The Kill

I prefer to be known as a writer of spy novels, but to truly write about this secretive world, I believe you have to live it. By this, I mean immersing yourself in the world of espionage becoming an expert, stepping into the skin of your hero or heroine, knowing them, feeling them, becoming them.

And so it is.

It was January, and the night air was sharp and fresh. A hard frost had begun to settle on the grass verge beside her as she walked along the concrete path leading to the tunnel beneath the road. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked a lone call to the nighttime howlers of the city.

She entered the tunnel, and the dank smell of dampness and urine hit her nose. Empty bottles and beer cans were scattered across the ground, remnants of lives lived on the margins. Thankfully, the tunnel was deserted tonight. The homeless who usually sought refuge in this labyrinth of despair had been moved on. Predators both day and night often lurked here, waiting for their next victim. But not tonight. She had no fear; she was safe. The platform had been cleared for her, as always.

In the darkness, she waited. The tunnel lights had been switched off, just as planned. She knew what had to be done. This was it. She understood. The waiting, though, that was, always the hardest part.

The silence of the night was broken only by the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. Not long now.

He always took this route home from work. That’s why she had chosen it. It was the perfect place. In the distance, she heard footsteps. She began to shiver. Cold, she thought. Not long now. Her hand tightened around the cold metal in her palm. Would she be able to keep it steady? The footsteps grew louder. She could make out his outline now, it was him.

Adrenaline surged through her veins. She forced herself to stay composed. She had only one chance to get this right. Raising the gun, she aimed and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot echoed through the tunnel, followed by the dull thud of his body hitting the ground.

She approached him, the weapon still in her hand. Looking down at his lifeless form, she felt nothing. No guilt, no remorse. Just as it had been every other time. This was work. To her, it was just a job.

With a nudge of her foot, she moved his body slightly. Perfectly executed.

She walked away, knowing the firm would handle the cleanup. Back at her safe house, the quiet enveloped her like a familiar cloak. She kicked off her shoes, poured herself a glass of ruby-red wine, and let the events of the night settle in her mind.

They would demand more from her more eliminations, more sacrifices before granting her the freedom to reclaim her life. It was her own doing, she reminded herself. She had signed that piece of paper, binding her to them. MI6 owned her now.

She was in service to Her Majesty and her country. An assassin extraordinaire, they called her.

She closed her eyes, and a new face emerged, a traitor's face joining the shadowy gallery of others that haunted the darkness behind her eyelids.

Would it never end?

Written by Irene Allen-Block.

Female Assassin, Spy,