Recognition wrenched the eyes of the apelike doorman wide and the door swung even wider, allowing Tset entrance.
Tset threw a fiver to the doorman as a tip and proceeded directly across the darkened basement interior, through the must, and to a heavy door with a wire-mesh window. He knocked once before opening it and going inside.
Tset was sitting across the table from a sharp-suited, greasy man with a rat face, sharp, broken teeth and shifty eyes.
"You rang?"
The little rat man nodded, and Tset grimaced in disgust - he hated this particular agent, for reasons of body odor and hygiene more than anything.
A contract slid across the table, and an encrypted ear bead, "Boss needs you to take out someone pretty soon."
Tset glanced at the contract briefly, "Who's boss? Yours?"
The man nodded, "And yours."
Tset's smirk could shave glass, "Not on your life."
The shifty little man blinked rapidly to clear his head from softspoken and hard-edged concussion, "Anyway, he needs you to go take out dis guy."
Tset threw the contract back onto the table, "Yeah, I know the drill. Not complicated for anyone not so rodentine as yourself."
Tset stood to leave, reaching for another cigarette, but a hot, damp little hand caught his blazer cuff, he looked with an expression of mild curiosity on his face, "You don't talk to me like that, you understand, Mr. Nobody?" A thin, bony finger was pointed at him.
Tset, his face no grimmer than it had been, placed his PP9i against the pinky knuckle of the offender's pointing hand.
The gun went off.
"Time for dental records if you don't stop touching me." The gun shifted, lined up with the eyebrows.
Tears welled up in the shifty eyes and the hand slipped. The other hand, sawn away on one side, hung at the end of his limp arm.
"Your half-rate operation is unimportant. I'll do things how I want. Don't ever touch me, you creepy little prick."
The doorman skittered to open the door for Tset, cowering in fear behind it. Tset simply nodded.
The contract had Tset at a local university in the middle of the afternoon, with his rifle. His target was one Edward Hendriksen, II.
The ear bead crackled, "Edward and his professor should be moving into the courtyard now."
Tset ran the scope across the various doors leading into the square, "Professor?" Then he saw it - Edward, II, was a child, not ten.
Tset hesitated on the trigger, his crosshairs carefully placed well away from the small boy, "Recap my contract."
There was a sigh, "You didn't read it?"
"I was busy defending myself from the little creep you keep in your basement, recap the fucking contract."
Another sigh, "Little Edward's father bought oiling rights from Chase Bank and began using the land for other things than oil, depriving nations of power and people of jobs. He refused to sell the rights back. Even with glorious offers from the original sellers. With luck, Edward the older died in a terrible and pointless plane crash. But he left the rights to his son in some sentmintally driven will that's being honored. Anyway, long and short, Edward junior needs to be removed."
"He's ten."
"Yes, however, his father was a raging communist. And the little boy is twisted, and probably going to walk the same road."
"He's ten."
The voice became stern, and Tset could just hear the expensive collar and tie strain against the bulging neck as the scream came in through his little bead, "YOU. ARE-"
"Hold on." He popped the bead out of his ear. The ranting was still audible.
Tset put his rifle back in its scabbard and headed downstairs, he had an ill feeling about this contract.
He opened his phone, encrypted, untraceable by his contractor, and looked up Edward, I.
He'd died in a plane crash not one week earlier, due to mechanical failure. Mysterious mechanical failure.
Tset scoffed and read further, his little bead crackling and disturbing him until he put it in his pocket.
Edward Senior had been an oil magnate, for sure. Arriving lately to the scene. Young, handsome, capable. A hard worker said his fans, and a total bigot said his critics.
The bigotry came from his refusal to sell the few rights he had in Nepal and the Middle East - he wanted to set up game reserves and wild life preserves. The man liked tigers.
"Oh, Communistic for sure, Marx is creaming his burial garments."
He closed his phone and put the bead back into his ear, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Came the voice.
"Chill out, I'm investigating. I have a hunch on this little kid's problems."
The man on the other end of the line spoke quickly, "Mission parameters say the professor is not to be hurt, he is an innocent. The child is to die."
'Cute he assumes I meant the professor.' Said professor and child passed near the stairwell door behind which Tset was hiding, the professor muttering about social hierarchies, the higher-ups, and controlling lesser people through finance.
'Cute.'
"Oh, fuck, I'm going to have to wait."
"What? Why? No!"
"I'm waiting, because, yes. They're going inside, and plus, it's daylight, and don't want to have to jumpstart Proffy's pacemaker when his little ward gets hit with high-caliber rifle fire. Give me a few hours, I'll call you."
"NO! You are to complete your contract immediately, or no fee. None! You hear me?"
Tset opened his phone again, scanned through his contract rosters, Petrezon, the Dane, appeared on his screen - the higher-up of the ranting idiot in his ear. He hit send, reserving the contract for himself. 'Try to get me to kill children, will you?'
Then he reserved his contact's just for fun.
"What do you want me to do?" He asked, noncommitment hidden.
"Sending you their position, track them. When the time is right... we've already paid off the professor."
Tset was looking at his phone when it buzzed with the [email protected] address - below the notice and partially covered was the professor's old wrinkled face, belonging to part of Chase's payroll Tset had just been flipping through.
"Looks like it." Tset was smirking, his upper lip a snarl, his teeth glinting as he headed away from his hit and towards the professor's office.
"What?"
"Nothing." Tset's humored snarl was still in place, he removed the ear bead.
A minute later and he let himself inside the office - his magnetic card sliding the tumblers with a loud click.
Tset slipped deeper within the dusty room, sliding the door carefully shut.
The room was neat, orderly. Books of every age and type lined the heavy oak bookshelves. Mein Kampf was especially prominent.
'Probably bound in human skin.'
Tset mused and rubbed his chin with his glove. The room was neat...
He spied a humidor and stuffed his pockets with cigars. He moved a paperweight. He shifted the pens in their holder.
As a final finish he angled a guest chair slightly.
He stood, admiring his work, smiling. The Prof. would notice, surely. The slight disorder. "Perfect."
Then he had another idea. One far more upsetting. He would stay and wait.
He sat in the chair and lit up a Macanudo. The day began to roll slowly by. But Tset had yet another facet of a plan arise - he used the modest computer set up to print a copy of his contract from his phone.
The contract itself was a list of parameters with nothing but code names. It would be impossible to trace by itself, so he stuck the ear bead to the underside of the desk.
He sealed the papers in a parchment envelope and pressed it with the Prof's own seal. He stuck this in his jacket, leaned back, and waited.
Sometime after five someone unlocked the door and stepped in.
They had to flip the lights on and Tset did not instantly register as an inhabitant of the office interior.
The professor stood, blinking. "Who are you!" He exclaimed this, w
hispering, upset, afraid.
Tset's smile was relaxed though not relaxing, "Don't worry. I'm here from Petrezon."
The Prof deflated, "Thank God! For...?"
Tset nodded.
"Thank God again! Spoon-feeding the little bastard anything of worth is impossible. He's a multimillionaire, you know what he asked me?"
"No." Tset felt like throwing the professor out of his window.
"If he could get a pony with that money! A pony! What sort of self-respecting boy wants a pony? He must already be a little faggot."
"Wasn't his dad an equestrian?"
The professor flapped his hands, "Who knows? Who cares?"
Tset shrugged.
"And he still watches cartoons! I can't break him of his habits, I can't make him see the light. He reads the Bible, by himself! He doesn't... he's not maleable."
"You know," Tset cleared his throat a little, "In most cultures, that's considered a good personality trait."
"Yes, but not here. Maleability is key if you want to survive, right?" The professor looked at Tset's face, and the jagged smile there gave him a start, "... right?"
Tset closed his mouth and said, "Right. Nothing like maleability to keep you regular. Anyway," He stood and made his way gracefully around the desk, "This is why I came." Tset held out the contract bound in the professor's own paper and wax. "Keep it sealed. Do not read it until sunrise tomorrow. If anyone comes for you, burn that, immediately. But whatever you do, do not open it. You understand?"
Tset went to the door while the professor peered at the parcel, but was held up, "What is this?"
"Things got complicated. This isn't a regular job. Keep that safe and leave the child here tonight. You must." Tset was solemn.
"I will do anything."
There was a pointed pause as Tset opened the door, and the professor spoke again, "Do you want me to... ah..."
"Want you to what?"
"... do the job."
Tset hid his disgust, and not very well, "No. You keep your hands clean."
The professor nodded, "I will." A glint left his eye that was disconcerting. He truly hated the little boy.
"Good." And Tset closed the door and strode down the hall.
Back upstairs he went, and he waited, in the elevator room on top of the roof. The night drew out a few more hours and Tset watched from his vantage point as staff left the university. No sign of the professor for another two hours - the cleaning staff had arrived at the other end of the campus.
But the doors opened again, and were locked from within by the night security guard and Tset saw the professor was on his way to his car, having bid Edward a good night earlier and putting him up in a dormitory.
The professor was whistling. Tset saw him stuff a thick parchment envelope into his waistcoat.
The professor jangled his keys from his pocket and went around his Jaguar.
Tset had a moment's brief pause - the ten-year-old had just lost his father, and now his teacher would go, too.
'He'll thank me one day.' Was his shrug, and a bullet arced through the air and the old man's heart, punching out his ribs. He was left slumped over his hood - half-registered surprise tugging at his cooling and still eyelids.
Two hours later and Tset called Petrezon's number, he was walking down a thoroughfare three miles from the university and had no one following him, "I handled the source of corruption for the little boy. Judging by his nature and parentage, he'll grow up to be worth something. If you put another contract out on that kid, I'll have your balls, dig me?"
"What?"
Tset smiled and hung up. 'Your balls are already nailed down, motherfucker.' He sipped his gas-station coffee and walked into the night, the shadows of the dead street lights enveloping him as he passed deeper.
The next day, the headlines were out, and the story was everywhere - PROFESSOR HIRED TO KILL HENDRIKSEN HEIR.
Tset purchased a paper and read while he puffed on one of his stolen cigars.
The story went that the professor, Millings, was the child's ward after the death of the late Hendriksen. Petrezon, Chase Bank investment major, and known interest in the Hendriksen family fortune, paid off the professor to kill the heir, as evidenced by a contract found on Millings, bearing his own personal seal, as well as a communications device found in the professor's office that traced back to Petrezon.
However, Millings was shot to death by an unnamed assassin in the parking lot of his university - the paper theorized it was either the infamous Tset or notorious Dargent who'd been behind the scope. Cries of 'Atlas!' had risen, but were being silenced. Atlas was illegal.
"Right on three counts." Tset was grinning ear-to-ear.
The journalist writing the story was undecided as to whether or not Tset or Dargent were white hats. Or different people. Tset shrugged; most people couldn't figure it out, too prolific and too directionless. The three did enough work for probably a hundred hitmen.
He read on, Chase was now under global investigation and prosecution for terroristic actions in third world nations, embezzlement, murder, market manipulation, false advertising and many other unspeakable crimes. Petrezon was in solitary confinement and he was due in court the following Wednesday. All funds of both parties were frozen. Billions of units of international currency sat stultified in vaults.
Tset sighed pleasantly and shuffled the papers to find the boy's fate.
He had been moved out of country, and his assets frozen until the time he came of age.
Two lines, less than twenty words.
"Good."
Tset closed the paper and handed it back to the little grungy paper hock he'd purchased it from. He graciously tipped him, "That's for you."
The boy stared after him, and Tset had a slight skip in his step - more a groove. Tristram had once asked him if he was previously Fred Astaire when Tset swaggered like this. Tset had performed 'Singing in the Rain' as his answer then, and did so now, but in whistle, and with feeling.
Interlude
Chapter Four:
The Yakuza
and Pelican
It was another number of months and another number of hits before Tset heard from Pelican.
It was a simple message on the Haliburton public forums.
Considering Tset never accessed the forums (the professionals never did) some Pelican operative had to put out a contract for Tset to take and included the notice in the parameters.
The mission was considered finished and Tset felt his coffers swell slightly.
He ignored the ten grand and read over the message.
It was simple, it guaranteed his safety.
He snorted, "Like another half-class jackass would be any different than the last two-hundred-fifty."
His curiosity was piqued, however. Pelican was purportedly American. How many true-blood Americans existed in Greater Europe?
He decided to go to Old Brussels and meet in the Triple-U House Commons, like the message said.
Tset was smoking, it was daylight, and the air was cool and pleasant. His contact was supposed to come and find him and guide him to the meeting place.
Off the cobbled street he stood, on the curb, watching people go by. He was relaxed and nothing visibly bothered him. He put a hand in his coat pocket, thumbing the hammer on his Berretta .45.
He ashed.
Tset was smiling to himself. No matter who his contact was, he'd follow at twenty feet and cover them with his pistol.
In broad daylight - surreptitious of course - but still, no one quite had a grasp on how untraditional Tset's modus operandi were.
Then someone jostled him, lightly, finely, like silk. His view was red, bright red, and curved.
The woman passed him by and smiled in his direction.
Tset hesitated. He drew a line at women, covering her would be morally futile.
But, the illogical part of his mind demanded he follow the woman anyway. No sense in it.
He pulled the hammer back on his B
erretta. With a shrug he started off.
Though thoughts of a .45 caliber dum-dum round's effects on such a pretty creature were she to turn on him... Tset shrugged his shoulders several times to rid the ill feeling.
The girl turned down a shadowed alley - visibility to the street was still good, but any deeper and Tset would have to start asking questions at gunpoint, no matter what chivalry dictated.
She turned and went down some steps, now twenty-five feet ahead. She disappeared.
Tset was about to hesitate again when a hand landed on his shoulder.
That was enough.
The hand was broken and twisted at a bad angle, an arm bone popped near the elbow and the Berretta came out, flipped, and rode its butte across the back of the attacker's neck.
Tset thought a prayer that he hadn't struck a Peace Officer, in Brussels, in daylight, and then released the arm. The gun slid back into his pocket.
The man was in a dark suit, his lithe but solid build indicated he was an assassin, bodyguard or member of the armed forces, but his long grey hair in a ponytail was an oddity. He was definitely not a Peace Officer, at the very least.
"Sir?" The word was polite, and accented slightly.
Tset turned, "Yes?"
A Peace Officer at the mouth of the alley was looking at him with a hand on his club, "Is everything all right?"
Tset waved him off like he was stupid and laughed, "Oh yeah, of course, my friend just doesn't handle these cobbles well. He's foreign."
The copper nodded, "You're not mugging him?"
Tset lifted the groaning man, "A guy with a tie like mine? You think I'd be mugging people?"
The Officer looked unsure.
"Officer, I assure you it's fine. What sort of idiot would kill someone in Brussels?"
The alley forked, Tset went down the left, avoiding the door the girl had gone through.
He laid the man against a wall.
Considering no actual attack had been made, just a grab, Tset patted his face to bring him around instead of crushing his other hand.
The eyes fluttered open and focused. Tset caught the inevitable fist, but it had been thrown in fear, not anger. "You want two broken hands?"
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