Fifteen years ago…new Zealand.
Hunter lay in the grass, his breathing quickening.
The waves crashed against the cliff walls, causing white foam from the waves to spreay in all directions, as if trying to beat the life out of the sheer rock face that dropped straight down to the sea. With every crash he heard, Hunter felt as if it were crushing his heart into a million jagged bits.
They would not accept failure. He had tried to deny the mission. So hard. But it was no use. They had given him a photograph. The target. It was a young woman with red-blond hair and green eyes. The only information given was that she spent her holidays there. No name was given. But Hunter knew it. He tried to brush away the fear. The sadness and shock. But he had to get it done. There was no other option.
He heard the crunch of boots on gravel. Hunter stiffened, his entire body tensing. Not now, he pleaded with himself. Please, not now.
The woman stepped out on the cliff's edge, gazing out at the sea, the spray showering her face. The strong windswept back the red-blond tresses and ran through it with its fingers. She was the same as ever. Her eyes seemed to lock on a boat. Their boat.
No! His mind screamed. No! But his body and mind separated themselves once again. The mind of an assassin. He saw his own finger move. Heard the muffled bang of the silenced Desert Eagle. Caught the bitter scent of the gunpowder. Gazed as if in a trance at the Teflon-coated bullet that shot across the distance between them.
She had a surprised look in her beautiful eyes.
Then Caresse Thomas, special agent for MI6 special operations, swayed and dropped the terrifying seventy feet in to the sea that she loved so much.
A splash. And she was gone.
The other part of his mind screamed. It was the part he had lost so long ago. And now it came back to him. Not of an assassin, but of a lover.
He never knew what actually hit him. Never felt his finger pull back the trigger. He felt numb. He felt no pain. Just satisfaction. He had deserved this. He was going to die.
The life of a professional assassin is short. One day, any day, he might die on a mission to one country, any country. And Hunter's death day had come calling.
There was blood everywhere. The red clouded his eyes, blocking out all vision. The blood stained the ground crimson, watering the dried grass that needed it so much. Hunter's ears caught every movement in the world he was going to leave. The beauty that he never noticed.
John Rider, professional assassin, seemingly flung himself over the cliff's edge.
He sank, dep into the water. Darkness reached out to him with hungry arms and devoured him.
All was quiet.
The waters lapped silently at the rocks. Below Caresse Thomas and John Rider lay at peace. Together.
Stronger and stronger the waves beat against the rock, and rose in a crescendo that drowned out all noises. It crashed at the rock with savage fury. Foam sprayed vengefully at the rocks.
Cossack. He was young. He didn't react. He couldn't react.
He stared at the place where Hunter had been. Unbelieving yet believing at the same time. Hunter had once told him, "Assasins never cry. Crying gives you feeling, opens a door to your life". But as he looked up to the sea, a single teardrop formed, and trailed down his face, carving a lone white streak in the brown of the mud.