How to Escape an Assassin

0: Prologue

Tristan Fabiano, known as "Ghost" in the world of assassins, sat unnoticed in the dark corner of a strip club observing his next target. The nickname was coined by the head honcho of his agency's intel division. When the two first met, he had went on and on about how Tristan had the most lifeless expression he'd ever seen on a breathing human. Add to that, Tristan hardly ever spoke to anyone other than his two siblings. The way Tristan saw it, the less you spoke, the less people knew about you, the less mistakes.

But Tristan later came to truly own the name "Ghost." His every mission was executed from the shadows. Clean kills only. No face, no trace, no case. If there were ever witnesses, they believed the murder culprit was an unseen spirit or ghost.

His pudgy colleague Forrester from the intel division nervously approached him with a briefcase. "Hi, Ghost." The modulations of his pitch were a clear indicator of how utterly afraid he was to be in the Ghost's presence.

Tristan took a slow draw on his cigar and exhaled the smoke into Forrester's face.

Forrester scrunched his nose and turned away coughing. "Well, uh, here's the updated information on J." He set the briefcase on the small table. "Your brother Felix had some run-ins with his associates but didn't cover his tracks well. So J's been alerted."

Tristan gave a slight nod. The news didn't come as a shock to him. Felix was a much less proficient assassin than he was.

"Felix is working on the Rusinov case," Forrester continued. He swiped a trickle of sweat off of his shiny bald head. "Alias Yvette. After sixty years in hiding they finally found her in a suburban neighborhood not far from here. She's just a harmless old woman now, but you know how it goes—X never shows mercy."

Tristan nodded again, more slowly this time. The name Yvette didn't ring a bell.

"So, er," Forrester adjusted his necktie and cleared his throat. "Since we're already here... want to get a front row seat and enjoy the show?" He looked around the club excitedly, and when his eyes fell on a voluptuous dancer he let out an extended moan. "Oh my gosh... I'm getting a hard-on just from watching the redhead. Her a*s is a perfect bubble."

"Get away from me," Tristan said in disgust. His voice was gravelly and rough. He waved Forrester away as if shooing a mere insect.

At 23 years old, Tristan wasn't particularly interested in women—or anything for that matter. Concepts such as lust, hope, or joy were all foreign to him. There was nothing on this earth that elicited a spark in him. But that didn't bother him. A ghost didn't need to have feelings anyway.