranges the meeting is irrelevant, our sole purpose is the ensure that the target and their maker are united, all else is meaningless” Carlos’s long-dead mentor had often muttered between puffs of foul-smelling tobacco

Morals were a professional liability and ideals an ill-fitting mask for man's baser instincts, El Sagador had dispensed with both long ago, the only code he followed was the completion of the job to both the contractor's satisfaction and his own exacting standards. And so, killing for fascists held little difference to killing for communists or monarchists for that matter, different wallpaper, same bloodstained ambitions.

This was not to say that he never felt sympathy or indeed admiration for his victims, it was impossible not to develop such intimate understandings when you studied a person with the intent to end them. Gavrill Albane had until recently been the secretary-general of the luscova pact, his tenure had seen that nascent alliance rise to ever loftier heights as it added new members from across the globe. His tenure had also seen violence, disputes, and the fracturing of one of Era’s mightiest political unions.

Ultimately, perhaps inevitably, Albane’s own nature and past affiliations had been catalysts for his political downfall. A well-meaning communist, Albane had been accused of smoothing the entry for communist states, being a soft-hearted idealist in a world that demanded hard decisions, and perhaps most scathingly, being too weak to rein in the dark extremes that dwelled at the edge of the pact.

He had resigned late last year, been replaced by some hardnosed drillmaster who had quickly whipped the pact back into shape. Representatives had been shuffled, treaties amended, and offending nations expelled, the pact would likely survive far longer its former secretary-general. Albane had returned to Norsia a man adrift and in an effort to retain some sense of purpose, thrown himself back into local politics.

Retreating to his modest townhouse in the old royal district, Albane hadn't missed a beat, shame cast aside he was preparing to run for a seat in Norsia’s parliament, there was even talk of a potential campaign for the role of Prime minister. Carlos could not help but admire a man that had the ability to recover so quickly from what would have been a career-ending blow for others, this was irrelevant however, all Albane’s ambitions would come to nothing, he had a rapidly approaching appointment.

*********************************************************************************

Ironwood Lane

Old Royal District

Luscova

Norsia ​

Days had passed since his arrival, Carlos’s employers had excellent contacts within the Norsian state, the townhouse he now spied from was virtually adjacent to Albanes own. The camera’s he had discreetly installed up and down the property were feeding his screen with a wealth of data, Albane’s comings and goings recorded Ad Nauseum. For a man running for political office, Albane was surprisingly humble, traveling in an unremarkable vehicle with a minimal entourage.

His genuine and frugal nature would be his undoing, it was always men's life patterns that inevitably form the tangle which caused them to trip and fall. Albane had been leaving his home early, every day like clockwork he would exit his home and enter the black sedan parked on the curb. Day in and day out this hardworking soul stuck to his disciplined routine without exception. Carlos couldn’t help but feel amused, killing an honest politician was about as rare an act as impaling a unicorn.

The plan had coalesced in his head quickly enough, Carlos’s particular flair for remote tools emerging as the obvious choice. His skill with remote operations had been hard-won, honed from years spent around those who perfected the art of death, El Sagador’s talent for improvision had achieved a terrifying level of versatility. Provided he had the right parts, Carlos could turn even a child's toy into an implement of death.

Said toy now rested beneath Albane’s Sedan, a remote-controlled bomb strapped to the undercarriage of a child's toy car. It was early morning and Carlos was already preparing to leave, the camera’s programmed to short out when he pressed the right key on the disposable phone, and the computer was rigged with the same explosives as the improvised bomb on the street below. Carlos would exit through a prepared rear entrance, heading down a back alley and into the crowds of Norsia’s capital.

Albane did not disappoint, emerging from his house right on time with only a single bodyguard and his secretary at his side. He was smiling, making relaxed conversation with both his subordinates, even cracking well-received jokes, it was a far cry from the paroxysm of stress he had been during his tenure in the LP. At least he would die quickly, unaware of his fate until the last millisecond, it wasn’t often Carlos’s victims met their ends with merciful swiftness.

The car lights flashed briefly as Albane pressed the electronic key, in a gentleman-like fashion he held the door for his secretary before entering himself. Carlos waited for the bodyguard to enter via the driver's seat and then as the dark-suited man settled into place, he pressed the key on his phone. An ear-shattering blast tore upwards from underneath the car, bathing the stricken vehicle in a pillar of flame and throwing it up into the air.

The force of the blast shattered the windows of nearby houses and unleashed a mad chorus of shrieking alarms as nearby cars were triggered by the blast wave. Shrapnel and wreckage were thrown far and wide, embedding themselves in walls and pavement. The formerly unassuming black Sedan was now a smoking husk of burning metal lying stricken on its side, the reek of twisted metal and melting electronics filled the morning air with a pungent reek.

Carlos was already moving toward the rear entrance; he made his way out the door and down the narrow alleyway. He counted his steps, waiting for the right distance, when that safety had been achieved, he pressed the second key on the disposable phone, and a second earth-shaking bang filled the already maimed street, the townhouse he had occupied exploding and raining glass and brick down upon the road below.

Carlos threw the phone into a nearby sewer grate and began walking toward the oncoming plaza ahead, soon he was amongst the multitudes of frightened citizens being directed away from the blast zone. He blended in with the crowd and made his way toward the designated getaway car, a midland motors hatchback in blue, he entered the car and turned the key, a satisfying rev becoming audible in response.

Soon he was driving down Luscova’s side streets, using the route provided to avoid the rush of fleeing traffic and the surge of emergency vehicles headed for the site of the bombing. After several more minutes of driving, he was on the main highway, headed quickly for a private airport where a chartered jet waited to fly him out of Norsia. The Silverguard might have been a collection of vile fascists, but they paid well and money opened plenty of doors through which to exit.

************************************************************

The jet lifted off with impressive speed, taxiing down the runway and ascending into the clouds above with the seamless grace that only a professional crew could achieve. Such airlines were a useful, if occasionally flamboyant, tool for a well-to-do assassin. There was less scrutiny than on public flights and fewer chances of being caught by surveillance systems. Even so, he would be laying low for a good few weeks at his next destination, Norsia’s security services were renowned for a reason.

He suspected that both Norsia and Albane’s former employers at the Luscova pact would have a great deal to consider when news broke of his untimely end. But by that point, Carlos would be in another continent, safely sequestered by Era’s stubborn penchant for national borders and sovereigntist rhetoric. He took the wine the steward offered him with a polite thank you, the Tardini red a soothing palate cleanser for a well-executed contract.

Long Live the Queen

Royal Taveris Medical

From the moment he entered the hospital Dr. Emmanuel Ortega was the very embodiment of everything a doctor should strive to be. Punctual, Polite, and beaming as he made his way to his first shift, Ortega charmed everyone he met, the young doctor from Cojedes was already proving a worthwhile addition to the hospital's roster. Ortega came impeccably recommended, stints at Franktorf general and in several internationally renowned hospitals painted the picture of an exceptional physician.

There was of course one small matter, the fact that Emmanuel Ortega did not exist and that after today would cease to hold any tangible presence. Carlos almost regretted that fact, deep down a part of him wondered if he could have been Ortega, if circumstances were different if the world was a fairer place. Circumstances had not been different and the world rarely strayed from cruelty. El Sagador was here not to heal, but to end.

The contract was an unusual one, it called for the death of Queen Thalia of Taveris, a woman who was by all accounts already dead save for the minor technicality of still breathing. The ailing monarch had been in a coma since 2019 following a heart attack, now it was only the machine she was hooked up to that delayed her passing. Evidently, her family had grown impatient, the contract coming from someone within her own house, she had outstayed her welcome in the lands of the living.

He took the lift up to the private levels, his clearance would not be scrutinized, and having the support of the ruling house ensured that all his papers were in order and would remain so until the task was complete. While he waited for the lift to reach its destination Carlos pondered the nature of his task, had the royal house simply grown impatient? Or was this a form of revenge, a resentful son or daughter exacting punishment for some past slight?

It mattered very little of course, a job was a job and the only motivation that Carlos had ever required was the payment that came upon completion. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a sliver of macabre amusement, it was rare enough to be sent to deal with a comatose victim and the killing of a monarch was the equivalent of finding a unicorn or perhaps a sober Andrennian. His thoughts concluded as the door to the lift opened with an affirmative sounding ping.

Striding down pristine white floors, Carlos headed for the queen's private room, to his pleasant surprise there was no one waiting outside the door. The queen had been in a coma for three years now, the need for a constant security detail must have seemed a pointless expense, the woman was already dead. Carlos didn’t know if his employer had pulled strings with the hospital or if it was paella night in the staff canteen, but he was grateful to not be disturbed.

He opened the tasteful oak door with a gentle hand, stepping inside the room he was greeted by the repetitive beep and ping of life support systems and medicine pumps. Beneath a mass of tubes and electrodes lay the frail form of Queen Thalia IX of Taveris, her pale flesh barely visible thanks to the extensive breathing apparatus. It was an ugly sight, the sort of grotesque half-life that any sane person dreaded, Carlos would have taken a bullet to the brain over a coma any day of the week.

He would need to move quickly once the deed was done, there would be sophisticated monitoring equipment on the queen's body and it would alert her medical team as soon as things began to fail. Carlos moved toward the life support machine and pressed the power key; the machine began to shut down instantly. As life signatures began to fade the monitoring equipment started to ring out in alarm.

Moving quickly, Carlos pulled the pillow from beneath the queen's head and lowered it onto her face, completing his employer's grim request. The queen's life signs began to drop rapidly before flatlining entirely, Carlos nodded, and then he was headed for the stairs. Moments later a small army of medical personnel rushed down the corridor and into the late queen's room, but it was far too late.

As he moved down the staircase, Carlos began to remove all evidence of his assumed identity, ID card and medical coat disposed of in a medical waste bin, and the doctor's uniform replaced by the far less conspicuous garb of a humble janitor. Emmanuel Ortega effectively ceased to exist and the man that walked out received no second glances as he headed for the hospital carpark.

The vehicle waited in the agreed pickup location, a plain-looking midland motors sedan, Carlos got in and checked his flight booking, check-in would open in an hour and then he would be taken far from the continent of Gothis. He turned the key and the engine started up with a pleasing rev, moments later he was moving down the highway with the airport waiting not far in the distance.

*************************************************************************************

The plane gently ascended into the sky as the kingdom of Taveris vanished from view, Carlos promptly ordered a glass of wine and switched his console to the news. A steady stream of grim imagery and serious faces flashed across the screen as wars and natural disasters mingled with economic forecasts and sports reviews.

“Today Essalanean troops reported that they have driven the last remnants of New Aleman's army from their sector, General Alric Volkmann promised to stand with the Predicean forces until the end and will now be leading troops into New Aleman alongside the wider Predicean offensive. Moving now to Craviter the representative of Navisland has just addressed the Luscova Pact assembly, representative called the recent assassination of Gavrill Albane a quote “Crime against humanity” and called on fellow members of the pact to form a criminal investigation with the intent of apprehending the late secretary Albanes Killer” A stern-faced reporter read out the headlines with practiced delivery

Carlos smirked, the Pact was welcome to try, they had little evidence to work with and zero knowledge of El Sagador. He would soon be in the heart of old Radoslava enjoying the tranquility of the ancient Kozar capital, If the pact wanted Carlos, they would have to engage in a chase that would span entire continents.

A SILIEN GIFT


Principality of Sil Dorsett

City of Norvalle ​