Author's note:
Thank you to YOU, who decided to give this a try,
And also sorry, because this story is currently on hiatus.
I wrote some chapters a long long time ago - like 6 years ago....
and posted them on a different platform but decided to move it over here for consistency purposes.
Whether or not I will gather the motivation to continue this book beyond the first 6 chapters will entirely depend on demand. :))
In any case,
hope you enjoy!
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Chapter 1 - A Series of Unlucky Events
Police sirens were dominating the warm, mouldy air enveloping the port of Liverpool that afternoon, as Brandon Smith released a deep sigh and removed the bullets from his rifle, an AK-74, which, he must admit, was the not the best choice if you were determined to keep your reputation as a flawless assassin. It was an old model built by the former Soviet Union, the maintenance was expensive, it was difficult to purchase fitting bullets and it was heavy. Still, this was Smith's companion with whom he had been working the past seven years and he was reluctant to switch to a newer model.
At least, the fact that he had just failed a mission yet again was neither his nor the weapon's fault - in fact, it never was. Either the building he was hiding in caught fire because of a bakery on the ground floor or his target cancelled his day out because his cat caught a cold or, like today, some fools of a crime syndicate started a gun fight and prevented his target from entering the strike zone. He had given up complaining about his bad luck long ago but still, on the long run, these events were bound to affect his business.
Stretching his limbs, stiff from crouching on damp concrete for seven hours, Smith packed his equipment into a worn carrier bag and started descending the metal stairs along the exterior of an abandoned factory. Just as he was wondering where he should stay the night, he heard footsteps and male voices ascending towards him. It took him a second too long to recollect that the stairs were off limits and that whoever was drawing closer meant trouble for Brandon.
The two sets of footsteps were only three short metres away. By now it was clear that these men were part of a crime syndicate - presumably the side which had been ambushed today - and Smith could now clearly hear the conversation.
Two metres away. Smith shifted his weight slightly to his left foot.
One metre away. Smith took a breath.
Half a metre away - he swung the carrier bag around the corner of the building smashing one of the men's sunglasses. At the same time, he shoved his way past the other man, making him topple and hit the handrail. The last Brandon saw of him was a pair of flailing arms disappearing out of sight.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
He never found out what happened after that to the black coated man, for Smith was on the run - and he was running fast. Down the stairs he went, barely noticing that he had banged his arm on the railings. Obviously, the shouts of the two men had caught the attention of their associates who were now approaching the building from the main street. Thus, Smith was left with no other option but to take the route around the back of the building, praying to god to spare his dear AK-74 from a swim in the oily waters of Liverpool.
Luckily for his rifle, what awaited him on the other side of the factory was not the waterfront but a cluster of large containers. Quickly he slid into one of them, assuming it must be PET or paper waste, as the smell was not half as bad as the others. Some three or four voices drew nearer and stopped in front of the containers, of which one, presumably the leader, was repeatedly giving orders to search without any further specification on where or how to search.
By now, the panic of a few moments ago had calmed and Smith had regained his composure which he had acquired through years of working in this profession. The muzzle of the rifle was digging into his thigh but he dared not move for fear of making a sound. The voices and footsteps were distancing themselves now. He could make out from their conversation that they had opened one of the containers and found compost inside. That would explain the odour of the whole area. He chose not to imagine what would have happened if his container had been the target of their random search.
Just as he was making himself comfortable on the paper and thanking fate for the piece of luck on an unlucky day, his phone vibrated, making him aware of the danger he had narrowly escaped of it ringing a few minutes earlier. The name Poppy was flashing on the screen. If he answered the phone, Smith knew, he would be flooded with ironic comments on his uncharted failure. On the other hand, if he ignored the call, he knew that the phone would be ringing for the next half hour.
He picked up the phone.
"Brandon!", a lively female voice exclaimed contentedly on the other end of the line. "I told you so! I truly admire your commitment to this job despite failing every second time. Anyway, get out of there quick, I've got your next job ready. Bye bye - see you soon!"
The call ended without Smith having uttered a single word. Still, despite her boisterous ways and talent for wearing out people's nerves, one had to acknowledge her ability to obtain one mission after another.
There was still plenty of commotion going on by the main street, so Smith decided to take a short rest in his hideout which was, if he excluded the smell from outside, relatively pleasant. The politician he had been assigned to assassinate was most likely enjoying a drink on the cruiser anchored in the harbour this very moment, perhaps only a hundred yards away, but all of that was not of his concern.
He was a sniper.
His job had been to wait at the port and shoot when, and if, the target disembarked the cruiser and the contract did not include chasing the target any further or completing the murder at any cost. While various other thoughts floated through his sleepy mind, he slowly dozed off to the sound of waves breaking against the concrete boarders.
It took Smith a while to remember where he was as he awoke to a jolt after some hours of deep sleep. Wondering what the shock was about, he sat up and peeped out of a crack underneath the lid of the container. What he saw was not the back of a rundown factory surrounded by containers but what seemed like a giant storage hall with silver tubes running down the walls and covering the ceiling. There was a metal staircase on one end of the room disappearing into the jungle of pipes and wires above.
A glance towards his feet answered his question. What he had formally taken for waste paper was postage, bundled and packaged to be sent to its next destination. Just then, the wavering hoot of a steam whistle echoed through the room. Smith scrambled to his feet and pushed the lid open - but it was too late. The ship gave another jerk.
7pm, Tuesday the 25th of April - the luxury cruiser Crystal Eclipse had set sail and Brandon Smith, twenty-nine years of age, was trapped in her basement on a pile of mail with nothing more than his rifle, his wallet and a few packets of beef jerky.