He had always enjoyed playing with them. He enjoyed tracking them, kidnapping them. He liked the moment when their eyes opened and they realized they were standing on death’s doorstep.
But this time, he felt only regret and a sense of anger. There was no reason for her death, not really. She wasn’t close enough to identify his employer, but his employer was a bit psychotic at times.
He chose his weapon, a razor blade. Such a simple weapon, easy to purchase, so simple to use.
“You know, once, when I was a very young child,” he mused, “I happened upon my mother.”
He ran the edge of the blade against her arm, just enough for her to feel the cold metal and to know her fate.
“She lay in her bathtub, naked, blood dripped from her wrists onto the floor, and her eyes stared at me with such perfect peace.”
He stared at her, and his mother’s face flashed before his eyes. Blond hair, blue eyes, fragile features. His mother had been perfect.
“She wasn’t dead,” he continued. “I knelt by the tub. I knew she had chosen that path, and I asked her why. And she smiled.” He smiled. “Because, she said, she loved the feel of the blade as it sliced into her vein. It was like a grape popping.” He shook his head at the thought. “Unfortunately, Mother was more into cutting herself than truly dying. She didn’t die that time, nor the next.” He patted her arm. “She didn’t die until I strapped her down to her own kitchen table and helped her along a bit.”
He had told this story many times before. Always he had seen shock or horror on the face of his victim. On this one, he saw only that faraway look in her eyes and the soft ripple of her lips as she whispered to herself whatever words she formed with her tongue.
Her arm was turned up, her wrist vulnerable, the vein pulsing just below the flesh.
With his free hand he reached down and allowed his thumb to feather over the vein, his eyes to stare at it with sadness as he laid the blade to it.
There it was. He groaned at the feel of the vein popping beneath the blade. He let it slice deep, severing the vein before he moved to her other arm.
Anger was rocking through him now. Damn the egomaniacal bastard who held his identity as hostage. Were it not for him, this woman would be smiling. She would not be dying. She would be blessing the earth with her presence rather than bleeding into the dirt.
“Say something. You’re dying,” he snapped.
He wanted her to fight, to scream, to rage. And she did none of those things. Did she regret nothing? Were there no sins that she had yet to atone for?
She said nothing. She stared above him, whispered soundlessly, and only the smallest flinch betrayed her awareness of what he was doing when he let the blade slice into her other wrist.
The vein popped open, severed, and spilled its scarlet bounty over his fingers. His eyes closed as the silken hot, rich sensation feathered over his fingers, into his hand.
His breathing was harsh now, uneven as he reached down and touched himself and began to pump the aching flesh as pleasure tore through him.
He watched her face. He had to time this perfectly. Just right. It was bad enough he had to wear a condom when he played; he wanted to at least achieve this ecstasy at the same moment as his lovely victim achieved hers. He might regret her death, but her beauty had always inspired him. Amazed him.
Her blood flowed sweet and dark from her veins; it fell to the floor and ran in scarlet ribbons along the cement as he watched her face, watched her eyes. Yes, she was close, so close. He pumped harder, and heard his own strangled groan as it left his throat.
“Die,” he moaned. “Die, sweet beauty. Die.”
The light slowly left her eyes, her last gasp of life fell from her lips, and the scent of hdivhe scener body giving up its final pulse of life threw him over the edge until a shudder of completion finally tore through his muscles.
Breathing hard, he gripped himself and stared at the bounty laid out before him. Beautiful, so very beautiful in death.
But when had she closed her eyes?
He watched her closely, his head tilting as he blinked back at her in curiosity. Her eyes were closed. There was no horror on her face, no blank fear or agony.
He stepped back from the body, careful not to step in the blood, and watched her in fascination.
Amazing, he thought. Such strength of will. Such beauty.
Mossad taught their agents well, he thought with a sigh. In all the years he had been taking lives, never before had he taken one who died with such grace.
“A perfect death,” he whispered as he breathed in deeply and smiled back at her in admiration. “Absolutely perfect.”
He moved to the head of the table, touched her cheek, then gently worked the knot of the leather that held her pendant free. He never kept mementos, but he couldn’t resist this one small part of her that he could keep always.
There was nothing left to do now but to shower, clean all traces of his presence from the small underground cellar he had used, and take his leave. Her husband and son would receive a call later with the location of her body. Once it was found, the money would hit his account. There was a particularly lovely villa he had his eye on in France.
After wiping the last traces of himself from the area, he dressed carefully, picked up his briefcase, and slid open the narrow door.
Outside, the nightlife was in full steam. Israelis did so enjoy their entertainment. The nightclubs were, as usual, packed.
Smiling at one particularly lovely girl who passed by, he drew his cell phone from the pocket of his jacket and made a call to his handler. At least he could trust the mousey little man who dealt with arranging his assignments around his other job. It was often difficult to be both a CIA agent as well as the world’s most secretive assassin. His handler managed it all very smoothly and, in all the years he’d had the job, had never breathed so much as a whisper of betrayal.
“I’m heading to the airport.” He never spoke directly. “My flight to New York leaves in less than two hours; please make the necessary calls.”
He closed the phone, pocketed it, and lifted his hand to stop one of the many taxis making their way through the streets. In less than two hours he would be heading to another job, another challenge. He did so love the challenge. But there was a heaviness in his chest as well. This job didn’t set well on him at all.
As he boarded the plane two hours later and took his seat, he unfolded the American newspaper he had bought in the airport. The front page caused his brows to lift.