"Assassin? Scum is more like it." An old man took a sip from a wine glass as he watched the television. The he seemed stressed, his large frame silhouetted by the light of the TV and the fireplace. "He's probably just another two bit thug who got a hold of his fathers pistol." He brushed his white hair aside as a picture came up on the screen. A drip of sweat hung from his brow "I'm just happy that Mr. Berton is in good health." The the man being interviewed replied to a question. The old man, Mr. Dean Ethermore, pressed his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "Unbelievable." He turned off the TV, reached for his phone and held down a number. The speaker rang once then was picked up. "Stuart's dead. We're going to have to pack up shop again." A voice on the other side complained. "Yes everything. Dispose of anything we don't need." The old man hesitated. "And find a replacement for the young man."
He hung up the phone without another word and sat there looking down at it for a moment. Then he picked it up and slammed it down again, again, and again before placing it nicely back on it's perch. leaning back in his chair he reached for his glass of wine again and spoke. "I'm getting too old for this." He downed what was left in the glass, stood and made his way over to his desk.
There he pulled out a key and opened a filing cabinet. 15 folders were inside. He picked one up and opened it. Inside was a picture of a young man sitting on a park bench all smiles. Below it read Stuart Gert. "He was a good kid. Too good for this job." Dean thought. He flipped through the pages of the file as he meandered his way across the room to the fireplace. The white haired man thought stopped and stood at the hearth of the fireplace till he reached the last page. "Guess your number 23 Stuart." He closed the file and threw it into the fire. The pages lit up and curled back turning to black. Then to ash. Dean turned, picking up his wine glass, leaving the room.
He was topping off his glass again when there was a knock at his door. He looked at the screen on his wrist band, pulling up the surveillance footage of the front of the house, Camera 18. It was his usual courier. A young lad. About 14 years old. He pressed a finger up against the screen and spoke, "Hold on, I'll be down."
He walked through the mostly empty halls leading to empty rooms full of memories. He walked down the ornate curved staircase, into the grand foyer, across the dark and light checkered marble floors and under that over sized chandelier. It was the only chandelier he had ever seen that seemed to give off a warm glow. He looked again at the camera view before opening the door. "Hello Christopher." The boy held out a letter. "Good morning. This was in the drop box today." Dean took the letter and pulled out the usual payment of 100$ cash for the young man. "Thanks, and here's yours." Every time the boys eyes seemed to light up as he graciously took it from the Director. He probably had no idea how dangerous these little chores were. He closed the door behind him after wishing the courier a good day.
As he started to make his way back to his office he pulled out his reading glasses and opened the letter. It was a basic contract. Nothing too fancy. A fine pay off with 75% in advance, as is the usual. He made a pass through the kitchen on the way to pick up the glass of wine he had left behind.
Arriving back in his office he took a closer look at the contract. He searched names and started to gather information on the marks. When he was satisfied with what he had gathered he selected three candidates and sent out the appropriate messages. "They should be more than enough." He thought as he finished up. He stood up and got ready for the company of his subordinates. When he had finished he took a seat in the grand foyer, propped up his bad leg and continued nursing on his glass of wine.
He hung up the phone without another word and sat there looking down at it for a moment. Then he picked it up and slammed it down again, again, and again before placing it nicely back on it's perch. leaning back in his chair he reached for his glass of wine again and spoke. "I'm getting too old for this." He downed what was left in the glass, stood and made his way over to his desk.
There he pulled out a key and opened a filing cabinet. 15 folders were inside. He picked one up and opened it. Inside was a picture of a young man sitting on a park bench all smiles. Below it read Stuart Gert. "He was a good kid. Too good for this job." Dean thought. He flipped through the pages of the file as he meandered his way across the room to the fireplace. The white haired man thought stopped and stood at the hearth of the fireplace till he reached the last page. "Guess your number 23 Stuart." He closed the file and threw it into the fire. The pages lit up and curled back turning to black. Then to ash. Dean turned, picking up his wine glass, leaving the room.
He was topping off his glass again when there was a knock at his door. He looked at the screen on his wrist band, pulling up the surveillance footage of the front of the house, Camera 18. It was his usual courier. A young lad. About 14 years old. He pressed a finger up against the screen and spoke, "Hold on, I'll be down."
He walked through the mostly empty halls leading to empty rooms full of memories. He walked down the ornate curved staircase, into the grand foyer, across the dark and light checkered marble floors and under that over sized chandelier. It was the only chandelier he had ever seen that seemed to give off a warm glow. He looked again at the camera view before opening the door. "Hello Christopher." The boy held out a letter. "Good morning. This was in the drop box today." Dean took the letter and pulled out the usual payment of 100$ cash for the young man. "Thanks, and here's yours." Every time the boys eyes seemed to light up as he graciously took it from the Director. He probably had no idea how dangerous these little chores were. He closed the door behind him after wishing the courier a good day.
As he started to make his way back to his office he pulled out his reading glasses and opened the letter. It was a basic contract. Nothing too fancy. A fine pay off with 75% in advance, as is the usual. He made a pass through the kitchen on the way to pick up the glass of wine he had left behind.
Arriving back in his office he took a closer look at the contract. He searched names and started to gather information on the marks. When he was satisfied with what he had gathered he selected three candidates and sent out the appropriate messages. "They should be more than enough." He thought as he finished up. He stood up and got ready for the company of his subordinates. When he had finished he took a seat in the grand foyer, propped up his bad leg and continued nursing on his glass of wine.
