Hello Readers, before we begin I'd like to ask that you follow if you enjoy the story, share and recommend to others. The more follows and messages I get, the quicker I post new episodes. The Assassin's weakness is one of seven books that has been written. However, all Assassin books can be read as standalone, so don't feel bad if you read them out of order. The only confusion will be understanding who the background characters are that are mentioned throughout the story. You will find my social sites and website to learn more about my characters in the author's notes. Enjoy!
Web: Jeanettericobooks.com
Gideon
"Gideon, we need to talk. It's urgent. Call me as soon as you get this message…" I pull the phone away from my ear and hit delete as I walk through the hotel doors and blend into the crowd. I am excellent at blending into high profile places. No one ever suspects a man in a suit. Several women give me the once-over, but no one bothers me.
It's usually women who notice me the most. I am not vain, but I know what I look like. A former lover once told me that I look like a fallen angel. She said it's the contrast between my golden hair and my nearly onyx colored eyes that are so alluring. Several other women mentioned my odd eyes on occasion. I'm above average in size at six foot four and have a trim body that I exercise daily. In my profession, being in shape can mean the difference between life and death. Due to my profession, I have several scars that adorn my body, a product of my rough upbringing. My mother was a prostitute, and my father was a drug dealer. I was ten when my parents were killed in a shootout. I don't remember much, but according to my file, they were shot during a drug deal gone wrong.
I was twelve years old when Cameron Mathews took me in. I had just run away from my last home. The father was abusive, and the mother was an alcoholic. Not seeing a good ending, I slipped out one night and ran as far as I could. I'd sleep during the day because it was safer. Most of the time, I slept in cardboard boxes or parks, always keeping a wary eye out for any predators who might want to hurt a helpless young boy. The night I met Cameron was an especially bad one. I had not eaten for days and was feeling weak and hopeless, which made me careless. Cameron had just stepped out of the street when I jumped him. I was tall for my age, and I was desperate. Thankfully, instead of turning me into the police or kicking my ass, Cameron took me home and fed me. Don't get me wrong, I was extremely wary of him, but I was also desperately hungry. I remember asking him if he was a child molester. He laughed at that one. We established a tenuous relationship after that night. Eventually, we both offered me a job as a courier for him. Back then, I was not aware that he was a Confradia Assassin. Cameron was twenty-four when he took me into his home. He was one of the top Confradia's assassins before he was paralyzed. He's in his forties now, yet still looks like he's in his early thirties. And considering his condition, he's still surprisingly fit.
It wasn't until I was fifteen that I was introduced to the Confradia life. Unbeknown to me, Cameron had been training me to be an Assassin. I assumed that the training was to teach me how to defend myself.
For years, he taught me how to fight and how to shoot a variety of guns. At first, I was shocked by what he did for a living. After my initial shock had worn off, Cameron offered me a place with the Confradia. The day he explained the Confradia's purpose was the day I realized that I wanted to save the world.
Confradia stands for Guild. The Confradia is a secret society of trained assassins who are sent to "deal with" only the incredibly evil. We are sanctioned by a very secret branch of the military. Only people high up in the government ranks know about us, and they know better than to say anything. The Confradia is only called when an incredibly powerful person considers themselves untouchable by societal standards. For example, state senators who child traffic or billionaire moguls who kill women.
My mind snaps back to attention as I walk past the concierge's desk to the elevators. An attractive brunette in the elevator quirks a brow and gives me a flirtatious smile. Tonight, I'm wearing a charcoal Armani suit, a white button-down shirt, and black wingtips. Some people are so blinded by my rich attire that they don't notice a killer in their midst. Right now, I have my nine-millimeter gun, and a blade was hidden in a holster beneath my suit. My mind wanders back to Cameron's phone call from earlier. He has never called me in the middle of a job. Cameron knows better than to distract me. Which brings into question… why he is so desperate to talk to me now?
I walk through the elevators several floors below my mark's room. I have been observing his movements for several days now. His name is Donald Henderson. Mr. Henderson is the heir of Henderson Pharmaceuticals. The Confradia was contacted after they found out that he was testing viruses on children in several parts of South America and Africa. Several lawyers dug up evidence implicating the man's company, but the truth was buried along with any witnesses. It's funny how money can cover the most heinous of crimes.
I step into one of the empty rooms using a dummy keycard. Hotels think they are so technologically advanced because they don't use actual keys. They don't seem to realize that when they use computers to control their business, they are actually making themselves more vulnerable. All I had to do was get a card machine, the hotel's room codes and voila, a room card. I also have access to their registries and video cameras. It has been very useful in helping me observe my target. I snuck into his room earlier and installed several microphones and cameras.
Resting my computer on a nearby desk, I open my laptop and turn on the cameras. The monitors display Henderson and his security guards drinking and talking. Over the past couple of days, I've been working on an angle to get him alone, and I believe I've found it thanks to his itinerary. I look over the itinerary thoroughly and come up with a plan. According to the schedule, Henderson's planning to go to a strip club, which makes things so much easier for me. It's very easy to get lost in the crowd when you're three sheets to the wind. My mark will never know what hit him, and everyone will assume the poor bastard suffered an "accident."
I wait patiently for the evening to arrive and prepare for any contingencies. Once the late-night has approached, I make my way into one of New York's most exclusive gentleman's club and walk carefully towards the bar. There are women dancing and serving drinks in various stages of undress.
However, my eyes are set on one individual. Henderson is sitting at the VIP section drinking and partying, heedless of the predator in his midst. The club is dimly lit, obscuring what I'm sure are nefarious activities. It's not unusual to score drugs or anything else you might desire. The club's walls are covered with red velvet drapes, and large chandeliers hovering over each table. The floors are dark, and the tables are littered with bottles and plates. Several women approach me for a dance, but I politely decline and hand them a tip. At this point, Henderson is drinking rather heavily. I can tell from his sluggish movements and a sloppy smile that he's deep in his cups. To his misfortune, his guards are also getting into the partying mode. Like their boss, they're stumbling about clumsily and enjoying all the nearly naked women who are dancing around them. Things are definitely going to be easier than I thought. It shouldn't be that hard to get past them and terminate their leader. That's what happens when you hire amateur security guards.
The music is blaring through the room, making the walls vibrate with the echoing bass. The night is nearly over, and my mark and his men are wasted. I observe as one of his men walks out of the club's backdoors and disappears into the night. If he sticks to his routine, Henderson will have one of his men pull his car up to the alley and await his presence. Rising from my seat, I prepare my silencer, follow him out and wait in the shadows for his man to bring the car around.
As soon as the driver he gets to the alley, he makes a call to Mr. Henderson's other man and informs him that he's waiting by the door. That's when I strike. Hiding the silencer behind my back, I pretend to stumble near the driver's door and pretend to fall. The man opens the window and mutters in annoyance, "Get the fuck away from the car assh─"
The man doesn't finish his sentence before I drag him out of the car and shoot him in the head. His lifeless body falls to the floor without a sound. Taking him by the arm, I toss his body into a nearby trash bin and cover his body with several full garbage bags that are littering the soiled ground. I resist the urge to retch at the smell of curdled milk and hot refuse surrounding the dingy alleyway.
Once I've disposed of the body and covered it, I take his place in the driver's seat of the car. I watch through the rear-view mirror as my target and his men drunkenly stagger out of the club's exit. They stumble around for a few seconds until eventually making it to the back seat of the car. The men laugh and rejoice as they slide into the vehicle and take their places. Before they can notice, I lock the doors and enable the child-proof locks. The men are still unaware of the trap they've been caught in. Without another thought, I turn to the men, withdraw my gun, and shoot each man in the head. They were so intoxicated that they didn't even have time to react.
Once I'm sure that each man is dead, I step out of the car and walk out of the alley, leaving their bodies where they fell. The crisp New York breeze blows through my suit jacket, and the sounds of car horns, screeching tires, and bumper to bumper traffic reach my ears.
I quirk a brow in amusement when a girl runs out of a building nearby, followed by several more girls, and nearly runs me over. The girls are so entrenched in their musing laughing and talking excitedly that they pay little attention to my presence. I look towards the building and read the sigh, St. Bart's College for girls. The women are all wearing school-girl uniforms, which is odd considering that it's a college. I didn't know women's private colleges still existed. Call me a chauvinist, but it's strange to see college-aged women wearing schoolgirl uniforms. Perhaps they're studying to be nuns.
I wince in embarrassment when several women step out of the building, stride past me, and whistle flirtatiously. Considering its past midnight, I'm surprised by all the activity in the school. I ignore the women as I make my way to the parking garage. However, I only make it a few steps before I run into a slight form, and my life is changed forever.
Copyright © 2016 by Jeanette Rico
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.