They'd told him to make an example of the target, something to make their enemies take pause and show them that they weren't playing games.
He'd taken the place of one of the security guards a few weeks ago and had used the opportunity to study the target's patterns, learning his routines and investigating the extra security that had been set up. Mr Gavish, it seemed, had become extremely paranoid in the last few months. Not that it would do him any good; the assassin had taken, and succeeded at, missions far more difficult than this one.
He'd chosen Tuesday night to make his move. Mr Gavish had hosted a party earlier in the evening and the estate was still full of guests spending the night. It was easy to abandon his post in the confusion and make his way to the target's private quarters, allaying suspicion by claiming there had been an incident between two of the drunker visitors. An accomplice had been in before he'd even arrived to adjust the cameras, creating a linked pathway of blind spots he could use to reach his destination unseen. He'd studied the plans religiously, learning exactly where to place his feet, knowing that he would only get one shot at this.
The bodyguards at the entrance were dispatched silently and he keyed in the pass code quickly, lips quirking as the door slid open. Sleeping pills in the man's meal meant that the target didn't even stir as he entered the room but he approached the bed carefully anyway, footsteps feather-light on the plush carpet. No point taking risks if he didn't have to.
The bed was immense. The figure curled up in the centre looked almost like a child – Mr Gavish was not a large man anyway – but it just made his job all the easier. He crawled up to hover over the target and pulled out a knife, slitting the man's throat in a single, practiced stroke. He nodded once, glancing down at the blood splattering his uniform, and contemplated the second part of his objective.
When he was finished the corpse looked like something out of a horror film. He'd stripped the clothes off to reveal pale, perfect flesh and had gone to town, aiming to create something visually macabre. He'd worked quickly and emotionlessly, unaffected by the reality of what he was doing, and now sat back to admire what he'd achieved.
He'd arranged the body into the shape of a T, pulling the man's arms wide and straightening his legs, forcing them together. Originally he'd considered crucifying the man traditionally but had dismissed the idea as too risky, though he was sure this small gesture would please his employers. The flat of the knife had been used to pry the man's mouth open to allow him to remove the tongue, prompting a grunt as it proved tricky, and the organ was then pressed into the man's open left hand.
Genitals next. Clean, quick strokes and these were similarly pressed into the man's right hand, already creating a grotesque picture. But he was far from finished. Fingers next, sliced at each joint and laid out carefully next to the mutilated palm in a mockery of the real thing. His toes were dealt with in a similar fashion.
It was the work of moments to carve the familiar initials – SPQR – into the man's smooth chest. He doubted anyone would have doubts as to the group behind the killing, but orders were orders and there was to be nothing subtle about this warning.
That was enough. It wouldn't be long until someone discovered the missing guards at the door and he had no intention of being caught. He wiped the knife clean on the covers and replaced it in the hidden sheath, glancing once more at the corpse displayed on the bed before padding over to the window.
This was going to be the tricky bit. They'd been unable to turn the alarms off without causing suspicion and the assassin knew that the sensors would pick him up as soon as he left the building. He'd deliberately set them off a few times in the last week to study the response and knew that timing was tight, even if the numerous false alarms would slow them slightly.
He took a deep breath to steady himself. A balaclava, muddy green cotton, was pulled from his shirt and into position over his face. He doubted the cameras would be able to capture anything that could be used to identify him but he couldn't afford to take the chance. Nimble fingers undid the lock on the window and he slid it up slowly, aware that too much noise now would get him killed.
He waited for a few moments, making sure that the action hadn't alerted any of the patrolling guards, before sliding the buckle on his belt apart and pulling out the piton, anchoring it to the sill. He tugged on the cord to make sure it was secure and, satisfied, launched himself out of the window, descending fast enough that it would have ripped the skin from his fingers if not for the gloves. He winced as the alarms came to life, wailing and flashing, and the whole house was illuminated in moments.
He hit the ground running, severing the cable as quickly as he could, and darted away from the group that had been attracted by the sound. The fence surrounding the fence was almost impenetrable; it was, no doubt, the reason that Mr Gavish had felt secure enough to sleep. Twenty feet high, and electrified, he didn't fancy his chances if he'd had to find his own way over it.
Still, he didn't have to. He'd been informed that there would be a gap in the fence wide enough to crawl through and he had simply nodded, accepting that it would be there. There was no point worrying about the what ifs now; it was too late to change his plans. He would be killed if they caught him.
Boots thudded on the ground as his heart hammered in his chest, pumping oxygen and adrenalin around his body. He found himself smiling as he ran, feeling more alive now than he had in weeks, and was almost disappointed that everything would soon be over.
He spotted the hole as one of his pursuers raised a gun, diving for the space as a bullet clipped his shoulder. Only a graze, but he didn't have time to stop and check it now. They'd be after him soon enough.
Too soon. He'd only just entered the forest bordering the estate when he heard one of the guard dogs crashing through the undergrowth behind him. He pulled the TT-33 from his waistband and half turned, firing two shots at the angry wolf-dog snapping at his heels. It whined in pain but didn't stop, snarling at him as it launched itself through the air.
He twisted at the last moment and the teeth aiming for his throat embedded themselves in his shoulder instead. He swore as he was knocked off his feet, grappling with the canine. The knife he'd used to kill Mr Gavish flashed in his hand and he drove it into the beast's side desperately, stabbing madly until it finally collapsed onto his chest, knocking the wind out of him.
It took him a few minutes to catch his breath. His shirt was covered in blood, both his own and the animal's, and his shoulder was bleeding freely from the savage bite. He shoved the monster off him with effort and winced as pain erupted from his mangled shoulder. Shaky fingers undid the buttons of the ruined shirt that had been part of his uniform and pulled it off carefully, revealing the bulletproof vest he'd worn underneath it, and tied it tightly around the wound in an effort to staunch the bleeding.
He got to his feet and set off again, aware that he'd be caught if he didn't get out of here soon. They'd told him that there would be an escape vehicle waiting and he trusted them, knowing that he'd be away free as soon as he was able to find it. Too much had been invested to allow him to die now.
There it was, camouflage netting hiding it from the casual observer. He threw off the covering and revealed the Kawasaki KLX hidden underneath, running his fingers across the dirt bike's casing before rolling the bike across to the path it had clearly followed in. The goggles hooked around the handlebars were fastened over his eyes and he blinked as everything went green.
He threw a leg over the bike and started the engine, grinning when he felt it purr into life below him. It handled perfectly and he directed it fluidly around the trees lining the path, twisting the throttle mercilessly as he forced the bike to accelerate.
Suddenly he was out of forest and flying, the bike sailing through the air as it came off the edge of the bank and hit the road. He glanced back quickly to check for pursuers; the off-road vehicle would be no match for anything they'd send after him. Nothing. He was safe.
He only continued down the road for another few minutes before stopping, dismounting with obvious reluctance, and dragged the bike into the hedgerow with a last fond look. He doubted he'd see it again.
The helicopter was waiting where they'd told him it would be. The man leaning against the side was exactly where he'd predicted him to be.
"You did it?" He could feel the other man's eyes flick towards the ruined shirt wrapped around his shoulder and he frowned at the implication.
"Of course. Everything was done to the letter. And the money?" A hint of a French accent.
"It will arrive in your account in a few hours."
He nodded, removed the goggles, and hoisted himself into the helicopter, almost missing the other passenger in the back in his haste to take a seat. Were they sending other people to check up on him now? He knew they still didn't trust him completely, but he'd never done anything to arouse suspicion, completing each assignment successfully and without question.
The hood of the man's sweatshirt had been pulled down almost to his nose, hiding anything that might have given his identity away. Despite his curiosity, he wasn't paid to pry, and his fingers busied themselves with tugging at the balaclava still covering his face as the engines started up.
A hand on his shoulder made him pause and he turned his head to glance at his handler. "There's a new job for you. They've finally decided you're ready for the big time." The man jerked his head towards the figure in the back. "Your new partner."
The first partner they'd assigned him – he couldn't blame them after he'd killed the last one the CIA had given him. Probably someone to make sure he didn't fuck things up.
He swivelled in the chair and studied what was visible of the man he was now stuck with. Not much was the answer, though the small eyeholes cut into the balaclava rather restricted his vision.
He finished pulling off the mask as the other man dropped his hood, two pairs of eyes widening fractionally in surprised recognition.
"Orion, meet Yassen Gregorovich."