Kiss My Assassin

by Dave Sinclair

  An explosion in the distance reminded Bishop of the timer he’d set. He hoped it would be a further distraction.

  On the crest of a dune, Bishop saw a figure stalking through the night. If the moon hadn’t been behind the figure he never would have seen it; it moved so stealthily. It was the grey-hooded figure, the assassin who had taken out Demir, had likely kidnapped Astrid, and had killed Roll-Your-Own. The sniper was between Bishop and the road. The MI6 agent gripped his pistols tighter.

  Game on, you bastard.

  Losing sight of his target as he descended a dune, Bishop mentally calculated the various strategic positions where his foe could be. He was reasonably sure he hadn’t been seen, but couldn’t be certain, especially after the gunfight he’d had. All thoughts of the pain in his thigh were forgotten as he practically ran to his strategic location. He had to beat the bastard to the next dune, then he’d have the high ground. He could fire on the hooded figure before they knew what had hit them. This was it, his one chance.

  Flopping on top of the dune, gun drawn, Bishop waited for the assassin to come over the crest. He realised he was overlooking the highway on his right. First he’d take his revenge, then he’d call Zoya. He was really going to enjoy that scotch. All he had to do was take the shot. Just one would do it. Aiming his pistol, he waited.

  But no one came over the crest.

  He was taking too long.

  Where was the grey-hooded figure?

  They should have come over the dune by now.

  But if they hadn’t… that meant…

  Bishop turned as the butt of a rifle swung towards his head. His reaction was too slow. He only managed to duck part of the blow; the rifle butt glanced off his skull. The pistol was kicked from his hand.

  Bishop launched himself at the hooded figure. They tumbled down the dune, plummeting towards the road.

  As they fought and rolled, the world became flashes of moonlight and flying sand. Grunts and desperate blows were exchanged as they tumbled. When they reached the bottom of the dune, Bishop’s head struck the road. The grey-hooded figure was on top. Bishop bucked them off and scrambled for the gun tucked down the back of his pants.

  “Looking for this?”

  That voice? It couldn’t be…

  Standing, the grey-hooded figure held Bishop’s pistol. It was aimed at his head.

  With their free hand, the figure pulled back the grey hood. The hammer on Bishop’s pistol was pulled back.

  “Time to die, lover.” Astrid issued a sinister smile.

  Chapter Nine

  “Wait. Wait.”

  Bishop’s brain was trying to catch up. The hooded figure, the one from the estate, the railway station, the dunes, was Astrid. She had never been stalked by a grey-hooded figure. It was her all along.

  “Why didn’t you kill me at the train station?”

  Astrid crinkled her nose in amusement, an action Bishop had once found adorable. “Out of all the questions you could possibly ask, that’s the one you go with?”

  The gun in her hand hung motionless. There was no quiver; it wasn’t heavy or unfamiliar in her hand.

  “Just wondering. You seem awfully keen at the moment to put a bullet in me.” Bishop’s words were casual, but his eyes searched for a weapon, any weapon. “Yet at the station you could have taken me out, but you chose the gent we were about to interrogate.”

  Astrid rolled her eyes. “What can I say? I was momentarily overcome with sentimentality.”

  “And now?”

  The gun barrel inched closer. “The moment has passed.”

  The face before Bishop was completely foreign. It had the exact same beautifully crafted features, but was bereft of all tenderness, humour and sympathy. It was a harsh, unforgiving face, one without mercy, without pity.

  An occasional car or lorry sped down the highway, but none stopped. They were either oblivious to the forthcoming execution or indifferent. Lying on the ground injured and without weapons, Bishop saw no way out. Even his charm would not thaw Astrid’s cold, wrathful stare.

  With a bored sigh, as if keen to get it over with, Astrid asked, “Any last words?”

  From the corner of his eye, Bishop saw a car with a single headlight.

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” Bishop propped himself up on an elbow and nodded. “Goodbye, Astrid.”

  Curiosity creased her face. Astrid tilted her head. “What’s that supposed to—”

  The car skidded sideways, slowing its momentum, but when it hit her, the glancing blow was enough to send her flying. Astrid careened 5 metres before thumping into the sand dune, where she lay motionless.

  Staggering upright, Bishop saw the beaming face behind the wheel of the taxi. Wincing through the pain, Bishop limped over to the driver’s side.

  “You want a taxi, Mister?” Zoya’s white teeth positively shone.

  Bishop scowled. “I thought I told you to get far away from here.”

  Zoya shrugged. “Yeah, I’m terrible at following instructions. As my teacher at school always said, look out!”

  For a fraction of a second Bishop wondered why Zoya’s teacher had told her to look out. Then the windscreen exploded.

  He dove for the ground. The gunshots echoed through the night air, there was no doubt where they had come from. Astrid stood unsteadily, holding the pistol with two hands. Her clothes were ripped and blood coated half her face from some unseen wound. She staggered forward, firing relentlessly into the taxi. Her eyes blazed with unhinged fury.

  When the bullets stopped, Bishop rose shakily to his feet. He hesitantly examined the interior of the taxi. The driver was riddled with red bullet holes, her lifeless eyes staring at the distant stars.

  Zoya was dead.

  “The fucking bitch hit me with a car!” Astrid limped towards the taxi. She wiped her forehead, assessing the blood on her fingers, then turned to Bishop and completely transformed. In an instant her face was nearly the same lovely one Bishop remembered. “It really irritates me when people run me over.”

  In Bishop’s expert opinion, she was deranged. Completely tonto. There was something else she was, too: out of bullets. Rage-shooting Zoya had spent the last of her ammunition.

  Bishop was injured, but so was she. The playing field had been levelled. Plus, she had just killed his friend, and she’d nearly killed him, more than once. Normally Bishop found the idea of hitting a woman completely abhorrent. He was willing to forgo that just this once.

  Standing to his full height, Bishop clenched his shaking fists, his anger barely contained. He had years of experience in controlling his emotions for the benefit of the Service, but he was ready to forget it all for revenge.

  Instead of showing fear, Astrid smiled. A beaming, stunning smile. “You took your sweet time.”

  Too late, Bishop realised Astrid wasn’t addressing him. Before he could turn, a sack was thrown over his head and he took several body blows that buckled his legs. Fighting both his sightlessness and the new assailant, Bishop struggled in what he knew was a losing battle. This new adversary was fresher and stronger, while the spy was close to spent.

  In quick succession Bishop’s hands and feet were bound and he was thrown into the back of some sort of van. As he struggled, gathering the fortitude to fight back, a needle pierced his upper arm, and the darkness grew darker still.

  With Herculean effort, Bishop tried to pry his groggy eyes open. Thoughts muddied, he was unsure where he was or how long he’d been out. Did all those events even happen? Did he dream them? Was he in a hotel room? His own bed?

  It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and it was indeed gloomy. As gloomy as it got. He knew where he was.

  He wished he didn’t.

  “Awake? Excellent. We may commence.”

  Once, Bishop had found the voice musical, angelic. Who was he kidding? It was still lovely. The difference was, now he knew it came from the fiery depths of hell.

  Astrid limped forward, emerging from the shadow
s of Temple’s dungeon. Apart from the limp, she seemed unharmed by her earlier altercation.

  Bishop lay on the wooden torture table, his ankles and wrists manacled. His head throbbed from whatever drug they had given him, but that was nothing compared to the fire in his thigh. Nausea lurked around him, ready to pounce at any moment. He struggled against it. There were more important battles to fight.

  Astrid traced her blood-red nails along Bishop’s arm. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you’re no stranger to being tied up?”

  “Perhaps. But I usually like to take it in turns.” Bishop’s mouth was dry and metallic. “How about you go first? I’m a bit out of sorts.”

  Letting loose one of her full-throated laughs, Astrid shook her head humorously, as if Bishop had told a delightful witticism at a garden party. She had changed her clothes. She wore a pleasant sundress, in stark contrast to the surrounds. She’d cleaned herself up after Zoya’s act of bravery.

  Zoya.

  Bishop’s hands lunged for Astrid’s flawless neck, but the chains jerked his hands to a halt before they could reach her. Knowing it was hopeless, he tried again, imagining Astrid’s face as he squeezed the life from it. He fell back, exhausted by his futile efforts.

  Tutting, Astrid glided around the table. Her delicate fingers slid over his body, along his arms, down his chest. Without hesitation, her fingers found the front of his trousers and traced circles over his groin. Bishop didn’t need to think of cricket. Receiving no reaction, Astrid’s hand slithered towards the bullet hole in his thigh. Without warning, she dug her thumb deep into the wound.

  Bishop screamed like he never had before. Agonising. Primal. Astrid’s eyes and mouth flew wide open, relishing the reaction. Her expression of ecstasy was close to the one he had seen on her face before, its source completely different. The elation on display now was nothing short of evil. Pure malevolence. There was no doubt: Astrid was a sadist.

  He was right to have been wary on first meeting her. Her approaches had put him on guard, but he hadn’t listened to his gut. He would remember that lesson for the rest of his life. He gave it two hours, tops.

  The next few hours would be as painful as they would be final. No one knew where Bishop was. The only humans who knew of Temple’s sadistic room were 3000 kilometres away. Even if they launched a rescue mission, it would come long after Astrid had played out her sick game. Oleg had traipsed off several kilometres in the opposite direction and knew nothing of the underground chamber, if he even thought of Temple’s mansion at all. Despite knowing all this, Bishop wished Oleg would come bursting in, guns blazing. Bishop was willing to grasp to any glimmer of hope, even if it was graceless and Russian.

  In the silence following his screams, Bishop heard shuffling behind him. The slow steady footfalls grew louder.

  “Don’t play too rough yet, my beloved, he has information we need.”

  Temple stepped forward, and his hand slithered around Astrid’s waist. She turned and the two embraced passionately, their tongues intertwined, their breathing heavy. Bishop was reasonably sure they were about to do it right on the table on top of him.

  Temple broke loose and stared at Bishop while Astrid straightened her clothes.

  He checked his watch and addressed Astrid. “As fun as this will be, don’t forget you have a plane to catch.”

  She pouted in reply, seeming disappointed to have to rush Bishop’s torture. Try as he might, Bishop found it hard to feel sorry for her.

  Temple turned to Bishop. “My beloved told me about your tussle on the dunes. I cannot believe you took out Peter Rob and his men but failed to take out my love here. And he’s one tough son of a bitch. Quite remarkable, yes? It’s almost as though you have feelings for her, a sentiment I can appreciate but can’t condone. You understand, of course?”

  “It wasn’t our first tussle, though not as sweaty as the last.” Bishop attempted to sound casual, as much as one could when shackled in a torture chamber awaiting death.

  Temple’s head snapped around and he glared at Astrid. In return, she demurely cast him an impish grin. It didn’t seem to work. He huffed and it seemed to Bishop that Temple was unaware of Astrid’s exploits. There was tension there. A fracture Bishop could exploit? Best-case scenario, they stab one another to death. And one of them throws Bishop the shackle key as their last dying act after making him a daiquiri of some description. Granted, it was unlikely, but it was a best-case scenario, after all.

  With his mouth slanted to one side, Bishop gave a tsk. He spoke to Astrid. “You didn’t tell him about our tryst? I can’t imagine it was because you were embarrassed. That’s not your style.”

  Astrid did her best to ignore him, concentrating instead on Temple’s chest. Seductively, she ran her fingers down it, as if attempting to distract him from the revelation. It didn’t work. Temple positively seethed.

  Bishop addressed Temple. “So, she didn’t tell you of our sweaty evening the night before last? Surprising. My god, I thought we were going to be tossed out of the hotel with all the hollering. She’s quite the screamer when she’s excited, isn’t she?”

  “That’s enough,” Astrid spat, then calmed herself. She slid her arm around Temple’s shoulder and turned his head to kiss him slowly, tenderly.

  Temple replied amiably, his tension eased but not abated. It seemed she had him on a leash.

  She turned to Bishop. “Hate to tell you, lover, I faked every orgasm.”

  “No.” Bishop glared at her. “You didn’t. I’m experienced enough to know the difference.”

  Astrid laughed, but there was an edge to it, a tinge that betrayed the truth.

  The MI6 agent scoured the two for reactions, anything he could use. “A new lover might fake for expediency or politeness, but there’s no need. Soon, when she really experiences true bliss, I know her true unfiltered self in all its glorious unbridled honesty. There are some things you just can’t fake.”

  Temple watched the exchange, wary. He still seethed at Astrid’s actions, but chose to say nothing.

  Forgoing a laugh, Astrid waved a dismissive hand. “You’re quite charming.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I hadn’t finished. You’re quite charming,” she smirked, but her eyes were devoid of humour, “but stupid. My team have facial recognition software running for all new entries into Marrakech. You popped up as a potential spy, as did Mikhail. That’s why I spoke to you at the airport, no other reason.”

  And Oleg at the hotel, no doubt, Bishop thought. He noted she used his alias, so perhaps her intelligence wasn’t as comprehensive as she thought.

  “Once I took you to bed you couldn’t wait to tell me you weren’t an advertising executive. You may as well have handed over your ID card then and there. That’s why I was suspicious of you to begin with, and that’s why I slept with you. Your failing is your faith in your charm. You ate up the innocent dove routine like a hungry fat man at a wedding buffet.”

  “I don’t think that’s—”

  “Stupid.” Astrid cut him off, annoyed. “You had all that time with me but considered me a naive schoolgirl caught up in events I was too innocent and foolish to appreciate. How very, very wrong of you. It seems there are things I can fake, Mr Charles Bishop of MI6.” Despite his best efforts, Bishop must have reacted. Astrid seized upon it. “Oh yes, we know who you are now. We’ve had the suspicion confirmed and know far more than that tiny brain of yours could possibly comprehend.”

  There was no use asking where they’d obtained their information, they wouldn’t divulge anything. But that didn’t mean a man couldn’t at least try to find out more.

  Addressing Temple, Bishop asked, “What is it you want to achieve?”

  “World domination.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” Temple chuckled, “but that’s what you expected me to say, isn’t it? A mad unscrupulous plan for world ascendency with some sort of warped ideology and whatnot? That’s what you believed, right?”


  In actuality, Bishop hadn’t thought that far ahead, though it was obvious Temple believed he had. Bishop had spent all his efforts on trying to find out what the auction was; he’d assumed more would be discovered once he had that information. As it turned out, he was indeed right, only it was a bit more painful and fatal than he’d hoped. Which was a shame. Bishop always liked being right.

  Temple and Astrid must believe Bishop knew more than he actually did, hence the upcoming interrogation and torture. It wasn’t his dashing good looks and prowess in the bedroom that had spared his life until now, it was their need to extract information. They would want to know what Demir had told him, what MI6 knew, who else was after them. Even if he chose to tell them all he knew, it wouldn’t be enough. They would assume there was more and torture him until his dying breath to get it out of him. Not that he was going to give them anything. Bishop was resigned to his fate, but that didn’t mean he was going to make it easy for them.

  Astrid ran her fingers along the inside of Bishop’s leg. “It’s a shame, though.”

  “What is?” Bishop thought Astrid seemed far too pleased with herself.

  “I mean,” Astrid stopped touching Bishop and ran her fingers down Temple’s chest instead, “you and Oleg no longer being partners.”

  The manner in which she declared it put Bishop on edge. The confidence in the statement. The irrevocability of it.

  She went on. “I have to say, when the two of you teamed up, the results were,” she turned her sultry eyes to Bishop, “formidable. But it’s all done with now, isn’t it? Oleg put up a gallant fight, he was nothing if not tenacious.”

  Bishop’s stomach fell. “Was?”

  “Yes.” She frowned girlishly and waggled her shoulders. “I’m afraid your bosom buddy didn’t fare too well. He gave us one hell of a tussle though, I’ll give him that. Took out a whole mess of our men before he was done.” Her expression turned dark, practically gleeful. “But done it is. I’m afraid there won’t be a white knight swinging in on a vine to save you. You are utterly alone.”