Page 9 of The Don's Deadly Assassin

He slumps forward onto the desk, lifeless, never knowing what hit him.

Once again, I am what the Handler says I am - an apex predator. It’s not the first time I've taken a life, nor will it be the last.

I’m made for the kill.

I turn my attention to the room, scanning for any surveillance devices or potential evidence that would indicate the presence of an intruder.

My gloved fingers trace the intricate woodwork, the ornate bindings of old journals, and the cold metal surfaces of antique weapons. Nothing escapes my scrutiny.

"All clear so far," I mutter under my breath. "Keep looking." I know The Handler will want a thorough report, and I'm determined not to disappoint.

I delve deeper into the study, examining every corner and shadow for anything that might betray my presence. With each passing moment, my confidence grows, the familiar euphoria of a job well done coursing through my veins.

In a little while, I’ll disappear into the night without a trace. I know how this will play out; I conjure up images in my head. Eventually, someone will notice the professor missing. They might come looking or send someone. The police will arrive at some point.

And they’ll find nothing out of the ordinary. There is no sign of forced entry, and his body shows no marks of violence. The prick of the needle is so small, non-existent to the bare eye.

The professor was old, they would say. In his mid-sixties. It was the isolation and the stress of the job that got him. You know, these intellectual kinds.

A heart attack or a cardiac arrest, perhaps?

I smile at the predictability of humans, so gullible.

After surveying most of the room, I walk over to his floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. My fingers brush against the spines of ancient books, resting on their cracked leather and dusty pages. Suddenly, one of the books shifts under my touch, and a soft click echoes through the room.

"Interesting," I murmur, this unexpected turn sparking curiosity within me. “Keeping secrets, dear professor?”

For the first time in my life, I begin to wonder why the Handler wanted the target eliminated. This kill is peculiar. The Handler usually goes for people who wronged him. What could he possibly have wanted with a respected, tenured professor?

Perhaps I’m about to find out what dirty little secrets the professor held.

The bookcase swings open, revealing a chamber beyond. Although I stopped having the weaker human feelings a long time ago, my heart races with glee at this revelation. I step into the chamber.

It’s so dark that I smell the room before I can see it: dust, a little musty, with that cozy hint of precious metal. Then, my eyes adjust to the darkness, and little things begin to shimmer at me.

I pull out my flashlight and cast a beam around the room. It takes my breath away. There are shelves upon shelves upon shelves, filled with items whispering tales of times long past. I can't help but step further inside, drawn to the mysteries concealed here.

"Didn't expect this," I whisper, scanning the room with rapt attention. But it's not the danger that holds my attention – it's the treasures before me. Walls lined with lamps, Chinese tapestries, chest boxes, and artifacts of rubies and emeralds. Frames with ancient portraits, jewelry, a bow and arrow.

I knew that the professor was a historian, archaeologist, and researcher. But this room did not show up on any of the building plans I studied. I purse my lips in thought. These might be items the dear professor kept off the record.

He keeps souvenirs. Who would have thought?

Gently, I glide my gloved hand over some of the items. Truly remarkable. How many digs did he work on? Are these pieces a reminder of his most renowned discoveries?

Slowly, a thought begins to take shape in my mind, and my lips curl up into a grin.

How many kills do I have to my name? Dozens? Hundreds? There are so many that I’m losing count. Perhaps I, too, deserve a souvenir for each kill. Not only is it hard work, but it is a testament to my dedication and years of blood, sweat and tears I’ve put into becoming an accomplished assassin.

“What do I want to remember you by, professor?” I murmur, walking deeper into the room. I tap my fingers along the shelves, picking up little objects here and there.

An ivory trinket box, too fragile.

An amphora, too bulky.

A Mesopotamian tablet is too boring.

A signet ring, too frivolous.

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