Andrew Britton - The Assassin

In one swift motion, Raseen grabbed the policeman’s hands and pulled him over her body, lifting him off his feet. At the same time, Vanderveen approached from behind, the Benchmade knife coming out of his pocket. He flipped his thumb and the serrated, 4-inch blade sprang free, clicking into place.

The policeman shouted a warning to no one in particular and started to rise, struggling to find a foothold in the slick grass. He was clambering to his feet, fumbling for the radio, when Vanderveen knocked off his cap with his left hand. At the same time, he gripped a handful of hair, pulled the man’s head to the left, and thrust the knife up under the right ear. The police officer shuddered and emitted a strange sound, something between a cough and a scream. Then he went still. Vanderveen jiggled the blade back and forth a few times before pulling it out and releasing his grip. The dead man fell to the ground with a muffled thump.

Yasmin Raseen was already moving. Her coat was soaked in blood; pulling it off, she rubbed the cloth liner over the damp grass, then used it to wipe her face. Then she placed the knife inside the coat and wrapped it into a bundle, arranging the material under her left arm so that none of the stains were visible.

For the moment, she was unarmed. She glanced at the knife in Vanderveen’s hand, but a quick look at her face told him that nothing had changed; she remained unafraid.

She could not have known what her indifference meant; she had no way of knowing that it was this — her complete lack of fear — that had saved her life. If she had shown an ounce of panic, a moment of indecision, or a trace of dependence on him, he would have killed her instantly. Instead, he wiped down his knife and carefully dropped the weapon next to one of the bodies. Then he took Raseen’s free arm and guided her out of the park.

The lights of the hotel were all but extinguished by the time they returned. Vanderveen pulled open the front door and led her past the drooping, disinterested eyes of the girl at the desk, past the wilting plants in the shabby stairwell. They climbed the dark stairs. In the room on the second floor, Raseen felt her way into the bathroom and flipped on the light, then closed the door behind her. Vanderveen heard tap water running in the sink as he went to the window. Cracking the drapes slightly, he stared down at the road. There was no sign of anything amiss, though he could hear distant sirens through the glass.

They had dropped their bloodied coats into a pair of trash cans on the way back, reaching the hotel clothed only in jeans and T-shirts. The brisk walk back from the park had taken less than twenty minutes, but that was more than enough time for his rage to climb to impossible heights. The woman had compromised everything to satisfy her idle curiosity. She had overstepped her bounds, exceeded any authority her connections afforded her. By the time she emerged from the bathroom, his fury had pushed him past any semblance of rationality; now, he was willing to endure any consequence to see her dead. He would leave her body in the room if he had to. At least, that was how he felt until the door swung open and she appeared before him, backlit by the bulbs over the sink. Then it all fell away, and he could not help but stare in frank admiration.

Her beauty was evident in any light, but there was something about the dark that brought out what lay within, perversely illuminating her darkest desires. Raseen had stripped off the T-shirt and stood before him in worn jeans and a black lace bra. The light from behind made her curves stand out in sharp relief, but it was not her physical attributes that pulled him in. There was something else that he found inexplicably unique and appealing, something about her utter indifference that stripped him of all self-control; he felt as though he would do anything to elicit some kind of reaction, something beyond the enigmatic crease between her eyebrows. He wanted to know who she really was, what had driven her into the life she was leading. What had created her? Who — if anyone — had turned her into a killer?

And then it all came back: the rage, the frustration, the desire to simplify what had become too confusing. Vanderveen could recognize his sudden changes in mood, but he could not control them, just as he could not control the circumstances that had shaped his youth. He was on her in an instant, his left hand like a vise around her throat. He pinned her to the wall, grabbing her right hand with his, and crossing it over her body to control both arms. He was surprised when she refused to struggle. Even as a minute passed and her face turned scarlet from lack of air, she refused to lash out with her feet, to cry out with the last of her breath.

“You stupid bitch.” He hissed the words, his face not more than an inch from hers. The fact that she wouldn’t fight only enraged him more. “You should have stayed in the room. You brought this on yourself. Why did you follow me? What were you trying to prove?”

She didn’t try to reply, not that she could have. Instead, as he tightened his grip, trying to squeeze the last breath from her lungs, she rolled her head back against the wall. At the same time, her eyes closed and her lips parted in an unmistakably sensual way. Surprised and confused, he began to open his hand. Using all the movement left to her, she slid her left hand over his right and squeezed softly.

He could not help what happened next: his grip continued to falter, and she was allowed a deep, shuddering breath, her throat expanding beneath his hand. He took an uncertain step back, ready to strike again, but instead of collapsing or stumbling away, she leaned over for several seconds, gasping for air.

Then she straightened and stepped into his arms, her mouth fastening over his.

He was too stunned to react right away; her fingers were fast in his hair, then sliding down the taut muscles of his back. His first thought was to pry them loose, but she seemed to sense his thoughts; before he could stop her, she had moved her mouth to his ear. She whispered a few breathless words of encouragement, urging him on. At the same time, she pulled off his shirt in one fast movement and pressed her body to his, her full breasts lifting and falling against his bare chest.

He did not have time to consider this strange turn of events. She began pulling him back toward the bed, her movements soft but insistent. In that moment, he knew, with abrupt and complete certainty, that he would never get the truth from her. He would never know what had produced her, what pushed her forward; her mind and her past were equally inaccessible. But as trying as that knowledge was, for the moment, it didn’t matter at all.

Her hands slipped behind her back, and her bra fell to the floor. Vanderveen pressed her down to the covers and lowered his head to her bare skin.

When he woke, it seemed as though hours had passed, but a quick glance at the bedside clock told him he’d been asleep for less than an hour. He lay back for several minutes, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. Then he sat up quietly and looked around the room. Raseen was sitting next to the window, a threadbare blanket wrapped round her bare shoulders. She’d pulled the curtains back; as a car passed in the street below, the headlights flickered over her strong features, momentarily brightening her dark brown eyes. Sensing his attention, she half-turned to smile in his direction.

“You’re awake.”

Vanderveen sat up and leaned against the headboard, running a hand over his eyes. “Yes.”

She stood and walked back to the bed. She curled up next to him and rested her head on his shoulder, still wrapped in the blanket, as though guarding her virtue. He wrapped his left arm around her and pulled her close.