Posted:
Hi! This was part of a story I'd begun writing last year, with no particular characters in mind. I think Maneet would be perfect for the plot line. This is just the prologue, and does not have Geet's entry yet. Let me know what you think.
Prologue- The Final Kill
In the dark closet, he had awaited the precise moment. Hours had gone by since his to-be victim stepped into the lavish hotel room. It didn't matter to the man; if there was one thing he'd learned from his job, it was patience. No job could be rushed, none could be leisured, and precision was everything. And because he knew that, and because he was good at that, he was chosen to be here. It would be his last big job. His boss had made it amply clear to him. Over the years, the man had acquired many skills; skills that made him less useful as an assassin and more as a tourist. Though his boss never sugarcoated anything, the man wasn't an idiot, and understood the hidden message behind his apparent promotion. He was no longer the 20-something assassin, with rage running through his blood. He was a skilled killer, yes, as he always would be. But he was slowing down. And the man and his boss both knew that a slow assassin was a dead assassin.
He noiselessly affixed the suppressor to the barrel of his gun, admiring the weapon as though if it were a piece of art. Then suddenly he pressed the cold metal object to his temple, tempted momentarily to pull the trigger. Taking a deep breath, he brought the gun down and chuckled cynically. He knew that there was a bullet with his name on it somewhere. Just not in this gun, not tonight, not like this.
He tensed upon hearing a slight stirring from the bed. The target and his unfortunate companion had long slumbered, and the man now feared he'd waited too long. Making up his mind, he crept out of the closet, and stood at the edge of the bed. He looked down at the two sleeping figures: the man, Mr. Moreaux, a 54-year-old French diplomat, and his lover, a much younger woman, no, girl. He fleetingly wondered if she was even of age. She had certainly performed like she was, as he disinterestedly recalled. Nevertheless, her death was certain the moment she stepped into the room with Moreaux. He mulled over who would go first. Not that it mattered much. Finally, he pointed the barrel at the female, the slight clanking of metal and propelled air waking her companion. The woman died instantly, he made sure of it. Moreaux now looked at him with horror struck eyes, too stunned to react. The man indifferently pointed the gun at his head.
"Oh! Mon Dieu" barely a whisper sprang from the Frenchman's lips. The killer's mouth twisted into a disdainful smile. Why was it that people only remembered God while facing impending death? What was it that was so frightening about death, about what lay beyond that made them cry out for an ambiguous savior?
"Votre temps est venu" the killer responded softly, as though soothing a child. Then he shot him right through the head.
Giving the room a once over, the man turned around. Another job well done. His boss would be pleased. He'd never let down The Company before. He couldn't. His job was all he lived for. The sacrifices he'd made, the risks he'd taken, the sins he'd committed were far too great.
Pulling his hood over his head, he stalked out of the hotel room, down the hall, up the flight of stairs to his own room. Tomorrow he'd take a flight to London, leaving in his wake a foreign affairs disaster. A French diplomat murdered in Dubai, while mediating a peacekeeping summit. That was sure to shift the world's focus for a while. The Company needed just that.
Gulping down a stiff drink, and then another, he checked the messages on his phone, not surprised to find only one, from this boss. The man wondered if it was the alcohol taking effect when he detected the slightest bit of apprehension in his boss' voice. "Maan'We need you in Madrid tomorrow morning. Get some sleep. You're going to need it." Maan. smiled as he heard his boss refer to his newest alias. Over the years he'd had many: Ranveer Singh, Saahil Basant, and now it was Maan Singh Khurana. He'd picked it out himself, despite his boss' warning that it was too close for comfort. Nothing was too close for comfort for his man.
Maan didn't give much thought to the vague message on his phone. Instead, he swallowed a couple of morphine tablets, and sat on the sofa until the medication started showing its effect and he drifted off into an unperturbed sleep.
For years he'd disciplined himself to rise before dawn, and today was no different. It didn't matter that merely three hours earlier, he'd assassinated someone. It didn't matter that the slight throbbing he'd experienced the night before had resulted into a full-blown migrane. It didn't matter that his body was begging him to slow down. His wants were never a part of the equation, his job was to keep going, and he would until the Company willed him to stop.
Maan finally left the hotel just as the earliest rays of the sun began appearing on the horizon. He was to take a plane from Dubai to Egypt spend a weekend there, and then a ferry would take him to his new destination: Madrid. This shuffle was a common ploy used by the Company to make their tourists as invisible as possible. Tourists, of course, were the eyes and ears for The Company; those agents who did not participate in hits or any active jobs with the Company. Instead these men and women spent weeks, months, even years infiltrating a potential site, relaying valuable information that would give The Company an edge when confronting the enemy. A new chapter in Maan's life, as a tourist, began today.
In the dark closet, he had awaited the precise moment. Hours had gone by since his to-be victim stepped into the lavish hotel room. It didn't matter to the man; if there was one thing he'd learned from his job, it was patience. No job could be rushed, none could be leisured, and precision was everything. And because he knew that, and because he was good at that, he was chosen to be here. It would be his last big job. His boss had made it amply clear to him. Over the years, the man had acquired many skills; skills that made him less useful as an assassin and more as a tourist. Though his boss never sugarcoated anything, the man wasn't an idiot, and understood the hidden message behind his apparent promotion. He was no longer the 20-something assassin, with rage running through his blood. He was a skilled killer, yes, as he always would be. But he was slowing down. And the man and his boss both knew that a slow assassin was a dead assassin.
He noiselessly affixed the suppressor to the barrel of his gun, admiring the weapon as though if it were a piece of art. Then suddenly he pressed the cold metal object to his temple, tempted momentarily to pull the trigger. Taking a deep breath, he brought the gun down and chuckled cynically. He knew that there was a bullet with his name on it somewhere. Just not in this gun, not tonight, not like this.
He tensed upon hearing a slight stirring from the bed. The target and his unfortunate companion had long slumbered, and the man now feared he'd waited too long. Making up his mind, he crept out of the closet, and stood at the edge of the bed. He looked down at the two sleeping figures: the man, Mr. Moreaux, a 54-year-old French diplomat, and his lover, a much younger woman, no, girl. He fleetingly wondered if she was even of age. She had certainly performed like she was, as he disinterestedly recalled. Nevertheless, her death was certain the moment she stepped into the room with Moreaux. He mulled over who would go first. Not that it mattered much. Finally, he pointed the barrel at the female, the slight clanking of metal and propelled air waking her companion. The woman died instantly, he made sure of it. Moreaux now looked at him with horror struck eyes, too stunned to react. The man indifferently pointed the gun at his head.
"Oh! Mon Dieu" barely a whisper sprang from the Frenchman's lips. The killer's mouth twisted into a disdainful smile. Why was it that people only remembered God while facing impending death? What was it that was so frightening about death, about what lay beyond that made them cry out for an ambiguous savior?
"Votre temps est venu" the killer responded softly, as though soothing a child. Then he shot him right through the head.
Giving the room a once over, the man turned around. Another job well done. His boss would be pleased. He'd never let down The Company before. He couldn't. His job was all he lived for. The sacrifices he'd made, the risks he'd taken, the sins he'd committed were far too great.
Pulling his hood over his head, he stalked out of the hotel room, down the hall, up the flight of stairs to his own room. Tomorrow he'd take a flight to London, leaving in his wake a foreign affairs disaster. A French diplomat murdered in Dubai, while mediating a peacekeeping summit. That was sure to shift the world's focus for a while. The Company needed just that.
Gulping down a stiff drink, and then another, he checked the messages on his phone, not surprised to find only one, from this boss. The man wondered if it was the alcohol taking effect when he detected the slightest bit of apprehension in his boss' voice. "Maan'We need you in Madrid tomorrow morning. Get some sleep. You're going to need it." Maan. smiled as he heard his boss refer to his newest alias. Over the years he'd had many: Ranveer Singh, Saahil Basant, and now it was Maan Singh Khurana. He'd picked it out himself, despite his boss' warning that it was too close for comfort. Nothing was too close for comfort for his man.
Maan didn't give much thought to the vague message on his phone. Instead, he swallowed a couple of morphine tablets, and sat on the sofa until the medication started showing its effect and he drifted off into an unperturbed sleep.
For years he'd disciplined himself to rise before dawn, and today was no different. It didn't matter that merely three hours earlier, he'd assassinated someone. It didn't matter that the slight throbbing he'd experienced the night before had resulted into a full-blown migrane. It didn't matter that his body was begging him to slow down. His wants were never a part of the equation, his job was to keep going, and he would until the Company willed him to stop.
Maan finally left the hotel just as the earliest rays of the sun began appearing on the horizon. He was to take a plane from Dubai to Egypt spend a weekend there, and then a ferry would take him to his new destination: Madrid. This shuffle was a common ploy used by the Company to make their tourists as invisible as possible. Tourists, of course, were the eyes and ears for The Company; those agents who did not participate in hits or any active jobs with the Company. Instead these men and women spent weeks, months, even years infiltrating a potential site, relaying valuable information that would give The Company an edge when confronting the enemy. A new chapter in Maan's life, as a tourist, began today.
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