A Journal Entry of an Assassin

Wednesday
         Oct. 13, 2015


         Dear journal,

         I have been having these reoccurring dreams; weird, unsettling dreams.
Children are laughing at a little boy as he walks out the doors of his school. The laughing seems to dance down the hallways. Ironic isn’t it, since the boy is going to attend his daily, afternoon dance class. Names echo in his wake as he hurriedly pushes past his classmates. Scorn and disdain permeate the very air he breaths and he can taste it. The sensation the flavor has in his mouth is so revolting that he almost vomits every time he inhales. I know this because the little boy with shoulder length black hair, and deep brown eyes that sparkle as if sprinkled with gold dust, is me. It’s me!
          I wake up in tears, with my father’s name escaping my lips each time. I remember as a child I would awaken in a similar fashion, crying out to my dad, but he never answered.
         My father was a creature of the night; leaving after dark and returning just before dawn. I spent many long nights staring into the pinprick diamonds of light, scattered liberally across the clear, black skies of an Australian night; wondering what my father did while he was out roaming through the shadows like some nocturnal beast.
         My father was in the United States Military, a career man. He would carry his 6’ 2” frame as if he ruled the World. His features were sharp, a pointed chin and high cheekbones that appeared to be chiseled out of stone. The lines in his jaw were so deep that if the rest of his body were not so well muscled, he would appear emaciated. If my father’s missions had not been so secretive he would have been the poster boy for the marines. So he lived a secluded life with my mother and I in the most desolate place on Southern Australia the Marine Corps could find.
         I was never allowed to attend Public school; for fear that I might let some small tidbit of information - that I may or may not have overheard - to the wrong person, and compromise my father.
         I did not know my father was an assassin until I was the age of ten when my father did not come home one morning and a military helicopter came in his stead. On board was a chaplain and a colonel. The sobbing of my mother still reverberates in my ears. Seeing my mother prostrate, tearing handfuls of grass from the earth, and screaming hysterically as the chaplain makes his futile attempts to comfort her; are still imprinted on the foremost parts of my mind never to be removed.
         

         We moved to the U.S. a few days after my father’s funeral and the humiliation began. See, my father had given specific instructions on what to do with in the event that something should happen to him. These orders were to enroll me into any martial arts training available: also, he desired to get me involved in acrobatics and ballet. The first two I didn’t mind, but I absolutely hated the latter of the three. I wondered what the purpose was and tried every angle to get out of it. Now I realize how beneficial it was for me: I can move more gracefully than a roe leaping over a fence or a cheetah racing through the plains of Africa. It has enabled me to move silently and swiftly, both of which are very important commodities in my line of work.
         My martial arts training was extremely extensive. I learned six different forms of fighting: Karate, Judo, Thai Kickboxing, Tae Kwon Do, Jujitsu, and Krav Maga- my personal favorite. I had one session a week for each class. My dance and acrobatic classes rotated every other night. I would go straight from school to the dance and acrobatics first, and then from there went to my martial arts classes.
         Everyone knew about my dance classes and that’s when the disgrace ensued for me. They would call me “The queer bait Aussi,” and I hated them for it. If they only knew about the classes and the reason behind the dance classes, they would change their tune.
         I had come to the realization that I would never be accepted in this country. I was socially illiterate from ten years of isolation from the rest of the world. Not only did I do things wrong - according the student body - my accent set me apart.
         It was during my teen years that I became molded into the man I am today. I had come to grips with the fact that I wasn’t accepted and became reclusive outwardly and inwardly. I withdrew myself from the rest of them; becoming nothing but a shadow that would drift across the hallways and campus like a mist driven by an unfelt wind. I wasn’t completely unnoticed and was inducted into the Dark Order, of which I can’t even tell you dear journal - though you are my best and only friend - any more about the Order.
         I abhor what my father did to me, yet my hatred has driven me closer to becoming just like him. I too am now a nocturnal creature of the night. Walking about, unseen and unheard, “selling” my “product” to my special “clientele.” I am an assassin of the Dark Order; that is my Job. Some assignments are more illegal than others, but that doesn’t matter to me. I am paid well and I am good at what I do. Though I hated what my father pushed upon me, I now embrace the inevitable and do what has been inbred in my very soul: KILL!



                                                                                                   STRIDER




         Thursday
         Oct. 14, 2015


         Dear journal,

                   It was dark, unnaturally dark. Almost as if someone threw a blanket over the moon and stars. Though I was in the midst of city no light filtered into the deep, cavernous, maze-like alleyways whatsoever. If I had not spent so many long, weary nights preparing myself for a life of darkness; I would be utterly swallowed by the ravaging beast we call the night.
          A north wind was sweeping through the canyons of the city, moaning and howling like some trapped spirit caught between life and the hereafter. It sliced through me as if someone had procured one of my gleaming, metal instruments of death and was cutting away. I pulled the collar of my knee-length, leather jacket around my neck in a futile attempt to keep the unwanted tempest at bay.
         With my coat wrapped tightly around my body - trying to ward off the cold - I pressed forward through the inky blackness of the night.
         Not only was I wearing my jacket for warmth, but I was using it conceal my tools from some roving eye. My black box of utensils was strapped to my lower back, filled with blades of all shapes and sizes. Some long and thin for a quick death from behind, and the others are made for various purposes; each used on a different part of the human anatomy. As aforementioned, some are made for quickness and silence, and the others are made for the more drawn out, torturous deaths; all depending on the situation and my orders, of course. My high powered, American made, PSG-1 Sniper rifle is dismantled and lashed to my upper back in a specialized carrying case that I had custom made for this purpose. On my hip I carry a Five Seven-N tactical handgun, equipped with a silencer and a flash compressor.
         I carried all of my weapons with me this time because of the magnitude of the assignment and lack of pre-op Intel.
         My target was a Russian diplomat. He was the ambassador to the UN. He served as the Prime Minister’s personal aid, and was a high-ranking military official. All of this was surface, of course. If you looked under the façade of the imported, tailored Italian suits, the finely combed hair, the flashy rings, fancy cars, and all of the titles; you would find a drug trafficking, a heavy arms dealer, a terrorist, and a prostitute-selling monster snarling back at you as if it wanted to consume alive - not that the people I worked for are any better.
         My contractors decided that Vladimir Korshefski was too much of a risk to their business, and he had shortchanged them some sort of drug deal. This is why I found myself wandering through the deep jungles of steel and glass, stalking my prey, as a lion would trail a wild beast before devouring it.
         I glanced at my GPS to get my bearings. I was only two blocks from the high-priced beach resort my “client was residing. I can’t mention the name for security purposes. I turned left at the next street and continued weaving through the shadows noticed by no one. It would be very unfortunate if they did.
         I slowed my pace half of a block further and came to a silent stop in a darkened doorway. I peered out from the darkness and watched to make sure all was clear before continuing. It was, so I slipped from the eclipsing shadow of the doorframe and ducked into an even smaller alley. The smell of cheap liquor and urine slapped me in the face as I slipped around the corner. I searched the blackness for the source of the stench. I spotted two feet jutting out from beneath a soggy refrigerator box. I warily made my way forward, keeping one eye of the cardboard homestead of the inebriated man, while I slowly reached for a metal fire escape.
I climbed up the ladder as quietly as the screeching, rusted out rungs would allow until I reached the top.
         Once on the rooftop, I could clearly see the west side of the resort were the Russian was staying. I slid the pieces of my PSG-1 off my back and began assembling it. When I finished I mounted the scope. I began scanning the windows of the sky-scraping hotel. As I wrote before, there was hardly any Intel. The only thing I knew was that this was the hotel that Korshefksi was spending his nights.
         I thoroughly searched each pane of glass trying to spot some sign of the scheming demon. I did not want to search each side of the building but I would if I had to. I was about to move on when the flickering of a light caught my attention.
         I moved to the edge of the building’s roof and laid down in the prone position. I lowered the bi-pod attached to the barrel of my rifle. Aiming the scope at the window, I found that my hopes had become fact.
         Seventeen stories up and twelve windows from the south end of the building, the Russian was in my crosshairs. My pulse quickened and adrenaline coursed through my veins, heightening all my senses, and putting every nerve on edge. That’s the difference between an elite assassin and the average cold-blooded killer; they kill for the adrenaline high they receive, but soon that becomes common place and they become careless and get caught. The assassin on the other hand spends many hours training his self to focus the underlying energy to enhance his five senses, instead of only enjoying the euphoria it brings. As I scrutinized the man’s face, memorizing his every feature, I slip a gloved finger over the trigger and pause. I wanted to watch him a moment longer before sending him to a closed casket funeral. I inhaled long and deep, and then let it out slowly stopping my exhalation halfway. I started to squeeze the firing mechanism. What?!
         Three scantily clad females entered the room and surrounded the diplomat, taking away any possibility of a clear shot. He was most likely testing his “product” before marketing it, or bribing some other corrupt diplomat. Men like this disgust me.
         Now I have to revert to ~ or should I say, get to ~ more brutal methods. I was going to take him out quick and painless, but he had to pleasure himself with his prostitutes. He should know that rule number one in marketing is, “a used product never sells.”
         With my weapon securely strapped to my back once again I dropped from the top of the building without a sound and looked around before walking towards the resort.
         
~

         I was standing in between two buildings across the street from the elaborate hotel contemplating my next move.
         I had to get inside as inconspicuously as possible ~ that was a given. I knew which floor he was on; that was a plus. A plan began to formulate in my mind.
         My completely black attire would definitely draw attention if I were posing as a normal patron, but not if was part of the Russian diplomats security team.
         I entered the glass double doors and walked straight to the front desk. It was large and ornate; the base was made of hand carved mahogany with a priceless marble top. My feet sank into the plush carpet as I marched across the expanse of the expensively decorated room with overstuffed, leather furniture neatly arranged around a streaming fountain made of stone inlaid with gold. It was breathtaking to say the least.
         I leaned against the marble countertop and look at the receptionist. She was an attractive girl; her face was small, soft, yet it was still angular framed by curly brown hair that flowed to the middle of her back. 
         She looked up from the romance novel she had been enthralled in. when she saw how I was dressed her face clouded over and she asked in a wary voice, “Can I help you?”
         “Yes,” I said. “I am with Vladimir Korshefski and his security team.” I wanted to say as little as possible and get out of there. If she were to give a description of me to somebody, I would have to lay low for a long time; detracting from effectiveness to the Order.
         She looked at me with more disdain than before.  Apparently she had met the man and was not impressed.
         “Go ahead,” she said, “the elevator is down the hall on the right.”
         “Thank you.”
         I turned and strode down the hallway until the sliding chrome doors of the elevators came into view. I pressed the arrow pointing up and leaned against the wall while I waited.
I watched as the numbers lighted up when the elevator passed each floor. 13...12...11. He will probably have bodyguards I’ll have contend with. 8...7...6. this will be tricky because I don’t want to draw attention by any unnecessary noise. 3...2...1. It was here. Time to move.
         I entered the elevator and punched the round button with the bold 17 on it. I sidestepped to the front left corner beneath the security camera. After I was sure no one could see me, I pulled the black box from underneath my coat. I selected three blades while listening to strains of Mozart wafting down from the speakers and I breathed it in like the very air I inhale. I slipped the knives from inside and return the container to its hiding place.
         “Ding.” The elevator had arrived and it was time to get down to business.
         I stepped out into a little foyer and made sure everything was in place. Handgun unsnapped? Check. Knives out and ready? Check. Nervous? Check. I was ready.
         I peeked around the corner to check for the Guards. There they were; enthralled in an animated conversation.
I eased back and slipped my hand around the handle of one of the knives.
         I had to move fast for the element of surprise. In a single bound I was across the hallway and against the same wall they were leaning against. The one closest to me was large and muscular; to the point of being massive. The one furthest wasn’t as big as the first, but he sure wasn’t small. They both wore matching black combat pants, and muscle shirts of the same color.
         The bigger man was blocking the view of the smaller man. So far luck had been on my side, but there is always the time when luck ends and skill begins. That time was right then. Staying low I inched my way forward. I was almost there. It was to kill them both.
         The hallway was empty. I reached for my gun then I changed my mind. Why not have a little fun with this . . . Hehehe. I slid my hand in my right jacket pocket and withdrew one of the three blades. It was about six inches long; half of an inch wide, and the thickness was no more than that of a hair. Very deadly. I was three feet away and invisible to either of the two. I took two more steps and flew into action.
         Staying out of the view of the smaller man I lifted myself a few inches. Before the man knew what was happening, I plunged the knife in at the base of the skull severing the brain stem and killing him instantaneously.  A look of horror flashed across the big man’s comrade as he gazed at the gleaming blade covered in blood, protruding out of his friend’s mouth.  Before my first victim hit the floor and the second could let out any warning, I closed the distance and struck the man in his throat with my well aimed fist. I felt his larynx collapse under crushing force of the blow. He dropped to his knees, trying desperately and failing to catch his breath. I slowly circled the man, watching him with eyes seemed to be the epitome of evil themselves. He gazed back eyes wide ~ whether from fear, pain, or both I did not know ~and becoming blood shot from the lack of oxygen to the brain. When I was behind him I placed my hands on his shoulders; he jolted as if I were electrically charged. I leaned over. My lips were an inch from his ear, then I whispered, “Striiidddeeerr.” that was the last thing he heard before he crumpled to the floor with a broken neck.
         Now. To the fun part. Vladimir Korshefski was inside his room, separated only by an inch and a half of solid oak. I searched the guards and found the key on the smaller one. I put the key in the lock and turned it ever so slowly. I eased the door open a creak and peered in. I knew something was up because it was completely silent. No music, no talking, no girls giggling, nothing.
         Before I entered the room I grabbed my Five Seven-N and chambered a round. I pushed the door open further and followed my weapon through the frame. The room before me was immaculate. It was spacious and well decorated; a contemporary Italian style. There were priceless tapestries hanging from the walls alongside an original DaVinci. All of this would do him no good now. I hoped he enjoyed this evening for this evening was his last.
         All of a sudden, seemingly out of nowhere a baseball bat was screaming towards my head. I threw my arm up, more out of instinct than anything. The bat clashed with my forearm sending my gun soaring through the air. I fell back in pain and .shock; now my weapon lay well out of reach.  I jumped up. My arm throbbed.
         How did he know I was in there? They must have had a camera placed somewhere outside the door. But I didn’t have time to wonder about it. 
         My attacker flew at me, bat in hand and face contorted in anger. He was somewhere around five ten, medium build, muscular, blond hair, his face was full but not fat, but most noticeable thing about him was his eyes. Bright blue, like two of the finest emeralds had been cut into identical orbs and placed into his eye sockets. Right now they were ablaze as if a fire was burning within them. Comparing this face to a mental snapshot, this was the man I beheld in scope of my sniper rifle not forty five minutes earlier.
         The Louisville Slugger was coming at me again. This time he was trying for a homerun hit with my head. I ducked and the plaster on the wall behind me exploded from the impact showering down on my shoulders and back. I pushed off the ground with the balls of my feet, driving my head into his sternum pushing him back. He dropped the bat and we both hit the floor in a tangle of Arms and legs. We grappled for a full three minutes trying to get the Advantage on one another. He lashed out raking his fingernails across my face; leaving five trails of blood in their wake. Infuriated I crashed my elbow into his right ribcage with a satisfying “crack!” he collapsed on top of me pinning me to the floor. In this moment of weakness I take advantage. His neck was exposed.  I snapped out and sunk my teeth into his throat and clamped down. I could feel the trickle of his blood seeping into my mouth, filling it with a coppery taste.
         In reaction he jerked away. Bad idea. He was free from my grasp but a hunk of his flesh was still in my mouth. He screamed in agony and grasped at the gaping wound in his neck. I just stared and blood gushed around his fingers. I spit out the chunk of meat and smiled menacingly; blood dripping from mouth.  I stood up and he backed away panic in his once intimidating eyes.  I placed my fist in his jaw with a formidable amount force; sending him to floor. I dropped my knee into his solar plexus causing him to squirm under the pressure on his lungs. I reached under my left pant leg and retrieved a dagger that had been strapped to my ankle. In one quick motion the knife had slid under his fifth rib and into his evil heart, ending it all.
         I sat on top of his body to exhausted move at the moment. After I had caught my breath I stood and went out to the hallway and drug the bodies of the exterminated guards into the suite, out of any ones sight. As I placed their bodies next to their employer’s body I paused to stare at the carnage. I had to get out of here. Someone undoubtedly heard the tussle between the Russian and me.
          I walked down the hall to the elevator. I hit the down arrow and waited. When the elevator arrived I stepped in and punched 1. The ride down was silent and sullen. I rehashed the events of the evening in my mind and smiled; another mission accomplished.
         “Ding.” the elevator doors slid open and I strode out into the opulent reception area. As I reached the glass doors I paused, turned, and waved to the girl behind the counter and said, “I wish you the finest of nights Miss.” she smiled and waved. If she only knew. I turned and disappeared into the desolate night.
         The police would arrive to find three bodies. Two laying in the floor and the other sitting regally in a leather chair ~ as regally as a dead man can that is. The man in the chair wore no shirt, just the word “STRIDER” carved in his chest.

                                                                     Good night dear journal,
                                                              

                                                                                                   Strider