Assassin of the Dark Order

Assassin of the Dark Order


The clouds hang low and threaten to burst open at any minute now, but that is of no concern to me. As I stand here I can see my target across the street sitting in an old dilapidated Buick LeSabre in an abandoned parking lot. I look around at the barren walls of the deserted office building and the room was as empty as I felt on the inside. I felt like this every time I had to do something like this, but it was my job. There is always a tinge guilt whenever I knock off one of my victims, but after the first few assassinations I don’t really feel guilty anymore, just empty.
I’m an old pro at this now but I still get nervous anytime a new assignment is given to me. It’s about time to do my job, so I walk over to the cramped little bathroom and turn on the faucet so that cold water splashes into the basin. I bend over and cup the water in my hands and let the cool drops roll down my face and onto the cracked, grimy vanity. As I stand back up, I look at my reflection in the stained mirror and all I see is a man that is dedicated to no one except himself and his “Dark Order.” I look into deep dark brown eyes set in a chiseled face, that seem to ask why I’m getting ready to do what I’m about to do. My skin is a little lighter than the color of my eyes from day after day in the scorching sun on long assignments. I look over my finely toned and lithe body, trained for the art of killing people. My size and flexibility are perfect for getting in and out of places that the normal person can not. They call me “Strider.”
I slip into my black, short sleeve muscle shirt that matches the color of my leather pants. I know it’s weird to some but it adds to the affect when I ‘m wearing my leather sir-coat which is what I’m reaching for now. I step back to the window one last time to make sure he is still out in the parking lot. I know he is waiting for someone to arrive and I guarantee you it’s not me.
I go outside using the back way, as not to alert my victim of his imminent death. I could have killed him from the upstairs window with my American made, PSG 1 sniper rifle, but that’s no fun. I like to be up close and personal with my “clients” when I “sell” them my “product,” DEATH!
I stealthily move through the darkened alleyway to the edge of the street. Now comes the fun part of the mission getting to my “client” with out him knowing. I look up down the street making sure no one is coming. No one is, so I proceed. Cautiously, ever so cautiously I crisscross my back and forth to the other side of the road. It has started to rain, so now I have to be even more careful and avoid puddles forming on the cracked pavement. I now crouch behind the car waiting for the right moment to move in. In my business it’s all about the timing.
As I wait water trickles down my face from my black, rain-soaked, shoulder length hair. I brush the water out of my eyes when I decide it’s time to finally move. Before I stand up I reach into my knee-length coat and untie the leather thong holding one of my favorite weapons, a crow bar. I know it’s not high-tech but it strikes more fear and is definitely just as effective.
I step out from behind the Buick gripping the steel instrument of death in my right hand. Moving in for the kill is a thrill like nothing else. It is like everything goes into slow motion so I can take every little detail in and my body seems to work on autopilot and I can see things from another body, it’s amazing. I can see the man’s face in the driver’s side rearview mirror and he still doesn’t see me. As I get closer I can distinguish his features and I pause to study them for a moment. His face is flushed from to many Jack Daniel’s, like the one he holds in his hand right now, and his eyes are bloodshot from an addiction to some sort of drug of which I can’t be sure. Most likely it is heroin, considering the people who were paying for his death. I raise the crow bar slowly as not to attract his attention to soon. Then it happens, everything slows as I bring the bar down. The evening air is suddenly filled with the sound of the window shattering and I feel the tempered glass give way beneath the force of the crow bar. The swing stopped when the bar struck the screaming man in the shoulder, I can’t tell if he screaming from surprise or from the pain that I’m sure the blow dealt. Either way I still have the satisfaction of knowing that I came upon him while he was totally unaware.
It seems like everything stops for an eternity but only a few seconds pass. I stand there and let everything settle around me. Still in slow motion I can hear tiny shards of glass tinkling onto the rain covered and steaming pavement and the sound of fabric scooting across leather as my “client” scurries across the front seat of his car in pathetic attempt to escape my wrath. As he scrambles to get the door open I calmly reach in through the smashed window and press the button that activates the power locks. I smile menacingly at him as the sound of the electronic bolt sliding into place seeps into his panic stricken mind, causing him to cower in the corner like a little child trying to hide from a Doberman pincher who broke his chain.
I savor the moment a second longer as I chamber a round slowly into Five-Seven N tactical handgun. Things are starting to speed up to real time now as I squeeze the trigger until I hear the slight “phht” of the bullet leaving the silenced, flash compressed muzzle of the pistol and the man slumps in his seat.


My job is finished and it’s time to collect the money that I was offered. The police will be here soon I’m sure, so I should leave this place but I must do one more thing. I place my signature next to the car. My crowbar with my name etched in the side so they will know “Strider” has struck again.