December 5th – A blanket, soft and warm, with just the faintest hint of her perfume.
We all have to work for a living.
She was lucky, in that she actually enjoyed her work. No, not enjoyed. Loved. She loved her work.
Admittedly, it was unconventional. Highly skilled. Intense, at times, followed by periods of adrenaline crashes and the build-up again, to the next task. Morally questionable.
She had learned early on not to ask questions. Asking questions wasn’t part of the job description. There was no interview. She didn’t pay tax, or have a corporate card. She liked it that way.
Only two or three people ever talked to her about her job. And even that wasn’t really talking. A pre-arranged meeting, a set of instructions, and then she had the autonomy to carry it out in whatever way she saw fit.
And there were many ways.
She was proud of what she did, and the way she did it, even if she could never show it, or speak about it publicly. Her friends, not especially close, but close enough to share a bottle of wine and a bitch about boyfriends, or girlfriends, thought she was in business. She travelled a lot. She would sometimes (but not often) send a postcard.
And now she was working.
She never asked about the target. To her they were always just targets. Who they were didn’t matter. This one lived in an apartment in Prague, a big apartment, on the third floor.
It was easy enough to get in. She looked the part, smart enough for there, with a briefcase instead of a handbag, and a well-tailored suit. She just slipped in when someone came out, smiled an accented ‘hello’ in neutral, and picked the lock in seconds.
Then she waited.
She didn’t wait long.
Her target was down thirty seconds after the door closed, and dead sixty seconds after that. A small jab with a syringe into the jugular vein, and the liquid did the rest.
Sixty seconds after that she was gone, the short black wig discarded in a rubbish bin several streets away, along with the jacket. The latex gloves, skin toned, went into the river, balled up. The syringe went the same way.
She kept the briefcase with her. It held nothing apart from her souvenir. This one was slightly bigger, but she liked it. It folded up just small enough to be held by the case. A blanket, this time, soft and warm, with just the faintest hint of her perfume.
Inspired by a prompt from here