HUNTER
Book 1 of the Assassin Journals
By
S. L. Partington
Copyright© 2019 S.L. Partington All Rights Reserved.
Chapter 1
They call me The Hunter. I kill people for money.
I’m good at it. I should be; God knows I’ve had enough practice. I wouldn’t call it pride exactly, but I will admit to a certain twisted satisfaction at sitting near the top of the Galactic Federation’s ‘Most Wanted’ list. My reputation is stellar enough that I can pick and choose my assignments, and my fee is beyond the reach of all but the most serious candidates.
Which brings me here. To the forty-seventh floor of the Galaxy Hotel in the city of Dasrajhi. The capital of the Rigian System. I checked in under the name David Archer, one of several alter egos I used in my professional capacity. The concierge bowed and scraped as he showed me to my room.
4701 wasn’t quite large enough to be called a suite, but it was close. It sported a king sized canopied bed, draped in burgundy brocade, and matching full-length draperies covering the floor to ceiling windows. Late afternoon sunlight stained the white carpet and a nearby glass table and two wrought iron chairs a dusky orange. A mirrored armoire stood next to a sophisticated data console/com-link, and a fully stocked wet bar and vid-link completed the décor. It was all a bit over the top for my taste. I’m pretty low maintenance as far as hired killers go.
I showered, changed, and used the room’s fancy com-link to send my potential clients a message, letting them know I’d arrived safe and sound. They’d contact me. Or they wouldn’t. You’d be surprised at how many got cold feet at the last minute. I poured myself a drink and stood at the window admiring the view. Rigis Prime was a desert planet, so not a lot of green space in Dasrajhi. To the south I glimpsed a small central park that looked to be about a dozen blocks square—it stood out like an emerald dropped in a sandbox. I took a sip of my drink as I thought about what would happen next.
The name of my target remained a mystery, but I could venture a fairly accurate guess. I read the news reports. I watched the vid-link. The battle for the Rigian presidency had been volatile enough to get the attention of even the Terran news agencies, not an easy feat considering the internal struggles of minor star systems didn’t rank very high on Earth’s priority scale. But then, the head of criminal organizations didn’t often campaign to become the president of those systems either.
The criminal Guilds ruled the Rigian system in every way except the one that counted. Something they’d planned to remedy with the election. Unfortunately, the Rigian voters had tossed a wrench into the Guilds’ carefully laid plans by electing the other guy.
Go figure.
Now someone on Dasrajhi expected me to deliver them from disaster, and disaster’s name was probably Vance Delaren, the new President Elect of the Rigian System.
Delaren had made a lot of promises during the election, promises he apparently, naively, intended to keep. Honest politicians are hard to come by in this corrupt little corner of the galaxy. I’ll almost feel bad when I agree to kill him.
And I will agree. It’s what I do. It’s why they brought me here, dragging me through a dozen star systems, across half the galaxy. So they can tell me about this one honest man and the reasons they want him dead.
The com-link buzzed. I turned from the window, flicking the switch. The screen remained blank. No video, just audio.
“Yes.”
“David Archer?”
“Yes.”
A moment’s hesitation. “Are you alone?”
No, fuck head, I’m sitting up here with a pretty little Rigian whore on my lap. “Yes. I’m alone.”
“Our employer wishes to meet with you. To discuss the possibility of a mutually beneficial business arrangement.”
“When and where?”
“Midnight. In the Crystal Garden across from the Sorrellian Embassy. A car will meet you in front of the central fountain.”
“I’ll be there.”
I severed the link and returned to the window. The setting sun cast brilliant bands of orange and gold across the cobalt sky, reflecting on the rounded domes and arrow-straight spires that made up the Dasrajhi skyline.
Midnight, in the Crystal Garden.
That’s when it begins.
◆◆◆
I dressed carefully. My prospective employers had certain expectations and it wouldn’t do to disappoint them. I chose a black, military-style flight suit, the legs zipped down over commando boots. Black hair brushed my collar as I slipped my arms into the full length leather trench coat and adjusted the fit in front of the mirror. Antique, mirrored, aviator style Terran lenses hid my blue eyes, a final, personal, eccentric touch that added to my mystique.
I paused at the data console and called up a city map. Dasrajhi was uncharted territory; I wouldn’t want to get lost and miss my appointment. How unprofessional would that be? The Sorrellian Embassy was located in the Government District, east of the hotel. I printed out the directions, tucking them into my inside jacket pocket. Then I checked the charge in my palm laser and grabbed my overpriced room’s key card from the dresser.
It was time to see who was paying for this little adventure.
The concierge dozed behind his desk as I stepped into the hotel lobby. Music and voices drifted from the lounge to the left of the elevators, and a waiter brushed past carrying a covered tray. Avians twittered and squawked in the enclosed garden, and a fountain trickled into a marble pool in the main salon. The liveried doorman nodded a greeting as I stepped past him through the sliding glass doors and onto the congested sidewalk. The heat was cruel and I almost retreated back into the air-conditioned comfort of the hotel lobby.
Fuck man, why would anyone live on this sandpit world on purpose?
“Taxi, sir?” the doorman asked, preparing to flag one down.
“No, thanks.”
He offered a small salute and withdrew, and I paused for a moment to get my bearings. The Government District was east. I began to walk.
The metro Dasrajhi streets were crowded, filled with the whine of hover cars and air-taxis. Apparently urban sprawl wasn’t just an unpleasant Terran issue. The sharp, bittersweet scent of dream crystals drifted from the alleys, and whores beckoned, offering erotic promise laced with a hint of desperation. A warm sand-scented breeze blew in from the desert. Even without the light from the orange sun the air felt hot and gritty.
The urban dynamic changed the further east I travelled. There was more of an air of sophistication and refinement, and the crowds thinned considerably. Embassies and consulates lined the streets, and limos circled like sleek black sharks. The whole area reeked of money and power.
The Crystal Garden was enclosed by a high white wrought iron fence topped with decorative spikes. The gate stood open and the winding drive curved to the left before disappearing into the trees. A few couples walked hand in hand along the paths nearest the fence, but none of them paid much attention to me.
Still, I hadn’t survived this long by being careless.
For several minutes, I stood in the darkness watching the street. When I was satisfied I hadn’t been followed, I entered the garden.
Lanterns illuminated the white stone path, but I avoided the pools of yellow light, staying to the shadows between the linaea trees. Silver petals glistened and the desert breeze passed through the crystalline leaves, causing them to tinkle like wind chimes. Now I understood where the name ’Crystal Garden’ came from.
Flowering shrubs bordered the cobbled square around the central fountain, and moonlight reflected on the series of small waterfalls gurgling into the granite basin. On the far side, almost concealed by the fountain itself, waited a long, black hover car.
; The driver’s side door opened as I approached and a man stepped out. He was a big guy, Sorrellian, judging by his washed out, Albino appearance and creepy orange eyes. He was dressed in the gray uniform of a professional chauffeur. The only thing spoiling the illusion was the hand cannon I glimpsed inside his jacket.
“Archer?”
“At your service.”
He motioned for me to open my coat so he could frisk me. “No weapons are permitted in the Master’s presence.”
I sighed internally. Really?
“Yeah? Well, I don’t know your master from Jack Fuck. I promise to play nice, but I’m not giving up my weapon.”
The enforcer frowned. He appeared to be competent enough, but he obviously wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. “No weapons—”
I turned away with a shrug. “This meeting is adjourned. No harm, no foul.”
The passenger side window rolled down a crack and an irritated voice barked a command in Rigian from the backseat.
“Wait,” the enforcer said.
I stopped.
“The master will see you.”
Score one for me.
The enforcer opened the rear passenger side door and I slid into the back seat. A Rigian man with close-cropped yellow hair and pale gold eyes waited in the car. A thin mustache decorated his narrow face, his skin tone a deep amber, bordering on chocolate. His nose hooked slightly to the left—it had obviously been broken a few times. Evidence of a misspent youth. He wore a black silk shirt beneath a silver-gray suit. Very elegant. Very proper.
I sensed a brittle edge to him buried beneath the dignified exterior. Here was a man who was used to giving orders and getting his way. I also sensed irritation. My willingness to walk had pissed him off. Probably not the best way to open negotiations, but whatever. He was the one who’d called me.
“Welcome to Dasrajhi,” he said. “I am Dorbrin Jasser.”
Jasser?
Ah yes, the unfortunate runner-up in the recent Rigian elections.
He drew a glass vial and slender pipe from his breast pocket. Selecting an opaque, blue-green rock of dream crystals from the vial, he placed it into the bowl of the pipe, lighting it with a silver lighter before dropping the vial back into his jacket pocket. He drew deeply on the pipe then offered it to me.
I shook my head, shifting my gaze to the view outside the tinted windows. “No, thanks. I never mix business with pleasure.”
Jasser chuckled. “An admirable trait. I’ve checked your references, Hunter, you come highly recommended. Although your former clients failed to mention your paranoia.”
“It’s nice to know my work hasn’t gone unappreciated and, in my business, a little paranoia is a healthy thing. Why am I here?”
“As you may know, our system has a new president-elect.”
“I heard.”
“Master Delaren is something of an idealist. He believes he can change the world. Some call him a visionary. The great savior of the Rigian system. He is, in fact, a distressingly honest irritant. He has declined my generous financial incentive to step down and refuses to submit to a judicial recount. He has ambitious plans, our new president-elect. Changes to the Rigian Constitution that will make many of my current business dealings untenable. I stand to lose a great deal if this happens. It is a situation I would rather avoid, if possible.”
“And you want me to make it possible.”
“It is something I have considered, yes.”
“You’re aware of my fee?”
“Two million Terran credits?”
I nodded. “Is there a deadline?”
“The inauguration is next month. I would prefer it if Master Delaren were unable to attend.”
No doubt.
I watched him drop another crystal rock into his pipe. The smoke, in the enclosed space of the car, made me lightheaded and nauseous. I was amazed Jasser could still function; I’d seen bigger men drop dead stoned on a fraction of what he’d smoked so far.
“Vance Delaren will be heavily guarded, increasing the risks involved in termination. The fee is now four million credits.” I drew a card from my inside jacket pocket. “Deposit the money into this numbered account. Half to be paid now, the rest upon completion.”
Jasser took the card without looking at it and dropped it into his breast pocket before lighting the crystals. “When will it be done?”
I forced down a twinge of irritation. “When I’m ready.”
Jasser watched me, his eyes narrowed. “I am paying for timely results.”
Fuck off. “You’ll get them. Is there anything else?”
“I think not, for the time being. Perhaps, once this assignment has been completed successfully, I’ll find a place for you within our organization. A man with your skill set would be a valuable asset. You’ll find me to be a generous employer.”
“Thanks, but I don’t play well with others.”
His blank stare told me my Terran humor was lost on him. “I prefer to work alone.”
Jasser shrugged. “The offer stands should you wish to reconsider. I’ll have Igon return you to your hotel.”
“That’s fine, I’ll walk.”
I stepped out into the fresh air of the garden, drawing a deep breath to clear my head. That second hand dream crystal high would give me one hell of a headache later.
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you,” said Jasser.
Sure, whatever.
The car door slid shut, and I made my way back to the gate as it pulled away.
◆◆◆
Over the next week I learned everything I could about Vance Delaren. I posed as a Terran journalist, joining the corps of interstellar press hovering around him. Following him to various political rallies and personal appearances. His handlers denied us direct access to the young politician himself, instead feeding us election propaganda and prepared press releases. Photo opportunities were carefully orchestrated and monitored by very large, very capable looking, security guards.
And Jasser had called me paranoid.
I took dozens of photographs. Of Delaren. Of his advisors. Of his guards and various and sundry peons. Of everyone close to him.
Younger than I expected, he had the yellow-white hair, topaz eyes, and mustard colored skin of a native Rigian. Lanky, with an open, honest face, he reminded me of a Kansas farm boy. He spent his days giving speeches. Making promises. He would end corruption in the civilian security patrol, making the streets safer. He would reform the tax system, making it fairer to the lower classes. He would create a joint military/civilian task force to stop The Cartel, the Guilds’ chief rival, from stealing destitute women and children from Rigian streets and selling them into the sex trade, or forcing them to work in its ulenium mines. Something the Cartel, of course, vehemently denied. The turf war between the two violent gangs would come to a righteous and justified end.
He offered the Rigian people hope. With hope came courage, and with courage came an end to corruption. Dorbrin Jasser’s shady little empire would come crashing down around his ears, if Vance Delaren had his way. No wonder the head of the Guilds wanted him dead.
Vance Delaren’s sincerity and dedication touched something in me and I was forced to admit a grudging admiration for the man. More power to him, if he could do it.
But then, he wouldn’t do it. Because he’d be dead.
Another week passed as I accompanied Delaren on a tour of the outer planets in the Rigian system. I’d been around my share of politicians, I’d even killed a few. Most weren’t worth the powder to blow them to hell. They made their promises all right, then conveniently forgot all about them once the votes were counted.
From what I could tell, Delaren wasn’t like that. He seemed genuinely concerned about the plight of his people. Genuinely committed to making their lives better. The Rigians embraced that concern and commitment and treated him like the god-sent savior of the system. There were parades. Banquets. Photo ops with celebrities and local dignitaries.
More speeches. Yet more promises. He was their hero and cheering crowds followed him wherever he went.
I returned to my hotel to find several messages from Jasser waiting. After the political love-fest I’d been immersed in, it came as a jarring reminder of what, exactly, I was doing here. Jasser demanded results, and his threats and bitching pissed me off. I worked according to my own timeline, and I didn’t appreciate being pushed.
To spite him, I decided I’d max out his deadline. I’d take Vance Delaren down as he spoke the words of office.
My bogus press credentials were the best that money could buy, created with loving care by a Terran forger fondly known as “Lenny the Chef.” The little twitch was a genius when it came to cooking up aliases and all their requisite documents. He’d provided me with half a dozen phony IDs over the years and I still used most of them. These particular documents allowed me to bluff my way into the theater where the inauguration would be held.
Situated in Dasrajhi’s People’s Park, the tiny green space I’d viewed from my hotel window, it was an ornately domed, pretentious looking structure surrounded by flowering trees and neatly tended beds of desert flowers. I fed the manager a crock about wanting to take photographs for a special inaugural edition of the Terran news journal I worked for. He gave me a guided tour, starting with the auditorium.
Five tiers of crimson upholstered seats rose toward the back of the room. A brass railing and staircase separated each tier, the uppermost almost touching the ceiling of the first balcony. Six Lyrian crystal chandeliers hung from heavy gold chains set into the vaulted ceiling, and a single spotlight shone on a massive flag of the Rigian system: a black sunburst upon a golden field. On the stage, a dozen rows of chairs had been arranged behind a clear, glass podium.
I followed the theater manager as he rambled on about the historical significance of the coming event and how honored he was to be a part of it. After a while I stopped listening.
Flats, risers, and stacks of chairs filled the backstage area and a metal ladder reached upward into the gloom. I followed it with my eyes. “What’s up there?”
Hunter Page 1