Closing and locking the Library’s doors, I make my way to my car. I’m starting the car when out of nowhere a groan from the backseat, causes me to let loose a blood curling scream. “Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you.” Hysterical, I’m out of the car and running for the Library’s doors. “Wait!, I need your help!” That causes me to come to a stop. Taking deep breaths, I face the intruder. He’s leaning on the back door for support, suit bloodied, with a couple of holes in it. I go for my mace. “How did you get in my car!”
“There’s no time, we have to go.. now..”
“I’m calling the police!” I yell, reaching in my purse for my phone.”
“There’s an agent after me, and if you don’t get in the car right now, he’s going to kill the both of us.”
I should be scared out of my mind, but i’m intrigued. This is a scene right out of my thriller/spy novels. “I’ll call an ambulance.” I say, hand still on my mace. “We’ll be dead by then.” He says, blood coming from his mouth. Shit, he’s badly hurt. “I’ll take you to the hospital.” I say. “Fine, just get in the car, please.”
Heading for the hospital, I keep a watch of him in the rear view mirror. He’s lying down, if one can get over the blood and bullet holes, he’s not that bad on the eyes. “Don’t take me to the hospital.” He whispers. “The agreement was that you were going to the hospital.”
“He’ll find me there.”
“Look I don’t know who you are, or how you got shot... multiple times...”
“My name’s 47, and i’m an assassin. There’s another assassin hunting me...”
An assassin named 47, an attractive assassin named 47... is being hunted by another assassin... attractive assassin broke into my car, he’s shot up and in my car... my journal’s definitely hearing about this.
“Where do you live? I can take you there.”
“I don’t have a place here.”
“No friends, and no family?”
“Not... here.” He says before passing out.
What in the holy fuck... “Hey... 47... hey... shit!” He doesn’t want to go to the hospital, so I take him to my place. Getting him into my home is a nightmare. I half drag, half pull him into the house. I hate to do it but I leave him on the floor, while I call my brother. All of his business dealings aren’t entirely legal, he should know what to do.
Waiting for Dalton to arrive, I place a pillow under his head, in an attempt to make him more comfortable. Undoing his shirt, I note his well built torso, and sturdy arms. “Geez...” The doorbell ringing, has me rushing to the door. I’m greeted by my brother and a man of short stature. “Where is he? Asks the man. “In the living room.” I say, pointing the way. “You bringing home strays now? Asks Dalton, as I follow him into the living room.
Examining him, he’s shot four times. The make shift doctor sets to work removing the bullets. Waking up, he has the man by the throat squeezing, and Dalton pulls a gun. “Hey! really?” I say, to Dalton. “He’s here to help, let him please.” I say, to 47. Releasing the doctor, he tries to give him a sedative intravenously. “No drugs...” He makes out. “It’ll help, there’s no need to suffer through this.” I admonish. Nodding the go ahead to the doctor, he administer’s the shot.
His wounds are healing, and I insist on him staying in the guest room until he’s completely healed. He’s a good patient, a bit of a recluse though. Refuses any social interactions with me, but has a constant flow of deliveries from designer shops. “The man certainly has taste.” I say, looking at a $1,500 invoice for a suit.
“It’s me, I wanted to know if you would like to accompany me to the...” I say, knocking on his door.
He opens the door, dressed to the nines, and I have to catch my breath. If I thought that he was attractive shot up and bloodied, he makes for a stunning figure cleaned up. “Um...” I’m at a loss for words. “Yes?” He inquires. “There’s this thing that my brother does, yearly... I was wondering if you would like to go with me. You know, get out the house... get some fresh air.”
“I don’t do “things”. He says, watching me intently. “Yeah, so... I’ll see you later hopefully.” This is the most that we’ve ever said to each other.
“What? No, you haven’t even begun to completely heal. I’ve read that it can take anywhere from 3-6 months to heal from a gun shot wound. Not to mention, that you had four of them.” I say. We rarely had any interactions, aside from me cleaning his wounds, and changing the gauze, but it’s nice to have someone here with me.
“I’ve put you in enough danger.”
“Please, if he was an assassin worth his salt, wouldn’t he have found me by now?”
“What do you know about assassins?”
“I read books...”