Killsage

The rustling waves crash against the beach shoreline. People frolic in contagious elation under the squawking of seagulls. The palm leaves sway beneath a clear blue sky. Such beauty in retirement. Such pointlessness. So boring. The ordinance. The lack of quarrel. It ages me. I figured an early retirement would be good for me, a chance to get back all that I gave up. Guess I was wrong.

Now, I’m here sipping mimosas outside a Cuban restaurant in Miami. Cliché, much?

I down the rest of my mimosa in one gulp and lift the glass, signaling the waitress for another. She smiles back and nods. Pretty little thing. Not my type, though. Too dainty. I’d break her for sure.

“She’s not your type.”

I turn my head over my shoulder as a woman in a gray blazer walks up alongside me—she has a briefcase in hand. She’s stunning. Her hair is blood red, long and rich, curled at the tips. Her eyes are a green akin to emeralds. She takes the seat in front of me.

I scoff, chuckling softly. “One thing I’ve learned over the years in my profession is that a woman in a blazer means trouble for me.”

“Which is why she’s not your type.”

The woman sizes me up, considering me. Surely, my good looks have surprised her.

“You’re not an easy man to find, Mr. Morgan.”

I remove my Oakley’s. “Well, that’s the point of retiring, Miss...”

She smiles. “Lady Red.”

It makes me smile. “Code name. Cute.”

The waitress drops another mimosa next to me. I nod and smile. “Thank you.” I look back at the woman.

“I have an opportunity for you, Mr. Morgan.”

I chuckle. “Not interested, Lady Red.”

“You haven’t heard my employer’s offer yet.”

“Don’t need to.”

“Oh, you’ll want to see this. After all, every hero deserves a second chance.”

I bring the mimosa to my lips and drink it ‘til it’s half gone, enough time to consider indulging.

“Okay. I’ll bite. Wha’d’ya want?

She pulls a manila folder from her briefcase and places it on the table. She then stands up. “You’ll find a 2% advance of $20,000.00 wired into your account. A charter jet awaits you at a private port not far from here ready to take you to your destination. Your target and objective are inside.”

“But I didn’t say yes.”

“I know. My employer looks forward to working with you, Mr. Morgan.” She winks at me. “Enjoy your mimosa,” and walks off.

I stare at the folder for a long while, a burning curiosity burrowing through my brain.

I pick up the folder and open it. My eyes bulge and my mouth nearly drops in stun.

17 Hours Later…

St. Petersburg, Russia

I set the temperature of the hotel room to 22 degrees Celsius. Fuck, it’s cold! How could anyone voluntarily choose to stay here? Fucking psychopaths, that’s who.

I rub my gloved hands together for warmth as I walk over to the casing containing Grimm, a Mark2000 sniper rifle, the only thing on this planet that I could ever completely trust. Hasn’t let me down once.

I coil my fingers around the handle and lift the black plastic box, taking it over to the window that overlooks the Opernaya Ploshchad’—the Opera Square.

I peek through the curtains. Light gray clouds hang overhead. It is the only light offered to the room. Below, luxurious vehicles and limousines fill the roundabout, lining up as the show inside the opera house concludes.

My watch beeps. I look down at my wrist—00:00 flashes on the screen.

“It’s showtime.”

I squat down, putting the case on the ground and unlatching the clasps. I lift the case lid and stare at Grimm enamored. It’s been three and a half years since our last assignment together. Since I…

I pause the thought, shaking my head. I don’t have time for wallowing. I got a job to do.

I gently brush my hand across the parts of Grimm, entranced momentarily. There are a few items in the case as well. My ledger, a little black book with all of the names of my past kills along with a black and red ink pen.

I look down at my watch. I locate my assignment’s audio recording and press the play icon—it plays in my earpiece.

“Assignment Codename: Killsage. Target: Igor Klokov. Crimes of the target are extensive, revolving around inhumane experimentation on humans and the development of bio-organic weapons.”

I take the manila folder Lady Red gave me and open it. I remove the photos of headshots and cadavers, of people Klokov’s scientists and doctors butchered. All dead. Men, women, even children. Heartless fucking bastards. The red head was right. Couldn’t say no to this.

I begin to assemble Grimm.

“Klokov and his scientists’ inventions include lethal pathogens, deadly gasses and liquids…”

“AKA, bad guy,” I say as I attach the folding stock and scope.

“…and most recently, the development of an enhancement serum aimed at accelerating blood cell reproduction to create a modified ‘superhuman’, individuals capable of speeds, strength, and endurance beyond ordinary human potential.”

I insert the magazine, apply the suppressor to the muzzle. All of it, the assignment, assembling Grimm, it gives me a rush. It's a feeling I truly missed.

“Take out Klokov and you destroy the primary financial source of these experiments.”

Commotion stirs in the square as people start to exit the opera house. I pull my ledger out. I flip through the pages, past all the names written in black and crossed out in red. A crisp aroma whiffs off the pages as I find the last entry and write underneath it, in neat penmanship, Igor Klokov.

After his name is written, I put myself in position. I lie flat on my stomach, the butt pad of the rifle supported against my shoulder. I peer through the scope which I aim perfectly at the entrance. Many of Russia’s wealthiest members exit in their affluent gowns and suits, fur coats, and dazzling jewels. So many treasures gathered in one place—it would make the greediest of kings inspired to pillage.

After a few more people exit the building, Klokov exits. There are two massive gentlemen next to him in tuxedos.

“For a guy so important, you sure have a slim security detail.”

I adjust the scope one last time, putting Klokov perfectly in my crosshairs.

“Oh, well, guess we’re saving the world early today, Grimm.”

I take a breath—hold it—smirk, and squeeze the trigger.

The bullet springs from the muzzle, a pff sound followed by shattering glass.

Screams and chaos erupt in the square as people dive to the ground or find cover.

A second passes. I gasp. My mouth plops open out of stun.

I lift my sight to see over the sniper in wide-eyed disbelief. I bend my neck and press my eye to the scope again. My breath staggers. “What the…”

Klokov’s bodyguard to the left has his arm stretched out and his fist is in front of Klokov’s face, leaking blood. He caught my bullet…

I look at the body guard’s face who intercepted my kill. He looks directly at me. I look up from the scope. Klokov points and the two men take off with a speed I’d never seen before, leaping over cars with agility and fluidity that lights a fire under my ass.

I phone Lady Red with the push of a button from my watch and begin disassembling Grimm.

“Mr. Morgan, how is the…”

“I’m compromised! Klokov’s freak experiment projects were with him. Fucker caught my bullet.”

“Okay, there’s a fire escape down the hall. We’ll have a vehicle on standby in an alleyway two blocks east of you. Sending coordinates to your communications watch.”

My watch beeps.

“Got it!”

“You have seven minutes.”

“That’s all I need.”

After Grimm is disassembled and in the case, I pick it up and head for the door. I peek my head out, looking down the hall in both directions. All clear. I run through the hall.

I crash through the entrance door of the fire escape and make my way down. After descending a few flights of stairs, I can hear commotion coming from below. When I look over the railing, I can see the sharp blonde hair of the guard who caught my bullet.

“Shit!”

Improvising, I exit onto the 9th floor. Looking around, I spot a window next to me. I step up to the window looking down—there’s a car parked right under me. I look down at Grimm’s case. It gives me an idea.

I take several steps back, put Grimm’s case up in front of me, and run as fast as I can. I go straight through the window. I grip tightly onto the case as the rushing sensation inside my gut carries me downward until I smash painfully on top of the car.

I groan in pain, catching my wind as I roll off of the car, dizzy and disoriented. I can feel a warm liquid dripping down the side of my forehead. After a moment, I find my direction and make my way eastward, limping, pushing my way through people.

I make the two blocks and turn onto the alleyway. I look down at my watch, on top of my coordinates. I do not see my transport. “What the hell?”

As I’m about to call Lady Red, the door beside me bursts open. One of the guards tackles me. I roll out of his grip and flip to a stand.

I hold him in my stare, my fists up. He holds me in his. He smirks and then takes a step forward, swinging his fist. I duck, driving a punch into his abdomen—it’s like hitting a wall. He swings again at me and I roll out of the way but when I come up to stand, he kicks me so hard in my chest that it launches me through the air.

A cool rush of wind in my stomach combined with the burning heat in my chest takes away my consciousness before I even hit the ground.

Klokov’s Secret Underground Base

I wake up gasping for air, the sense of drowning pulsing through my chest. As I adjust to consciousness, catching my breath, I find myself in some sort of lab facility, sitting in a chair soaking wet with water dripping from my chin.

“Pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Mr. Morgan,” a voice speaks with a thick Russian accent.

Footsteps walk around behind me, beside me, until Klokov stands directly in front of me. He smells of rich cologne, handsome in his own right, a beauty clearly bought.

“I cannot express how impressed I was by your performance yesterday.”

I jerk on the ties around my wrists. “Let me go. I’ll give you a performance.”

Klokov grins. “I’ve no doubt about that.” Klokov paces. “You see, as we speak, my serum runs through your veins.”

My eyes widen and my breath catches.

“What?”

“Yes. While you were asleep…” He extends his arm, presenting something. “You’ve met Lady Red, no?”

Lady Red joins Klokov’s side. Shock. Rage. Betrayal. Fury burns my stomach.

“You? This was all you?!”

She doesn’t reply, a sense of shame almost.

“You bitch!”

“Name-calling is beneath you, Mr. Morgan,” she says.

“The serum will enhance your senses,” Klokov elaborates, “Your strength, speed. But as powerful as you’ll physically be, your mind will be mine. And with your talents enhanced at my beck and call, the possibilities are endless.”

Klokov approaches me, pulling out my ledger. He flips through it. “A lot of red in this ledger.” Klokov shows me the page with his name on it, no red line crossed through it. “But the red ends here.”

My seething rage is interrupted by a fit of coughing, convulsion. Klokov walks off. Lady Red follows.

“This is not your story, Mr. Morgan. It is mine…”