God, I love my job. Well, as much as one can love being a killer. An assassin, more specifically. A 1st-rank assassin, for the Order of Assassins, even more specifically. It doesn't really get more descriptive than that. I stared at myself in the mirror and slicked my dirty-blonde hair back, so that it was not quite flat against my head. If only it would stay that way, goddammit. It never did what I wanted it to. Well, that's what gel is for. Lots and lots of hair gel, labeled: "extra hold for extra defiant hair". My ass it was; it lasted a few hours in the heat.
Oh, well. I looked at my sparkling white teeth, my acne free face, my bit of rugged stubble, and smiled. God, I was dashing. Not to be conceited, of course. I looked, too, at my (incredibly masculine) chest, covered in scars. What a shame. I sighed and donned a thick white T-shirt, covering it with a woolen London Fog coat, partly to keep me warm, and partly to hide the ornate silver hidden blade mechanism on my left wrist. The coat was black, of course; I always wore black along with my traditional white on my missions. If, that is, this was a mission; I had been given a list of names to research. Suspected active Templars; several of them. Eight, to be exact. Well, this was number one, and she was gorgeous. Not, of course, that that would affect my mission.
Probably.
Well, this was an extra-tough mission, one involving quite a bit of espionage and a long, long prologue. One involving a mutual "friend" (a sleeper agent set up a few months ago by the higher ups) setting up a blind date. Then another blind date, this one with me rather than a stranger- because the first blind date was a purposeful failure. Just to lower her standards a bit. Then we had set up the location, a nice restaurant in a large shopping center, with a nice and secluded dark alleyway beside it. Just in case.
We were finally at the last step- my step, that is. I would go on the date, charm her a bit, use all of my natural good looks, and utilize all of my silver-tongued devilry to gain her trust. Then I would have to use my judgment and either kill her or, well, go out with her. Continuously, if needed. Which I hoped it would be.
I checked my teeth once more, sprayed a bit of some expensive French cologne on my jacket and T-shirt, and headed out. I was glad to leave the crappy little motel I'd been given; I had signed up under the false name of Thomas Cale, one of my favorites. My real name was almost nowhere on my official profile; well, the official profile everyone but the Assassins of the NSA had. The NSA, by the way, was the National Sect of Assassins. Russia had their KGB (Kings of God's Bounty), Britain had the SAS (Special Agents of Solitude- named thusly because they never worked in teams) and the other countries had... something.
Back on topic. I had been issued a shiny black BMW for this mission, and I loved it. Immensely. Unfortunately, it was for business only, and Ferris Bueller's little backwards-miles trick didn't work. Not that I hadn't tried it, as a kid.
I hopped in the drivers seat and admired the leather interior; leather and chrome, that is. I loved chrome. I turned the key in the ignition and the engine purred, nothing more than a quiet rumble. The gas was a bit jumpy, but otherwise it was the tops. The restaurant was only a few miles away, but it didn't matter; I was, as mentioned earlier, staying at a motel, so I couldn't be traced back to my home.
I hummed to myself until I pulled up to the restaurant's parking lot, ignoring the radio on my dashboard that was made specifically for communicating with my fellow Assassins. I did, however, check the clock, which read 6:30. I turned the keys in the ignition again and opened the door, trying to walk out without unbuckling my seatbelt. Oh, good show, I thought to myself, unbuckling thoroughly before exiting the car and walking into the restaurant.
I walked up to the man at the podium and mumbled, "I'm here for a woman named Renee?" I didn't know why I had ended it with a question mark- it probably would've sounded menacing otherwise, but I hadn't realized that at the time. I was operating on instinct now, allowing the thrill of the hunt to take myself over. I couldn't have told you, for example, why I kept glancing cautiously around, noting everyone's clothing and mannerisms. Or why I noted specifically that one man had an elaborate necklace on, one with a large brass cross with ruby inlay on the silver chain around his neck.
But I did note all of these things, and then think them over in due time. "Due time" being about three seconds, just before the greeter stopped looking through his ledger and glanced over at a certain table. "She's just over there, sir." I nodded and walked through the dimly lit, crowded restaurant, once again noting several things: the light from the lamps on the tables was barely enough to see by, which could be good or bad, depending. The people were being quiet, but with the amount of alcohol on these tables they would soon get loud. Very loud. Which would definitely be good if the shit hit the fan.
I saw her, then; tall, with red hair and a fair complexion. She was, as previously mentioned, gorgeous. She had a stunning black dress on, and I suddenly felt uncomfortable; my jacket felt like a ragged, torn up tank-top now. Oi. 'Thomas'. It's a mission, remember. Look at that necklace; brass, a cross with a ruby inlay. Why does that ring a bell?At the moment, I couldn't have answered myself. I was always confident; but here I was faltering. That's the mark of a great smooth-talker, though- never let 'em see you tremble. So, I took a deep breath and sat down.
"Renee, I presume?" I sat down and flashed her a smile before toying with my menu. She looked up and chuckled.
"No, just 'Renee'. And you'd be Thomas?" Her voice was silky, smooth, and seductive. I noticed that she had her hair in an odd fashion- Japanese-ish, if that's a word. It had those weird stick things in it, and it was in a bun.
It took me a bit to notice the pun, and when I did I laughed too hard. Of course, later I would say it was to make myself endearing. But it wasn't- just between you and me. "Erm. What're you ordering?" I started flipping through my own menu, noting all of the fancy choices- none of which I could pronounce, unfortunately.
"Well, the duck foie gras looks yummy. Do you know what foie gras is?" She sounded genuinely curious, and I flinched. Well, smooth-talker, say fat liver in a sexy manner.
"Eh, do you really want to know? It means, well... fat liver." Her face went green, and I could see that I'd ruined a good bit of the menu for her. "Sorry, love. Should've denied knowledge." Here I smiled again, and this time she smiled back. Get some! I quickly shut my inner voice up.
"Well, I won't be having that, then. How about this goose- nope. That's liver, too. You know, I've suddenly lost my appetite." Oh my. This could be bad- or, if she wasn't a murdering scumbag, good. I thought quickly and interjected before she could suggest leaving.
"Um, Ryan said the reservation cost... I forget the number, but there were more than two digits, that's for sure. How about we just enjoy the atmosphere and get to know each other? Ignoring the dirty looks from the waiters, of course." Here I threw a glance at the busy staff and rolled my eyes. Ryan, by the way, was the mutual friend.
She chuckled again, her laughter reminiscent of the tinkling of bells. No, that's not true at all, really- it's just a popular expression. "All right then, Thomas. Have any pets?"
Shit. Did Thomas? I didn't, of course, but did Thomas? No. I would have to go with no and hope. "No pets, Renee. Never really considered it- do you?"
She smiled longingly. "No, but I've always wanted a cat. Just to snuggle with."
I nodded, as if I, too, had once longed to "snuggle'. Nope. Never have wanted to, never will want to. "Renee, that's quite a necklace you have there. Are you religious?" Where had I seen that damned necklace?
"No, not really. Although I do some work for the Church on the weekends." Ah. I wanted to believe her, but I was trained to spot a liar- her eyes had flicked left slightly when she'd said no. But that wasn't surefire; not yet, anyways.
"Well, I'm not really, either. Although I'm told my grandfather, or great-grandfather, or some such relative was a Templar." I was purposely vague on this subject, waiting for her reaction. It was the wrong one.
Her eyes lit up and she started, well, babbling. Sounded a bit like a teenager. "Oh, really? My dad is a Templar! Well, not gung-ho Holy War stuff, but apparently he does work for the Church. Somehow, someway." She tapered off towards the end, and then bit her lower lip. Which was beautifully ruby-red, by the way. Now I had several things against her; she "wasn't" religious, wore a great big cross on her neck because of fashion or some other unspecified reason, and likes talking about Templars. Crap. The talk became boring, until:
"Hey, Thomas, what happened to your ring finger?"
Shit. Shit shit shit shit SHIT. I hadn't thought up a cover story for that. The single most obvious identifying trait of a dedicated Assassin, and I hadn't accounted for it. That was a beginner's mistake, a very, very green beginner. Time for a sob story. Wait, sob story? Does that befit Thomas Cale? Well, it would have to, because I was getting a funny look.
"My... my dad, he used to work at a lumbermill. The giant power saws were always running, and you couldn't hear someone two inches off without shouting. Well, I, being a brat of a child, wanted to go off and see one up close. My shoe was untied, though, so I fell, and then dad was there, and dad saved me, but dad, dad, dad died, dad died and it was my fault." Here I paused and glared down at my lap, conjuring a fake tear. Dad was still alive and well, in a cushy retirement home in the Bahamas, probably drinking out of coconuts with mom. Oh well, a little lie never hurt.
"Oh, Thomas, I'm so sorry!" She leaned over and hugged me, and then stood up. I had overdone it, but she, being intoxicated by wine and my devilish cunning, didn't notice. "Let's go, honey. I want you to see my house." All was going according to plan- both plans, humorously enough. There was one last thing I had to try, though.
As we walked out, after leaving a few dollars for the drinks she had ordered without my knowledge, I prepared to ask my one last question. The one that either saved or damned her. My trained eye noticed her hand twitch on the way out the door- was she still upset over my previous episode? Huh. I hadn't figured her to be the obsessive type of girl.
Well, here we go. "Honey, if you had to pick, what time era would you live in?" I ignored the sappy answer that she gave me about whichever one I was in and waited, probing with my eyes.
"Well, I guess if I had to pick... the early 1100s to the late 1200s." And there it was. The Crusades had gone over a span of those years. I suppose I should explain: for espionage like this, we had several "killing questions". If the other party is a history buff, which Renee, according to my sources, was, you ask that one. That question only works if you have other damning information- which I did. No woman would choose to live before plumbing- no educated one, anyways.
Also, she said "I do some work for the Church." Not, "the church down the corner," just "The Church." THE Church, capital T-H-E C. I hated this part. I silently unsheathed my hidden blade and sighed aloud. "Renee, I hate to do this, I really do. But it's time for you to pass on."