Contract

Chapter 6: Merci

Rilee's POV

Even when Rawen dropped me off at home his eyes were flaring a fiery red. I jumped out the car and shut the door, Rawen raced back to his house. I wasn't often scared of Rawen. Not because I could defend myself, but because I knew he would never hurt me. Today, I doubted that.

I scampered to my front door, the hair was not there since I couldn't replace it without Rawen seeing. But the fake key above my door hadn't moved, so unless the lock was picked (which I doubt it was since it was designed by Fluellen) no one has been inside. I dug in my pocket and pulled out my keys, unlocked the door and stepped inside. I automatically closed the door, my house was exactly as I left it. I locked the door behind me, and hustled to the garage door where the alarm was. I pressed my finger on it, it beeped, and the alarm was off. I never doubted my alarm. It was a good backup, but I never counted on it alone. I turned back to my living room. It was modern, minimilistic. Just the way I liked it. My eyes fell on the bookshelf, it had been long since I had been inside of it. Chemicals, lasers and whatnot, all the modern things I had been using. Sure, they were effective. But I never felt in control. I was not the one pulling the trigger, slashing the knife. I had less control, I didn't like it that way. I had grown up watching my back, always making sure I could save myself. I was the only one who always had my back.

I walked over to my bookshelf, examining it carefully. There was dust on Good Morning Mr Mandela, the book that was the key to my safe room. The hair that I had placed on top of it was also there.

"All is well," I said aloud.

I slipped out the book, behind it was a safe. I twisted the code five times before it gave a satisfying click. The bookshelf slid to the side, revealing a new Magnesium based alloy door. I placed my finger on the scanner pad, it recognised me. I heard the sliding of metal, a click came from within the door, and it began to slide open.
A dim metallic light illuminated the neatly organised room. I stepped inside the safe room, to my right was a large, blue safe that was cocooned in the wall. On the far corner was a shower, I would always shower after a job. It cleared my head, when I got out I was a new person. The Rilee that wasn't an assasin. The rest of the room was bare.
I spun the 12 digit code into the correct combination, the door clicked. I spun the handle exactly three and a quarter times, any more or less and it wouldn't open. I heaved the heavy, armor plated door open, inside the safe was my collection of weaponry. My Remington MSR, the latest sniper rifle I ordered rested next to my Winchester 7mm. It has an interchangeable barrel, I could change its calibre within three minutes to a 338 Lapua Magnum, .300 Win Mag or a 7.62 NATO. Next to it was my trusty 7mm, it had saved my life numerous times in Iraq. Accurate, hits hard, it was the perfect weapon for an assasin. As is my MSR, although it was yet to prove itself. On a rack above the deadly sniper rifles lay my Salient Arms Tier 1 AR-15, complimented by my Salient Arms 1911, a striking pistol. Beneath everything was a compartment where I kept my ammunition, and also my knives. I had everything from tracer rounds, armor piercing rounds and even explosive rounds. But in a world of lasers, high-tech weaponry, where bigger and louder stunts were becoming the norm, I often found myself returning to my unsophisticated knives.

I admired my lethal collection.
The people whose lives were taken away with them didn't bother me, most of them anyway. And then there's the one that got away. I found myself rubbing my left pinky.

3 Years ago

Pas-de-Calais

France

I wore grey, forgettable clothes. I kept my eyes to the ground, anyone who wasted a second of their lives to look at me would see nothing of suspicion. Tucked away in my sleeve, a black, menacing blade went by unnoticed. Tiny segments of hairs fell down my sleeve, the surgical blade trimmed my hair. I was aware of this, as was I of everything else in the monotonous bus. I carefully examined each passenger. Of the 27 in the bus, 18 were citizens. Seven were tourists, six of which were a family huddled together in the front of the bus. It was the seventh tourist I was interested in. She was born in France, but spent more time out of the country then in. Two stocky businessmen rambled on behind me. I gazed at the seventh tourist, she was sitting uptight, watching the door.
This must be her stop, I thought. It was. I pressed a small red button above me, the bus driver slowed down and pulled up on a dimly lit country road. There was a small village just down the road, oddly though there was not a bus stop there. But I knew that. I also knew the adress of the woman that now stood and hastily walked out the door. I followed her out, the bus driver pulled away. As I stepped into the pavement, I caught a flash of the fox's face. Sullen eyes watched me for a second, a scar on her jaw appeared for a briefly before she walked down the road into the shadows. This was her, la cible. The target.

I walked next to her, showing no interest in her at all. We were walking up to a streetlamp, once we were in the shadows I would do it.
The little village was quiet, cocooned in its fake belief that there was such a thing called safety. A hard life in the shadows taught me differently. I glanced at my watch, it was 8 o'clock.
The light that clawed at the pavement slowly lost its grip, we walked once again into the shadows of a moonless night. I checked that there was no one watching, there wasn't. In a lightning fast movement, I tackled her off the road and down the shrubbery slope next to the road. She let out a slight welp, as we rolled to a standstill I climbed on top of her and wrapped my paw around her neck. Her eyes widened in terror, and I slipped the blade out of my sleeve. She attempted to scream but her voice was cut off as I tightened my grip. I looked into her eyes and saw fear. But not fear for herself. I had made the mistake of looking at her personal file, I knew she was scared for her 4 children at home that didn't have a father, and in a few seconds wouldn't have a mother. At least one that breathed. I also knew why I would be killing her. Which went against the golden rule of all assasins: never get to know your target. A number is all they should be to you. She was more. The people I worked for were being paid good money by nameless human traffickers to take her out. Genivee Aida was considered a pest. She had helped the "cargo" escape, over five thousand children owed their freedom to her. Now her head was worth over seven digits.

As I lifted the knife, she spluttered out two words.

"Les enfants."
The children.
I couldn't do it. Killing the vile, rich and the evil was okay with me. This was not. I let out a sigh, slowly lowering the knife.

"Aller," I said. Go.

Learning French was mandatory in Fluellen. They also provided several other language classes, many of which I hoped to take. But as my targets got more powerful, smarter, richer, the odds of me surviving long enough was plummeting.

I climbed off the shaking lady, she cleared her throat and looked at me, although I made sure that we were in the dark and she wouldn't be able to see my face.

"Merci."
Thank you.

I didn't feel thank you justified it. Silence would have been sufficient. She ran off, and I slipped into the cover of darkness.

One and a half hours later

Agincourt

France

"You failed, Mr Goodridge. We do not tolerate failure. You knew the dangers when you signed up," a pale, Russian czar said through a wispy white moustache that trailed over his mouth like vines. I nodded, gulping audibly as he raised a baleful, silenced pistol to my head. I sat in a neatly furnished office, in the more affluent side of Agincourt. The time was nine thirty.

"Mr Blatov, this is not necessary. Mr Goodridge had proved himself a valuable asset. It would be a shame to let him go for such a petty error," Mr Fred Adel pointed out. I felt my muscled relax slightly.

"But punishment is necessary, I would not like to see a mistake like this made again. Next time you will be punished severely, as Mr Blatov has said, we do not tolerate failure. Give me your hand," the scrawny, German dragon said. His white coat was polished and pristine, just like he was. I cautiously lifted my left hand, he took it with his slender fingers, his claws combing my fur. Then he pulled out a knife.

It was small, but I knew that the man holding it was lethal. He placed my hand on his desk, pinning my left pinky down. He raised the blade to my finger, pinning the tip on my tendon. He looked at me, seeing if I was going to pull away. I wasn't. Those who did that were disposed of.
"Mr Goodridge, you will not make this mistake again." He stated.

"No, sir."

"I should hope not. I am letting you off lightly; very rarely do people leave my office with 10 digits after something like this. But I like you. I like the way you work. Now sod off, and keep your wits about you."
I stood up and walked out the office, rubbing my left pinky.

Current day

I jerked my hands apart, the memory flooding me. It had been four years since I started.

I closed the door, slid the shelf back in place and opened my laptop. There was a job.