Apologies for the stupidly long gap between updates! My Internet has been down :( *Curses technology!* Anyway, back now, here's chapter two!!
Chapter 2
Alicante, Spain. August 1994
The sun beat down on the hunched backs of the tourists in the street as they scurried from shadow to shadow. Locals stood in the shade of their stalls, calling out in halting, accented English. Girls sat in the sparse patches of shade that the trees provided, while chattering local women braided their hair into painfully tight plaits, forming delicate, intricate patterns.
And through it all, Yassen walked. The crowds, tourists and locals alike, parted on either side of him, and then merged seamlessly once he'd passed. He seemed to deflect people, and they automatically moved out of his way without even realising it. He could have been invisible.
If anyone had noticed him, however, they would have seen a slim young man, with a sleek, lithe body, clothed in a pair of loose jeans and a short-sleeved white t-shirt that showed to perfection the perfectly chiselled muscles of his chest. His hair was blonde and cut close to his head and his skin was pale, despite the bright sunlight. But they would have noticed his eyes most of all. They were pale blue; ice blue. And they were completely cold. Behind them, there was nothing; no glimmer of humour, no spark of anger. They were blank and merciless.
They probably wouldn't have noticed the knife strapped to his waist. Or the gun in the holster at his hip. They wouldn't have noticed the rifle in the bag he carried over his shoulders.
He moved swiftly through the press of people, ignoring the heat. It was just another factor in this mission, and one that he was prepared for. The building he was heading for loomed out of the heat haze that surrounded him, and he turned towards it abruptly, eyes flashing left and right, checking that he wasn't being followed. Darting across the busy road, he vanished into the cool interior of the hotel and, his gaze whipping over each of the people in the foyer, sizing them up, he turned quickly.
An elderly couple came in behind him, swerved around him, and then continued towards the desk, both leaning heavily on walking sticks. Yassen kept a portion of his attention on them for an instant, while his gaze remained fixed on the street outside. But no one followed him in and a moment later he turned round again.
Moving lightly, he strode the length of the lobby, ignored the lift, and stepped into the stairwell. He climbed quickly, aware of the movement of the rifle in his bag. But he had made sure it was securely packed in, so he wasn't unduly worried about it. Even so…
He reached the roof with a few minutes to spare. The heat hit him almost like a physical force as he stepped out into the sunlight again. He paused, brushed a trickle of sweat from his eyes and then continued towards the edge of the roof.
He wiped his hands on his jeans, hating the feeling of the sticky sweat on his palms, and then pulled the rifle out of his bag. The dulled metal barrel glinted black in the bright sunlight as he assembled the weapon. It was a lightweight rifle – a Beretta RX Storm, handmade for him. It fit exactly into his shoulder. Leaning it against the wall, he dropped to one knee and quickly thumbed three bullets into the magazine. It was less likely to jam if it had more than one round, and this way he had an extra shot if he missed the first time. He snapped the clip into place and stood up, lifting the rifle. He held it with the barrel pointing down and stepped to the edge of the roof to survey the street below.
He had memorised his target's face – naturally – and now he scanned the sea of tanned, squinting faces for one that was familiar. He laid the rifle down on the top of the wall and leant over it, his brow furrowed as he tried to find his target in the street below.
There. A flash of dark hair, marred by three streaks of gold-blonde on the left hand side.
Yassen could almost feel his vision sharpening as he zeroed in on the man in the street below. He was still about fifty or so yards away, walking along arm-in-arm with a girl of about eighteen. Yassen hardly spared her a glance as he picked up the rifle again.
It was easy to straighten and pull the butt of the rifle into his shoulder. It sat naturally in his hands and his gaze shifted instantly to the scope. He could see every hair on his target's head; the lines of sweat in his furrowed brow; his dark, watchful eyes flicking everywhere.
Yassen stepped closer to the edge of the roof and aimed the rifle.
Sunlight flashed up the barrel. From the street below, it would have been the merest flicker of light. A tiny glint that vanished almost instantly. But the target saw it. Head turning, he brought a hand round and pushed the girl behind him. His hand plunged into the pocket of his khaki coloured shorts, fumbling for the gun there.
He didn't reach it in time.
The bullet entered his chest right above his heart, ripping through tissue. It passed into his heart, smashing a hole through it, hit a rib, bounced upwards and finally buried itself in his shoulder blade. His hand stopped, halfway through drawing the gun from his pocket, and he staggered. Not breathing, he half turned, feeling his knees buckle, and then he pitched forward onto the pristine pavement and, surrounded by screaming pedestrians, his sobbing girlfriend, and a spreading pool of his own blood, he breathed his last and died.
When someone had the presence of mind to look round, trying to see where the sniper had been, Yassen was already back at ground level, strolling unconcernedly through a back street a few hundred yards away. The rifle was back in the bag and out of sight. A few hours later, he climbed on the plane that would take him back to the U.K., and Scorpia. To anyone watching, he could have been anything from a businessman, to a father returning home to see his kids. But his eyes were cold and hard, and to anyone trained, his profession would be clear.
There was no one trained on the plane. No one suspected the tall, good-looking young man reading quietly of the killing in Alicante, which was all anyone could talk about.
Three hours later, the plane touched down at Heathrow and he got off, following a family with two small children down the steps. His phone rang as soon as he turned it on and he answered it quickly.
"Yes?"
"Yassen, can you go to the Chelsea compound? You'll need to file your report and that's the nearest place. File name 'Espana', ok?"
"Yes." He waited for a brief moment to see if there was anything else, and then hung up.
The drive to Chelsea was quick – there wasn't too much traffic. It was the summer holidays and those who weren't at work were on holiday with their children, eager to escape from the fume-laden capital. Yassen paid the taxi driver and pulled his small bag from the back seat of the car. The taxi instantly sped off, the driver grateful to be rid of the slim, silent man with the terrifying eyes.
Yassen set his bag down on the pavement and stretched in the evening sunlight, his lithe frame bending with cat-like grace. Uttering a soft yawn, he picked up the bag again and then turned and walked lightly up the path of the large red-brick house. He could see the silhouetted shapes of the guards on the roof out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't look up. Moving quickly, he went to the door and knocked lightly. He opened it without waiting for it to be answered, and found himself in a wide entrance hall.
The house had been a Catholic school until Scorpia had decided that they wanted it for themselves. A wide staircase swept away from the door to the left, scaling the wall, while the other side opened into a spacious corridor, flanked by multiple doors, each one stained oak, reinforced in the centre with titanium plates.
He stepped forward, pushed the door shut with his heel, and then stopped. Five red dots danced over his chest before settling into one, centred on his heart. He looked up, eyes flashing with something close to anger. He heard the crackle of a radio, but couldn't make out the words, and then the laser sights dispersed from his chest.
"Mr. Gregorovich, my apologies." The voice made him turn and his hand tightened on the gun at his hip as a young woman danced down the stairs, a guilty smile on her face. In her right hand, she carried a rifle. "We didn't recognise you – it's been so long since your last visit." She grinned and tossed her auburn hair over her shoulder.
"Donna," Yassen said quietly. He watched her closely as she called one of the guards to come and relieve her of her rifle. She had always fascinated him, not that he let it show. She was just so out of place in this sombre, emotionless building.
"You've come to file a report, I assume?"
"Yes. An assassination," he added. The reports were organised in order of what type of job it had been and she quickly pulled out a few pages stapled together.
"Here. Use the office at the end of the hall on the right to fill it in. I'm afraid we're short-staffed today, so would you mind dropping it down to the basement yourself? It's all in alphabetical order," she called over her shoulder.
"I'll do that." Yassen watched her out of sight, shook his head slowly, trying to clear his thoughts, and then strode out of the office.
The room Donna had directed him to was large and well furnished with a deep desk chair, mostly hidden behind the ebony desk, covered with dark green leather. The wide window behind the desk overlooked the street beyond, and Yassen knew that the glass was bulletproof.
He settled into the chair and let the paper fall onto the desk. He picked up a pen and started to write. This was the only part of his job that he didn't enjoy, but the thrill of the kill was well worth it. He described the kill and the circumstances as briefly as he could, but it was still over half an hour before he set the pen down and leant back in the chair. He flexed his hand, slender fingers forming into a fist before straightening again. He did it a few times, and then stood up. He rolled the paper into a loose scroll in his hand, and walked out of the room.
He knew the way to the basement and walked swiftly down there, ignoring the few people he passed. They moved aside without a sound anyway, and to Yassen, it was almost like they weren't there.
The basement was unlocked, as it always was during the day, and he pushed it open easily. He walked quickly to the 'E' section and scanned along the row. His eyes flicked over each folder, reading the name… and then they moved back very slowly to read the last one.
His heart sped up as he read the name again and again, unable to believe what he was reading. There, large as life, screaming Scorpia's guilt, was a file that he'd hoped he'd never see. The one labelled 'Estrov'. The file he was carrying fell to the floor at the same time as the first tear he'd shed in over a decade.
