Rolling down through the dark, tinted street came a man. The lamp lights shone down on the small brown bike he was riding, illuminating the dark black carrier bag on his back. The street he was riding down was cold and narrow, trees lining up on either side with houses to accompany them. The houses were all the same, two story pale white houses that stood out immensely in the sunlight, making the owners look like millionaires. The man kept on riding, he was wearing a blacked out Nike tracksuit with north race gloves and a matte black biker helmet. His identity couldn’t be concealed, unless you count cutting off someone’s face. The man drove up to the far end of the houses on the long, pacing street and stopped at a curb. He looked left and right a few times, making sure anyone wasn’t watching him and carefully unmasked himself. The man was black, black as can be. Blacker than a sparrow with thick, dark eyebrows and puffy lips. Black dreadlocks fell down just above his eyes, speaking of which had a large scar running down his right one. The man was massive, 6 foot 2 with muscles thicker than concrete. But he was lean and agile enough to run and be agile, perfect for a Jamaican. He had a blacked out belt with a strap perfect for large objects, such as his helmet which he strapped on nicely. A suppressed pistol also fell down from the very same belt he had clipped the helmet onto. He kept that there for the time being. The house the man had stopped at was significantly bigger than the other houses down the street. It had a spiralling staircase that ran 3 floors. The glass was transparent on the first floor, which in honesty didn’t give any kind of advantage for the man looking for the owner at 2 AM. Before entering the house the man took his shoes off and placed them on the bike. He then walked towards the house with a smile on his face. He wouldn’t say a word for a week. Not even if he was held at gunpoint. He walked up to the front door, searching for a doorbell. He already knew there was a back door he could enter once the occupant answered the door. It was just a waiting game now. RING RING, went the door bell. The man ran, not making a sound since his shoes were off. He knew what he was doing. One might ask what the point of riding a loud bike would be, if you asked him you would be dead. The man edged closer towards the end of the house and spotted a wooden, poorly made back door, easy to break into if you knew how to pick a lock. And who didn’t? The man reached into his belt and pulled out a small rectangular object with a metal, zigzagging stick like shape in between the 4 corners of the rectangle. A basic human would call this a lock pic, this man called it his holy grail. The tool anyone doing what he does would need, alongside a bit of common knowledge and having a generic face for the environment you’re in. If you couldn’t guess already this man was an assassin, a very good one. Blink an eye and he’s gone. That was exactly what he was doing right here. Blinking and being gone. He opened the lock on the door and walked in without worrying about the man inside this house, he was occupied. The back door led to a very narrow corridor with shelves on each side, those shelves filled with enough alcohol to knock out a horse. It stretched about 7 feet until there was a bright white door at the end. The man picked up a bottle of brandy, but not to drink. He positioned the bottle in a low shotgun pose and aimed at the door. The man knew his target would be coming down to get a drink, again, he had common knowledge. And also again, it was a waiting game. And this man loved to wait. Footstep after footstep. Coming closer and closer to the door that would be the target’s last opening, last breath on the hellhole called Earth. The door knob turned a few times, the target had forgotten he had locked it, bad news as it fully notified that the target was there. The lock went CLICK and the door slowly opened. The target was pale white with a black curtains type haircut. He had a thick nose with thick eyebrows and wide eyes. He was tall as-well, taller than the man trying to kill him. All the facial features were quickly not so, in form as a brandy bottle cork came flying into his face. Saliva came flying out of his mouth and snot came dripping down from his nose, speaking of which, his nose was well and truly broken. He regained a little bit of movement but was quickly met with a 9mm bullet to the chest. That killed him. The man grew a smile on his face, the job was done.
The man now had some work to do, hide the body and clean up the blood. He left the body on the floor and went through the door. It was a nice house. On the far left was a sofa and a TV, in the middle was the spiralling staircase that he had spotted going into the
house and finally on the right was a small and tight kitchen. The fridge. That’s where he would hide the body, but he needed to clean up the body first. He assumed that the supplies he needed were in the kitchen as well. The man didn’t have to worry about anyone coming in, it was 2 AM in a single man’s house with no pets or family. And he was white living in a black territory, something which would make the locals uncomfortable about coming in. He walked over to the kitchen and frantically searched around in countless drawers to find bleach. Nothing. To not waste time the man opened the fridge. It was big fridge with a convenient body sized container at the bottom. The man figured the bleach would be in the bathroom which he also figured would be upstairs. He walked up the glorified staircase and spotted a doorway. At the end of said doorway was the bathroom. He entered with an eye on his watch. He had plenty of time but really needed to hurry up. The bathroom was very small, only a shower, bathtub and a mini toilet. The bleach was right by the toilet which he grabbed. He had to run now, who knows maybe a friend or someone could be coming round. His calculations were never 100% correct. More like 99.9%. He carried the bleach all the way back down to the wine cellar and poured it all onto the blood that was trickling down the body. He had the towels ready tucked away in his belt and cleaned it up. The blood stuck to the towels, in which he was ready to put in his pocket. Now that the blood was gone it was time to hide the body. The man was very strong and carried the body with ease all the way to the fridge which he carefully placed it inside. And he was done. Only took around 5 minutes. The man did have a name, Rufus. Rufus Racarta, Jamaican assassin but the people who knew him would say he was a serial killer. Wether it was the flowers or the precise killing he didn’t care and neither did the people hiring him. He got the job done. Rufus walked off back through the back door and got on his bike. He put his biker helmet back on and rode off to no where. And no one knew that he wasn’t done.
Dead centre, Kingston. That is the building Rufus retreated to after the killing. The man he killed was named Pump Bradley, CEO of JDS (Jamaican Directional Service). A service for Jamaicans to phone in and ask for financial help. The problem was instead of giving money to the locals, Pump stole the money and used it for his lovely house that now held his massive dead body. The building was tall and square, in a mustard colour. Not many windows were in the building, only around 1 a floor for the 6 floors there were. On the first floor there was a massive door, bigger than an elephant that was transparent. Many people were inside this building, making it hard to get past the lobby floor. But Rufus had his ways, being top tier in the building. The facility was called NHQ which stood for Nemesis Head Quarters. Nemesis was an assassin group which employed assassins to kill valuable targets around the world. It had died down in the recent years due to assassins being killed or retiring, but it had still kept its authority. Rufus stopped by a parking lot nearby and stepped out of the bike. He also put his shoes back on. Rufus walked towards the building, shivering on the way. It was fairly cold and Rufus didn’t have a coat on, merely a Nike jacket. Rufus usually didn’t wear what he was wearing today, this was just a one off. He entered the building and walked towards a tiny elevator, one that he stood in and pressed 6th floor. The elevator was small, only enough to fit 4 people and was made of glass. On the far side of the elevator was a glass window where you could see the entire lobby. The lobby was in a large circle and had two reception areas with two lovely women, one named Chantelle who clearly had feelings for Rufus and Shanice, a tall woman with lots of hair which she had tied up in a frizzy bun. The reason there were receptionists was because the building was posing as a hotel, which also explained the guest rooms and the floors. Rufus lived in this ‘hotel’ part time, only when he was in Jamaica. He was usually somewhere else, mainly Europe or North America. The elevator stopped and put appeared a fancy white corridor. It was long with paintings on each side, all portraits. Doors to various rooms of the Nemesis organisation were also on either side of the corridor. But there was one significant door that fell on the end of the long hallway. This door had a label on it ‘Marley’ it read.
Rufus walked towards the door and knocked on it. The door opened and out came a man. He had a large Afro with poking ears. His eyes were magnified by his large glasses that he wore. He also wore a grey, white and black pinstriped suit with comfy brown loafers. He had thick hands and a tattoo saying, Nemesis fell onto the start of his left hand. His fingers were also very fat and they were accompanied by a wedding ring.
“Hello Marley,” Rufus started, “Pump is down.”
“Well there he is! Rufus where have you been? You are 5 minutes late!” Marley aggressively responded.
Rufus scratched his head, “I had to clean things up.”
At least he was being honest.
“Well I guess I can’t be angry at you, a black man never questions a black man’s work. Is the body hidden?” Marley asked.
“Yes.”
“You gonna tell me where or what?”
“No.”
“Fair enough, follow me. We have to brief.”
Marley’s office was pretty small, two sofas and a mini fridge filled the small space. There was also a television, a flat screen that was on the wall.
“Oh please sit down Rufus, time is on the essence and all of that.”
Rufus sat down on the crunchy sofa and gazed up at the screen.
“Right then…how does this stupid thing turn on again? Ah! Got it.” Marley squeezed. If you couldn’t tell already he was named after his Dad’s favourite reggae artist Bob Marley. The screen turned on and a Nemesis logo appeared, the brief was ready.
“Right then, let’s get started. The man you killed, was a stepping stone. Something to get the bigger threat a warning. The bigger threat is a man named Dexter Wallace, a Californian ranch owner with a taste for blood. After all we did kill his father, so who wouldn’t? Since we killed his father in ‘83 he has set up a network of his own, similar to Nemesis but it was not an assassin organisation, but a branch of ranches in California. These ranches aren’t all fun and games though, the ranches all produce drugs such as cocaine, mainly meth and heroin. They sell these to buyers all around the world Columbia, Mexico, France, England and even Jamaica. The problem is Dexter has somehow managed to get the names of half of our clients, and could possibly leak them at any minute. This is serious Rufus, Dexter means exposing Nemesis to the world. And he might of found a way to do it. One death has already been linked to Dexter, this could get out of hand if Dexter is not stopped in time. But there is a catch. We can’t exactly just let you go over to California and eliminate him because of one thing. Contacts. Dexter has contacts all around the world. One in each continent that are ready to pick up where Dexter left off. These contacts are significantly easier to kill than Dexter. But they are all pretty famous, meaning they will be in high security places at all time. You will have a week to take down these contacts, and after they are eliminated there will be no back up. Dexter will be a dead man walking. I’ll let you know more about your first target tomorrow morning. I’ll let you know now that you will be heading to Sydney so I’d book a flight now using the money you just earned. Oh and don’t worry about booking a hotel, we’ll find you one.”
Rufus sat up and dust fell from where he was sat down.
“You really need to get a new sofa Marley.” Rufus stated.
“Well I wish I was getting payed 30,000 dollars a target. Then this place would never be left by me! Good luck Rufus, you’re gonna need it.”
