Assassin - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
He booked the assasin so long ago, a revenge served as cold as his heart. He planned the build up to her death, how he would be so friendly and help so much. He would be the guy everyone said was great. Then one day Assassin_Red would do what he'd been paid so much for, drip fed over time from many different bank accounts. The money was a broken and vanishing trail, and by his dark-web rating, her death would be slow and painful, the slower the better and on camera. He wanted to watch it live, so that he would know the exact moment her life force had left the world. Then he would keep it so encrypted that only he could savour it for the rest of his days. He had started to look forward to the act of mourning her and sharing the grief with their children, the martyr father, so aggrieved.
Watching him take a sip, it took my every urge not to swat the glass away, yet his was the only way to save my own life. He tilted his cup higher, drinking the entire thing in one swig, and wiped the remaining red liquid from the bottom of his lips. I wondered how long it would take to go into effect. I wondered how long it would take before he became dizzy and forgot where he was, or before his vision blurred together and his body went numb. Minutes? Hours? How will the occupants of the restaurant respond? I try to keep my thoughts off my face. Everything seems to switch into slow motion. For a moment, I doubt myself. Did I poison the correct glass? His lips are moving but I do not hear a single thing, not even the piano player striking those ivory keys. I watch those lips until I flit over to look at his eyes. Is this the last time I will ever see them? This is. This is the only way I can live. A fair trade, one could say, one life for another. His hand reaches across the table. Just his touch alone sent shivers through my body. Guilt is creeping into my gut. It takes all of my strength to withhold tears. he stands from the table. What is he doing? He digs in his pocket to reveal a black box and falls to one knee. A gorgeous silver ring is revealed. Its lone diamond lights up the dim room. I stand as well, one hand cupping my mouth and the other holds my heart into place. Tears are streaming down my face. I can not hold back any longer. He smiles. He must think these are tears of joy. It quickly fades as he begins coughing, and coughing. The ring tumbles to the ground with him. Wine colored blood has stained the floor.
Daniel Matson eyed the weapon with bleak gray eyes, the eyes of a hunter framed in the passionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands were steady as they lifted the gun and tried a dry shot at an imaginary target. He nodded to himself. He was ready. Carefully he laid the rifle down on the mattress which covered the floor of his firing point, and looked out through the hole in the brickwork to the narrow canyon of the street below.
He maintained a cool detachment to his targets. Mostly he preferred not to think of them, but when he did it was as if they were already dead - walking meat bags waiting to be despatched to the butcher. He thought of them as meeting their destiny and he was merely the conduit. Everyone has to die sometime, and he considered it a good way to go. No illness, no drawn-out goodbyes. They were just happy and oblivious one second and gone the next. Simple. Convenient. Painless.
The assassin was as agile as an olympic gymnast, although she preferred to think of herself as a ninja. When she had embarked on her career she hadn't been certain it was the right choice for her. She had thought an assassin had to be cruel and coldhearted, which wasn't her at all. She was just efficient, like a secretary. It's just that instead of dispatching invoices and emails she dispatched people to whatever came after this life; like an anti-doctor.
To the assassin it was just like another day in the office. Except his office was a windy roof-top overlooking his target's downtown apartment. His tools, rather than a computer, was a state-of-the-art rifle with telescopic lens. There was no need for a silencer, the noise would be lost in the droning of the traffic below and most likely mistaken for a back-firing van. He took aim with no more qualms than one would gossip about a colleague, then squeezed the trigger while thinking of the coffee he would order at Starbucks. He took no satisfaction in the killing, but he took enormous pride in getting a good clean kill. He had a reputation to maintain and that reputation guaranteed his exorbitant fee. He took his time packing his equipment into an inconspicuous ruck sack.
He sighed a sad sigh. He preferred not to assassinate people, he preferred to be a diplomat but of course times called for it. The food was called up in a banquet of colours celebrating a victory. Himself he tried some meat the bursted with flavors like a bomb ticking he preferred not to eat; for professional reasons of course but he didn't care. He decided that he needed a toilet and got up to relieve himself. He patted someone on the back so entranced was he at his food and japes around him: he didn't notice. He left coolly and calmly never thinking to how his hand moved in a blur as the poison was set to end his life like a bomb tik tok.
The assassin adjusted the bust-line of her ball gown and smoothed her blonde hair back, removing the hair-pin vile of poison. In seconds the contents swirled in bourbon and her smile was truly vivacious as she handed it to the man in the bow-tie. He gazed at her for a moment, something playful behind his usually grey eyes, and took the shot back in one gulp before taking her hand. In those few final seconds he was quite boyish and his killer could see everything his mother must have loved about him, a spirit that must have attracted friends and lovers in equal measure. He barely had time to register that something was amiss and never felt his collision with the floor.
Being an assassin had its perks. A new city every week, hotel life with no dishes or chores, new clothes every day - the old ones discarded at thrift store doors. Alexa sucked back a double espresso and browsed the newspaper, ten minutes to kill before her next job officially began. She'd barely raised the cup when Mr Punctuality walked in early. Damn. That would be an extra charge, leaving a perfectly good cup of coffee on the table offended her morals. She couldn't even do a silent whack and drain the cup before leaving. Following this man was part of the job, they didn't just want him in a morgue by sundown his entire crew had to be laid out with him.
Tom took the prone position, the crosshairs locked onto the steps of the bank. Everyone and their dog seemed to be determined to get in his way, milling ant-like on white concrete. He cycled through the jobs he'd been offered in the last week, killing the boredom by selecting his next employer. There was more than money to consider. The city was important, if there was a favourite girl of his there the job was as good as taken. He recalled the offer from New York and smiled, the big apple meant time with Sarah. His smile had barely set on his weathered skin when the mark appeared, crisp in a feminine suit. He squeeze the trigger and set about packing up, his mind returning to Sarah...