Just a Little Light Reading

This is just a little of something I've been writing recently, not entirely sure whether I should continue on with this piece or just leave it as an unfinished piece. Opinions appreciated. - Sonja

Scarlett’s eyes squeezed shut as an icy breeze brushed over her skin. Strands of her ruby hair followed the direction of the wind, trying to escape their owner’s head before they were grabbed and shoved hastily into a ponytail. Tonight was the night. Finally. A devious smirk curled her lips as she thought of the money she’d earn from a night’s work. A girl could do a lot with a hundred grand.

She stood outside what could only be described as a mansion, busying herself by shoving a glimmering black helmet into the compartment beneath the seat of her motorcycle. Inside the building were just under a hundred people, gathered for a charity event. Scarlett only needed one.  

Her fingertips brushed over the lumps around her hips. Black clothing hid an array of concealed weapons, a pouch holding three daggers, a gun just above her right pocket, a silencer strapped just above her left. If those were to fail, she had a gun tucked under the fabric of her boots, the flat soles of which crunched harshly over gravel as she approached the back door of the mansion.

She was greeted as soon as she opened the door and stepped into the building by a frantic young man, his hand gripped her shoulder as he cried with relief and shoved a silver tray into her hands.

“Ah! More help, Thank God! Fill the empty champagne glasses over there and take them back out...Go!” Startled only briefly by his abruptness, Scarlett nodded swiftly and darted to where he had pointed, ignoring his agitated grumbles of snobby rich folk complaining about his efficiency as she filled the silver tray she had been given with delicately long necked champagne glasses. Filling each one with the fizzling concoction before she breezed out of the kitchen she had wandered into.

               

Admittedly, the assassin hadn’t been expecting to be given a cover quite so easily. Dumb luck had blessed her with an absentminded head-of-staff who, without a moment’s hesitation, had provided her with the perfect disguise as a member of the catering service supplying the party with food and drink. Her footsteps were silent as she headed walked along the long corridor, she had always been careful with her clothing. Rubber soled shoes were always the best for those in...her profession. Especially in buildings with plenty of wood-flooring, where the target could hear their death approaching louder than a stampede of elephants come trampling clumsily their way. She was dressed in black, a common colour for service staff. Her clothing was loose enough to conceal the compact weaponry strapped to her without been too loose as to cause suspicion.  She had been criticized once as ‘too cautious’ by another assassin, the thought of which instantly caused her temper to flare.  It was the same assassin who had labelled her as overly cautious who had tried to kill her less than three months ago... an ordeal she was still recovering from.

               

She weaved her way through a room of men dressed in designer suits and women with their hands and necks decorated with enough jewels to sparkle brighter than the Christmas tree in the centre of the room. She paused, allowing the wealthy alcoholics to reach for her depleting supply of champagne glasses. Her hazel eyes meanwhile drifted to the tree. Something as simple as a Christmas Tree was a rare sight for the young woman. Even from her childhood she could recall only two times where she had stayed in one place long enough for decorations to be put up. A smile curved her rosy lips as nostalgia overwhelmed her. When she was six, her father had stumbled into the motel room they were staying in with a small, 3.5ft Christmas tree resting on his shoulder. She remembered how he smiled, light radiating from his handsome face as she danced around the tree like any young child would, hanging little cardboard stars from the lowest branches while she ordered her uncle Arthur to decorate the places she couldn’t reach with more of her handmade stars. Her smile faded quickly, as memories of her first real Christmas dissipated to remind her of her second and last. She was sixteen at the time and it was two weeks after her father’s funeral. Arthur had walked into the apartment they had rented, smiling somewhat sheepishly as he lifted a bag that was in his hand into the air before his features fell into a frown again. He placed the contents of the bag gently onto the table where she was sitting. Her head was on the table and tucked firmly under her arms in an attempt to hide the pool of salty tears she had created in his absence. When she finally lifted her head, Arthur was gone. At the time she assumed he had retreated to his room, as he always did. She found a small cactus facing her from across the table. Beside it were two pictures, one was of her deceased mother, and the second was a picture of herself, her father and Arthur that had been taken during their first Christmas. Her father was smiling broadly, as he always did when in her presence. Arthur was standing awkwardly, as was his usual stance, but smiling, his eyes glowing from behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. She was grinning broadly, one of her front teeth missing as she stood on a chair that had been placed between them. She’d always hated looking so small in photographs, especially compared to the tall stature of her father and uncle. Though there was no tinsel, or even any cardboard stars, Scarlett considered the cactus and two pictures as Christmas décor.

                “Well, well...If it isn’t the Scarlet Assassin herself.” A familiar voice murmured into her ear, snapping her from her memories and back into the present, fury pinched her spine as she stiffened. She didn’t dare look back at the owner of the voice. That would involve turning around, and if she did, she knew that the now empty silver tray in her hand would be used as a weapon to break his jaw. Instead, he walked around to face her. He was tall, much taller than her, with short chocolate brown hair and eyes that were such a light shade of blue, she’d swear they were silver. He was built like an athlete, not too much as to look overly intimidating, but enough to attract the right sort of attention for himself. The thought that she had been tricked into the same games as no doubt countless other women caused her to scowl with contempt, they had been left with pretty trinkets and an empty promise that ‘if love was true, they’d find one another again’, she had been left with something much more permanent.

                “What the hell are you doing here?” She hissed as she stepped closer. People were beginning to look their way, wondering why the ‘servant’ was looking so openly furious. Forcing herself to clear her dark features, a neutral smile replaced her scowl. A smile which faltered the moment he reached between the space separating the two of them, and gripped her arm. His touch, though gentle, sent her reeling. Electricity coursed through her as emotions she had buried catapulted into the air once again, her heart beat unnaturally fast. She could only hope that he couldn’t feel her racing pulse as he held her arm and guided her discreetly from the room.  She was falling again, and she knew it.

                “Let’s find somewhere more private to talk, Darling. I’ve never been one for crowds.” His voice was like silk, flowing like a ribbon from his lips and into her heart. Get yourself together, child! She reminded herself harshly. Now is not the time.
“How did you find me?” She demanded with a growl. He replied with a lazy, but charming smile.

“The same way I always do Scar, I stop looking for you and you turn up.”

Needless to say, his words stung more than she had expected. She realised she still held the silver tray in her left hand, avoiding drawing any more attention to it, she continued to walk. Her grip neither tightening nor loosening on the tray, as though even she had forgotten she was holding it.

                Soon enough they were in what Scarlett assumed to be an office. There were no papers, or a phone, or even a computer. But there was a desk, two ornate chairs, and rows of bookshelves lining the walls. As soon as the door had been closed, the male released her arm and walked towards the window of the office without looking back. She set the tray to lean against the wall beside the door swiftly and silently before following him to the window. She kept a few metres away from his tall, imposing figure, she’d learned from experience that moments like these could only be described as ‘the eye of the storm’, soon enough he’d turn on her. She prepared by reaching for one of the blades strapped around her hips.

“Don’t.” He warned without lifting his gaze from the window. “Three blades, three guns and a silencer.” He turned to face her, another charming grin overwhelming his already charming face. “You’re terribly predictable, Scar.”

“Why are you here, Alastair?” She demanded, unwilling to take any more of his snide comments.

“Business matters. I see you’re doing the same... Who’s your target?” The forwardness of his question startled her briefly, not that she allowed herself to show him that.

“I fail to see how that concerns you, Alastair.” She ignored his snort of derision before taking a few steps backwards. He followed, stepping closer and closer until she found herself against the desk. His tall frame leaning over hers. His hands rested on either side of her on the desk. His gaze softening as soon as their eyes met, Scarlett however didn’t see the closeness of their bodies as intimate, she knew better by now. She also knew exactly how to get herself out of the cage he had created with his own body.

                Pulling herself up so she was sitting on the edge of the desk, she lowered her gaze to his slightly too-thin lips, then upwards again to his eyes. His lips quirked into a knowing smile before his hands rested on her hips. His fingertips then trailed smoothly along her back, a hiss of agony escaping her lips as he did.
“You’re still unwell?” She couldn’t help but detect the hint of concern in his voice, whether it was genuine concern or mockery was the question.

“What did you expect darling, when you stabbed me in the back?” Her reply came openly enough for him to flinch with embarrassment. She wondered deviously what he would do if she were to show the scar he had created less than a few months earlier, now pink and hideous. Would he feel ashamed? Sorry? He certainly looked it. A wave of satisfaction washed over her at the thought as she reached out and cupped his face with her hand. Her lips connected briefly with his forehead and kissed it gently. “Hush now, had I been offered half as much, you would be dead right now.” A grin lifted her lips. His eyes were closed as he forced a chuckle before replying.

“It wasn’t worth it. I thought you were really dead Scar...” She frowned at the pain laced throughout his words. Could it be that he did love her, like he said? No. She felt her softening heart steel again, her emotions disappearing as fast as they had arrived. No matter what she said, she knew that no amount of money would ever make her murder the one she loved, or try at least.

                His eyes opened and drifted upwards to lock with hers. A moment of silence engulfed them both before suddenly Alastair’s lips pressed against her own with crushing urgency. She responded by kissing back with equal passion, she lay back on the desk, pulling him with her until he was leaning over her. Breaking away from the kiss, she smirked, her lips inches from his as she mumbled breathlessly.

“You were wrong about me, Alastair...” Frowning gently, Alastair ran a hand through her ruby hair gently, equally breathless as he spoke.

“How so, darling?” Scarlett brought her lips to his ear, smirking gently before she growled.

“I am not predictable.” A bolt of energy passed through her as she kicked out and sent him sprawling backwards, causing herself to slide across the desk and towards the door. Before she could hit the floor her hands pushed out and sprung her back to her feet in a cartwheel-style move. She didn’t look back as she sprang for the door, but she could hear him already giving chase. Grabbing the tray she had left by the door, she spun and slammed the flat piece of silver into the side of her pursuer’s head. With an ‘Oof’, he crumpled to the floor like a sack of potatoes. She dropped the tray on the floor and dragged his unconscious body onto one of the chairs by the desk. She used his belt to tie his wrists behind his back and kissed his cheek softly, leaving an imprint of her red lipstick before allowing his head to droop.

“Goodnight Alastair.”

                And with that, she left him. Knowing she had only minutes before he would regain consciousness and come after her. Meanwhile, she had work to do.

*

                It had taken longer than expected to find her target.  When she did finally locate Richard Gibbons, his cheeks were reddened from alcohol and his lips had set into a troubled frown as he kept his distance from the rest of the party. He stood on a balcony on the second floor of the mansion. As she stepped out onto the balcony, Scarlett noted that metal piping ran along the wall just a short leap away from the barrier of the balcony, a perfect escape. Nobody had seen her step onto the balcony, chances were that nobody had seen her at all. Scarlett had been careful to take the ‘less travelled route’ while searching for her victim. There had been incidents in the past where the police had come close to catching the young assassin because of witnesses recalling seeing an odd young woman with ruby red hair amongst the crowd before the murder. She had been careless then, even she could admit that.

                Scarlett smiled broadly towards the troubled looking man as she approached. He was younger than a majority of her previous targets. His hair was still its original colour, raven black, with streaks of silver around his temples, looking like silver thread had been weaved into his healthy mane. From her research, Scarlett knew he had turned 56 in October, young enough for a man whose wealth had sprouted entirely from his own determination and hard work. He was taller than Scarlett, approximately 6ft3”, and had what had once been a trim athletic figure but it evidentially deteriorated over the years, what was once a six-pack was now a beer bloated stomach and his once strong and imposing posture was now slumped, hunched over almost. Scarlett would have taken pity on him, he looked like a man who was losing a long battle against the world, but then her eyes locked with his, and she saw nothing but icy contempt.

“What do you want?” He growled, his terrible humour threatening to infect her as well. Biting back a harsh comment, Scarlett instead forced herself to smile sweetly.

“Would you like me to refill your glass for you, sir?” His steely gaze drifted to the empty whiskey glass in his hand before he thrust it out towards her. Closing the gap between them, Scarlett took the glass from his grip gently and turned, heading for the door as he called after her.

“Whiskey, on the rocks.” Scarlett didn’t turn around, she headed straight for the door that led back into the house from the balcony, then stopped and closed it. The faint click of the mechanism holding the door closed instantly drew her target’s attention, she turned in time to see him begin to charge towards her, a furious snarl erupting from his lips as he attempted to tackle his assailant to the floor. It took just two movements for her to defend herself from the stumbling drunk, she ducked just moments before his body collided with hers, causing him to trip over her hunched body before slamming her elbow into his jaw as he fell. He hit the ground with a thud and stayed there, groaning as he clutched his dislocated jaw and held it in place.

“Get up.” Scarlett demanded. Her voice calm, quiet and no doubt terrifying. He ignored her at first and continued to groan in agony, but when she gripped the hand holding his jaw and twisted it sharply, he screamed out and was forced to his feet. Scarlett pushed him towards the edge of the balcony, if she could make this look like suicide, less questions would be asked, and from what her employer had told her, the less publicity the better. She knew that the fall from here would kill him, if not immediately, then soon. She nudged him to the balcony, ignoring his weakening struggle before she allowed him to sit on the low marble barrier. She knelt in front of him, her eyes level with his as she spoke. “You were expecting this...So why don’t you have any protection?” She wasn’t expecting a reply. Instead a grin broke out across her ruby painted lips as a sense of realisation overwhelmed her, “Oh...but perhaps you do have protection...he’s just been...incapacitated. Well, as wonderful as this has been Mr Gibbons, I’m afraid that it’s time for me to ‘clock off’, and you know what that means.” A short, agonised cry of protest was the last sound to leave Richard Gibbons’ lips before his ankles were grabbed and tipped over the edge of the balcony. Scarlett didn’t watch him fall, but she did hear his body hit the pavement below with a head-splitting crack.

She instantly set about making her escape, knowing that walking back into the building would draw attention. Particularly if Alastair was conscious at this point, which she knew he would be. She had just leaped and gripped the metal piping she had spotted earlier when the door to the balcony swung open. Sticking to the shadows, she watched as Alastair breezed out of the building, looking significantly more ruffled than he had earlier in the night, and began to scan the area. He then glanced over the balcony, and cursed violently as soon as he spotted Richard Gibbons’ disfigured corpse on the patio below.

“I’ll see you around darling.” Scarlett purred from the darkness. She had disappeared as soon as Alastair began to scan the shadows in the direction her voice had come from. Knowing that delaying her departure would result in falling into the hands of the police, or worse, the enraged Alastair.