Assassin

Assassin

Shibuya, Tokyo
He knelt in a bed of trampled reed grass and scanned the entire complex he overlooked with a keen and trained eye. The printed sheet informed him that his target became a mark half a month ago. Soon said party would be in the obituaries in the following newspapers. The target, a small and portly Japanese businessman named Mizoguchi Daigo, currently the CEO of Mizoguchi Cybernetics Corporation, was barricaded deep within his mansion. Being his first contract, the Assassin was amazed that his predecessors failed to fulfill the contract.
The payment was totaled to 2.5 million, basic payment for a Yakuza hit. The Murata Clan were known for their vast wealth, so hits contracted from them totaled in the millions.
When the Assassin began to survey the complex the sky was clear and dark and moonless, a slight breeze stirring the air. As time passed, clouds rolled in slowly and a soft rain fell.
Ashura Shindo was seventeen years old, less than a year from adulthood. Thin dark eyebrows rested above his intense almond eyes. His clothes were dark and loose for camouflage, yet fitting enough for his advanced movements. A bayonet with three filed edges and a crafted handle was trapped sheathed at his side, a Kunai. His build was a slim but strong one, like most Ninja. A Ninjato, a katana sword whose blade was traditionally shorter than a normal Samurai sword, was slung around his back. Set on the ground before him was a case containing his long-range weapon, the Daikyu.
The Daikyu was a Japanese Longbow used mainly in the practice of Kyudo, or Japanese Archery. Ashura, being an expert of several martial arts and possessing an intricate knowledge of several weapons, decided to use this particular weapon instead of a Sniper Rifle. With this weapon, he could impale a man and nail him to a wall from 100 yards away.
Mizoguchi’s security force patrolled the yard, four in total, and Ashura knew what needed to be done. He drew the elastic back five inches, the metallic arrow set in place to be launched. The mental crosshairs he developed marked the guard closest to the front door, more importantly, on his heart.
All of the work from the past three days leads to this event. If he were to achieve his life’s mission and avenge his Family, he’d have to start at the bottom of the barrel. The development of his urban legend depends on his performance and thoroughness. He took a last steadying breath and released the elastic.
The arrow tore through the man’s chest, pulling him relentlessly to the concrete he stood before. Two guards that stood on opposite sides of him heard the clang of the metal arrow as it dug into the wall and moved to investigate.
With a steady arm and rapid succession, Ashura put down the interlopers with headshots each.
There was a single guard remaining. Ashura couldn’t proceed and ignore him; a loose end can prove to be fatal to even the most experienced Assassin. His eye immediately went to the pair of binoculars he had slung around his neck and began searching. He couldn’t allow the search to be in vain; the guard could very well spot his comrades’ bodies and sound the alarms, making the contract a mite difficult to fulfill. No, he didn’t want that.
The search nearly left Ashura bewildered, until the magnification of the binoculars caught the brief flashing and flickering of a cigarette lighter.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that smoking will kill you?” Ashura thought as he strung the Daikyu and anchored his sights two inches to the left of the flash. The guard used his right hand to light the cigarette, held it with his left, leaving his right arm halfway exposed from the wall he stood behind. This fact allowed Ashura to deduce that his head would be exactly two full inches to the left.
Ashura awaited the din of the cigarette’s lit end, which was as faint as the glint from a Sniper’s scope.
He released the elastic once again, and the arrow sailed through the stonewall that reflected the light of the cigarette and the nigh-faint shadow of the guard, hitting its mark seconds later. The guard was propelled from his balcony outpost and hit the ground with a soft thud.
Ashura dismantled the Daikyu and wrapped the arrows in black cloth, then prepared for infiltration.

“Sector one, what’s your status?” Richard Lambert, the chief of Mizoguchi’s Security Force, addressed into his headset’s microphone.
Richard Lambert was an ex-Marine who received several medals and was decorated twice for bravery in the Line of Duty during his time in the Vietnam War. Now in his early 40’s, Lambert employed his services as a Mercenary and a Security expert for hire to the highest bidder.
Recently, his highest bidder was Mr. Mizoguchi from Japan; his employment began a month ago, which was a main reason that the previous assassination attempts were unsuccessful.
But the latest Assassin was unlike his predecessors; Ashura was a warrior. He trained himself in the Arts of War, mastering several disciplines of Chinese and Japanese martial arts. This factor would soon enable him to fulfill many contracts and earn a great reputation in the Asian underworld.
There was no answer, no response to his question. This elicited a sound of slight puzzlement from the chief of security.
“Sector two, status report?”
No answer from sector two.
“All Perimeters, REPORT NOW!!”

In someone else’s point of view, this would’ve been a picture-perfect evening, a evident visual of a man’s wealth: the full moon shining through the soft rain, the view of the Japanese mansion and the helicopter pad in the center of the yard.
But as he swirled through the fragrant, dark amber-colored fluid in his drink glass, Mizoguchi Daigo could only think of one thing in his life that made this perfection impossible:
Fear.
Unbridled, Unadulterated fear. Fear that made him quiver.
At first he knew that dealing in the underworld and asking Yakuza for grant money to begin funding his projects wasn’t a smart move. Alas, he found himself with no other option; there were no other candidates for sponsoring.
There had been over 30 attempts on his life; the Murata Clan was known for being tenacious and persistent.
But all attempts were in failure. Mr. Lambert was a very experienced Bodyguard.
If he were to die tonight, he might as well be drunk, indulge in his liquor and flush the whole damned bottle. It wasn’t as if he was going to get another opportunity.
Mizoguchi took a drink and couldn’t help wondering how long he would’ve lived, had he chosen a different path in life. “How much longer do I have? Hours? Minutes?” he found himself saying out loud.

Lambert developed a sense of worry as none of his men responded to his calls. Lambert’s wealthy boss hadn’t said anything about his commission, why he and a number of Mercenaries were hired for his security force, other than the fact that Mizoguchi was afraid he’d become a part of an assassination attempt. This was a common factor.
Lambert assumed a corporate hit, probably a group of well-trained ex-military turned Mercs like himself, or hardened criminals holding a grudge.
His sense of worry became a feeling of immediate alarm as he saw the body of one of his men, impaled against the mansion wall. Blood trailed from the wound, a cigarette lit in his mouth.
The Merc’s first impulse was to hop on his headset and order his men to regroup themselves but a startling realization halted his hand.
His men were all dead.
Probably, he was going to meet the same fate, he thought.
Lambert’s senses dulled themselves as he pulled out a whiskey flask and uncorked it, taking a swig of the cold fluid. “If I’m gonna check out, I bloody might as well be drunk,” he said with a British accent.
He couldn’t see the shadow that crept silently behind him. Lambert’s drink went down roughly as he sighed contently.
Something sharp and cold stung as it pressed ever so lightly against the sweaty, prickling flesh on the back of Lambert’s neck.
“Do not move.” Ashura said in a low tone of voice. With a single digit, Ashura traced the nerve linings of Lambert’s neck. His fear and anxiety produced a large amount of adrenaline and endorphins. “Do you have children, Mr…?”
“Lambert. Richard Lambert. Yeah, I do, two girls and a boy. And you are?”
“There’s no need for that. Just be happy that I’m not killing you.”
“How much you’re getting for this hit?”
“2.5 Million, for eliminating Mizoguchi and destroying his computer. The computer bit was done an hour ago. I’m tying up loose ends.”
“So this is a corporate hit.” Lambert felt relieved, slightly.
“Yeah, if you’d consider Yakuza a mega corporation.”
The two shared an uncomfortable silence for what seemed like minutes.
“I can see you are a good person and that you’re just doing your job. Go home to your family. I won’t tell you again.”
The pressure of the blade slowly eased itself. Lambert took a deep breath and turned, edging ever so slowly.
No one was there; no one but the wind.

Ashura walked alone through the mansion, the bodies of the interior guards behind him in piles. His Katana sword’s edge dripped with blood. He allowed himself to be drawn through the mansion to his destination. His feet traced out a path through the doorways and hallways, taking him far from the beaten path.
To him, a gun worked well, but a sword felt like second nature to him. The blade felt as light as a feather while the hilt was stiff as a board in his grip.

Mizoguchi could hear the door creak open. He sat in his chair without moving or flinching.
As the teenage Assassin sent to kill him moved smoothly across the room, Mizoguchi, both frightened and amazed, allowed his gaze to drop to his glass of scotch.
He could barely make out Ashura’s distorted, ghostly reflection in the side of the glass. “So,” he said softly. “Here we are at last.”
Ashura did not respond, making a quick glance to his surrounding.
The businessman kept talking, his hand slowly reaching for the Beretta lining the seat of his chair. He clutched it and thumbed back the hammer gently. “The sword – the way you’re holding it signifies that you’re a martial artist. See yourself of the Samurai class?”
Ashura remained silent, but the comment made him scoff. It made him think briefly as to why he was doing this…
Vengeance. Retribution. Satisfaction. Those three words fueled his training for nearly eleven years. He studied the art of war, was a master of the martial arts, and followed the way of Bushido. In essence, Ashura was Samurai.
“So what happens now? You kill me, straight out, just cold? No monologue?”
The Assassin advanced two steps closer. “Don’t worry, Mizoguchi; it’ll be quick.”
Mizoguchi didn’t have a chance to finish his scotch, as he attempted to raise the Beretta and spin around to fire.
Ashura’s hands moved with blinding speed. His Kunai sailed through the air, stabbing Mizoguchi in the throat, but not before his sword impaled Mizoguchi with such force that it cleaved straight through his chest and pierced the back of the chair…right after the blade threaded through the trigger of the gun.
The Assassin’s disposition remained without emotion.
A faint sense of relief washed over him in an awesome wave as he made his escape.
Mission Complete.