seymoure

Chapter 23
“The Assassin”

They hadn’t given him much to go on, but then they never did. And, if they asked him, he would tell him that was the preferable situation. The less he knew, the easier it was to do the job.

They were calling him Koss right now, but he was known by more names than even he could remember.

He stopped in the cold mountain air to wonder when the last time he felt any emotion was. He couldn’t remember.

He flipped open his notebook, and checked off the name of Agent Terrance. He had not been a specific target, but he was a possible, so it was not something he was going to have to do any rationalization about the drop.

The first name on the list was the Alien “Peacemaker” Pensalu, who had been trying to send a message back to someone off world after infiltrating a segment of the military for sometime.

He wasn’t comfortable with Peacemakers, they tended to trim the market.

When he found that the alien was secreted among an unaware troop of infantry, and was, otherwise, undetectable to him, he had little course of action. After they set up camp in a stand of trees, with the idea of moving forward in the dawn, he began.

One by one he picked them silently off. Moving with the stealth that one man could always count as his tool against a public force, he snipped at their numbers. Within ten minutes 4 of them were on the ground, with life draining from their necks. In an hour and a half he had finished all the underlings, and then only took 15 minutes to finish their one non-commissioned officer, two lieutenants and their single commanding captain.

It took longer to dispose of the bodies than the lives. But, wasn’t that always the way.That was the great thing about civil wars, you never had to clean up after yourself.

Whatever machinery the thing had used to blend in with the soldiers held up after death, but since there were none unaccounted for, he knew that the job was done.

He reported back that the job was done, without adding the bit about killing all those soldiers. Why complicate things?

He looked for the next name after that on his list and found just the name “Mother.”

His first thought was “Whose Mother?”

He knew though that it must be someone who was known publicly as “Mother.” She would be a person of power in the community.

He also had a personal target.

There was worthwhile set of reports that there was a colony of Big Foots (Big Feet?) on this mountain. If there was such an infestation, he would be more than happy to take a couple down. Hell, the guys at Section W would probably pay something for one, if they didn’t already have one.

He pushed his collar up against the wind.

He kicked the last of the snow over the fallen FBI agent, and got ready to move up the slope.

He slipped the machete back into his boot sheath and holstered both automatic pistols, complete with 120 shot clips in each. The tiny shells would have no killing value if not for the explosive and cobra venom in their tips.

They were unique shells, the tools of a unique craftsman. Death was his craft, lucky for him, it was also his hobby.