A Trip in the Basque Countryside
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I’ve scouted the target for over a week now; I’m quite confident of his movements. His routine is up early each morning despite going to bed late. The benefit of a long nap each afternoon. Down the broad stone steps to the nice hard marble floor below and from thence to the kitchen. There to find the coffee one of his people programmed to be ready at this hour so they don’t have to be. This is a variation of an old trick of mine. As usual, I can’t be positive of the outcome, but I feel reasonably certain of the overall success.
The target moves sleepily down the hallway. His mansion is loaded with expensive antiques. They line the long hallway, with its polished floor. He’s lazily smacking his lips and yawning. He’s such a creature of habit, he probably isn’t even aware of his surroundings. As he approaches the top of the stairs, and his vision is directed on the next steps, I firmly pull the wire that raises a strap colored exactly as the top step. He steps forward and his foot catches. I shoot him in the back of the neck with a small dart that will immediately dissolve. The dart contains a chemical that will interfere with his nerves and induce a heart attack. A concoction one of my pharmaceutical consultants cooked up for me, just for this job. Extra insurance in case he somehow survives his trip down the stairs. The combination of the little sting in his neck, and the fact that his momentum is carrying him forward while his feet remain behind, has him completely awake. The drug is already beginning to have an impact on his ability to coordinate his movement. He flails ineffectually as he continues his forward momentum. He begins to bump and tumble down the stairs. I reel in the strap and prepare for my exit.
About half way down, I hear the generally fatal crack I’d been hoping for. The sound always reminds me of wrenching celery. His momentum continues to carry him to a solid smack on that nice, hard marble floor at the bottom. It’s quiet. Given the hour, it might take a while before he’s discovered. I glance at him. The angle of his head making it clear his neck is broken. With the extra help from the dart, I’m quite confident my job is done. Quickly but quietly, I slip out the second story window, carefully arranging it to lock behind me. I climb down the side of the building; it’s helpfully covered with protruding bits of architecture. Passing out of view of each security camera, I re-enable it, and need just another ninety seconds to be done with the job.
On the way back to my safe house, I stop for a morning cup of decaf coffee, or espresso as they like to call it here. Now that the job is complete, I can relax and enjoy the country café I’ve largely avoided. I’m still in disguise. Even if my presence is somehow associated with the “tragic accident” that just happened, all any investigator will get is a generic description of a swarthy man of indeterminate Spanish descent. An exact match for this Basque area, making the description nearly worthless. I order the drink and small pastry using French accented Basque, to further muddy the waters. Grabbing a local newspaper, I sit and watch the sun rise over the country estates. It’s a clear, beautiful early summer morning, a welcome respite to the rains the area endured earlier in the week.
The sun is glinting off the snow-capped mountains and the lush green valley is fresh and clean. I want to wait until I see an ambulance before I head back. Later than expected, maybe ninety minutes after the target headed (literally) down the stairs, an ambulance screams down the road. I gawk like everyone else; I imagine it’s a rare sight in this area. A minute or so later, I see a single police car go by with its lights on, but no siren. I finish my excellent coffee and the delicious pastry, complimenting the establishment on my way out.
Once at the safe house, I listen to my recordings of the police scanner. Based on those conversations, it’s clear the event is being treated as an accident. I conclude the job is completed exactly as advertised and don’t give it another thought. Quickly looking at my special communication stream that lists job requests, I don’t see any that look pressing. Rather than rushing off on another job, I think I’ll relax for a while, maybe tour the picturesque countryside. There’s a University nearby. I’ll visit it and see if I can find a few pretty young ladies to relieve me of the celibacy I require when on the job.
Next chapter: The Next New Thing