Fiction

Angel of Death

Photographee/Shutterstock.com

Photographee.eu/Shutterstock.com

By Stephen Boyd

I check my watch. It’s a quarter-past. Almost time. I review the blueprints in my mind, ensuring that I have every inch of the house memorized. This is just like any other hit. The house is in the middle of Russia, completely removed from civilization. Snow coats the ground evenly, 6mm tall. Approximately a half-hour flight southeast of Norilsk, the place is a massive modern flat-roofed house with the façade made mostly out of glass. Armed guards patrol the outside of the house 24/7. Cameras are at each corner of the house, watching every entrance. There is a weakness in the back of this fortress, where the rear face is made of brick. The guard standing watch is especially lazy, and there is a dark spot in the camera surveillance. My organization has been scouting the building for weeks finding the optimal point of entry, and this is by far the best.

I begin piecing together my Colt-45, silencer and all. The cold metal of the gun’s muzzle eases into the silencer from years of use. Twisting the silencer to secure it, I hear the click, and I’m ready. 9:18–Sergei should be getting into bed soon. He always goes to bed early. It’s go-time. Remaining prone, I scuttle over to the guard at the side of the house, the shadows blanketing my approach, keeping me invisible. The grips on my shoes munch the cold, unforgiving, Russian snow. I approach on the balls of my feet, clamp my hands firmly around his chin and the top of his head, and snap his neck. No use wasting bullets.

I have to dispose of his body quickly. I grasp his limp body by his legs-

“Есть ли проблема?” I hear from his portable walkie-talkie.

“Нет.” I respond, in my best Russian accent. There is no response from the other end. That is usually a good sign.

I take his walkie-talkie to keep track of the radio traffic, turning down the volume to a barely audible level. Resuming, I grab his limp legs and toss his body over my shoulder. Keeping low, I return to where I began, at the bush, and deposit the body out of sight.

I climb the side of the brick wall, using the indentation between bricks to latch my fingers and feet. I climb all the way up to the roof, keeping silent. The top of the roof is some form of gravel alternative, and the entrance point is on the northwest corner of the roof. The roof must be heated, since there isn’t any snow on the roof. Just goes to show you how stupid rich this guy is. There is a guard on top of the roof, on the eastern side, surveying the driveway. I have to eliminate him in order to make my escape. Using the same tactic, keeping low and staying on the balls of my feet, I approach quietly, but the gravel is too unstable, the gravel shifts making too much noise, and the guard turns to look at me. My arms snap up, right first, perfectly straight holding the pistol, left next, forming a 90˚ angle and a support for my right, and shoot the man between the eyes. His body isn’t viewable from any cameras, and no other guards patrol the roof, so I leave his body as it is, bleeding out.

I make my way towards the skylight, the only point of entrance from the roof. The skylight drops into the bathroom of the master bedroom. I unlatch the window of the skylight slowly, and creep through one limb at a time, cautiously. I drop myself to the floor and land on hands and feet like a cat jumping from a tree. Keeping low, I listen. Nothing. Hopefully I am unheard.

The bathroom is incredible. The floor is made of mosaic floor tiles that must be crafted by a special artist. Mirrors cover one entire side of the bathroom, the only illumination in the room coming from dim lights above the elongated mirror. In the corner is a solid gold toilet. Frivolous purchases.

I creep into the master bedroom with my gun held against my thigh, and I begin to hear speaking. I quickly go prone. The voice is in Russian, speaking softly, and I can’t translate. It is Sergei. I don’t want to give him any time to react and call for help, so I don’t confront him directly. I begin crawling closer to the bed, trying to get the best shot if he calls for help. I can make out the velvet covers of the bed–what else would I expect given the extravagance from the rest of the mansion? I am at the foot of the bed, my heart pulsing increasingly fast. I press my gun against the ground to sta-

“CLICK,” a light turns on above the bed.

My body snaps up, holding my gun firmly, prepared to shoot. But I hesitate. Sergei is lying in bed with his two children, his 8-year-old son and his 10-year-old daughter, reading them a Russian children’s story.

The children both cower in fear as Sergei has a look of surprise on his face. I steady my gun, not showing my hesitation.

“Please, don’t shoot,” Sergei insists.

I stand there, dumbfounded but appearing to keep my composure. Why is this the one night that they don’t follow routine?

“If you really must, kill me, but please don’t let my children see,” Sergei appeals. He ducks his head, accepting defeat.

The young boy and the girl begin crying tears of confusion.

“Don’t move!” Hesitation can be heard in my voice. What am I supposed to do?

My attention now has completely shifted to the children. Their faces are in their hands, with tears slowly dripping between their fingers. I see in them what I could have been, or a family I could have had. I could have taken any other path in life, but I chose this one because I felt I was serving my country–a greater good. I have taken lives from people who had done some bad things, but at the end of the day, they were human. They had lives that I took without question. Who am I to play God? I have become an angel of death, dealing death liberally to anyone I was commanded to.

My arms become heavy and slowly slump to my side, and my eyes drift to the ground. Sergei doesn’t hesitate for a second and pushes the emergency button found on the headboard behind him. He begins screaming some Russian words, calling for his guards most likely, but it doesn’t faze me. I look at my pistol for one last time, realizing what I have done all these years. I contort my wrist, and taste the biting cold of the metal of the silencer as I pull the trigger.

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