The Hunted Assassin

For Cheryl. You are my rock.

1

The blackness of space was nearly complete, only faintly interrupted by the glimmer of brilliant stars and satellites shining in the distance. Metal-clad freighters and shuttlecraft of various configurations hovered patiently, waiting for docking authorization from traffic control, no doubt eager to dock in time for the evening’s festivities.

The day was special, but the evening held promise to be filled with far more excitement, as the annual celebration of the station’s sovereignty, or Founders Day, as the locals called it, was ahead. Light crowds of people ambled about the bazaar, aimless in their journey. Children carelessly splashed away in the large water fountain, central to Taloo Station’s grand shopping district.

The reverberating buzz of sitar music echoed out from The Celestial Teahouse as the complexity of Bergamot citrus blended with the scent of exotic Indian spices lingered in the air like a dense fog. An annoying creak echoed throughout the tea shop, reminding Martin once again to lubricate the hinges on the front door.

“Damn,” he said from high up on the storeroom ladder. It had been hours since his last customer, and he’d hoped to close early. Most people were either at a local pub or were already in the central promenade. Celebration hour was near and his regular tea drinking customers were notorious for overstaying their welcome. Sometimes hours past closing.

He shrugged his dissatisfaction away and shoved the bin of surplus tea back on the shelf. He gripped the sides of the ladder before slipping his feet off the rung. The station’s artificial gravity took over and he slid down three levels to the storeroom floor below.

Popping out onto the sales floor, he found it to be deserted. He was momentarily relieved that he still might be able to duck out early, but before he turned to head back into the storeroom, he sensed something—an instinct embedded in him, a link from his past. As he turned toward the intuition, a hood was draped over his head and a strong grip wrapped around his arms and chest, preventing movement. He felt the brutal strength of his captor and instinctively bent over at the waist, trying to throw him, or her, off balance. But it was futile, as the assailant appeared prepared for the maneuver.

Martin tried to free himself from the hold, but with each movement he made, the grasp became stronger.

Martin jerked his head backward, trying a different approach. The back of his head connected firmly with the assailant’s face, but the hold remained. He thrust his head back again, but with much more gusto, and a satisfying crack echoed throughout the store. Martin instantly felt a warm, wet sensation run down his neck. The assailant’s blood. The dominating hold lightened slightly, and before the assailant could regain his grip, Martin forced his biceps outward, causing the attacker to back away uncontrollably.

Martin yanked the hood from his head and ran toward the back room. As he passed through the doorway, he felt a fleeting hand grasp the back of his shirt. As the cloth stretched, Martin’s momentum slowed, allowing the attacker a stronger purchase on him. Martin’s only advantage was that he knew the layout of the storeroom, and hopefully the attacker did not.

He dashed to the left, toward his office, and as he did so, he caught a glint of light reflect off a blade in the assailant’s hand. Before he could react, the attacker lunged forward, leading with the six-inch push dagger.

Martin dropped to his knees just as the tip of the blade punctured the skin on his shoulder. The pain was excruciating, but his training had taught him to manage. With Martin’s downward momentum, the blade was only able to penetrate an inch or so before it dislodged from the assailant’s hand and went flying across the room.

Near the floor now, Martin rolled to his side and landed on his back. The first real sight of his attacker—he was dressed completely in black, including a matching face mask and gloves.

What the hell? Attack of the space ninjas? Martin mused.

The assailant peered at Martin through two slits on his mask, his eyes penetrating and dangerous. He lunged again, but Martin was ready for the assault. He brought his leg up directly into the groin of his attacker. Before the assailant could strike again, Martin shot out with his other foot, blasting the attacker’s knee sideways. The assailant screamed in agony as he crumpled to the floor, wrenching at his awkwardly bent leg.

Martin scampered into the office and scanned his desk for some kind of weapon, something that he could use to defend himself. Before he could locate anything, the assailant was back on the attack and was at his heels, wielding the T-knife once again. Martin tried to kick the blade from his hand, but his opponent’s reflexes were too quick. With each of Martin’s thrusts, the attacker drove the blade forward, causing numerous surgical cuts to Martin’s leg, blood instantly cascading to the floor.

Between stabs, the attacker’s free hand reached up and gripped Martin’s waistband. With incredible strength, he dragged Martin away from his desk. Martin lashed out with both hands in an attempt to grasp something, anything that could impede the attack. As his hands slid across his desk, he latched on to his vintage leather-bound journal—which was of no use—and a silver-tipped mechanical pencil. He threw the journal at his attacker, but he swatted away like a fly. Martin struck the attack’s chest with both feet, driving the breath from his lungs. As the attacker gasped for air, Martin lurched forward, fixing the mechanical pencil in the palm of his hand, and drove the sharp silver tip into the killer’s eye socket. The penetration was only minimal before it met resistance. But on Martin’s second attempt, he broke through the inner eye socket and into the attacker’s brain. Hot liquid gushed from the laceration as the assailant’s body twitched and convulsed uncontrollably on its way to the floor.

Martin shot back against his desk, panting heavily. It had been several years since he’d needed to use deadly force, and he was shocked at how quickly the ability returned to him.

As he sat on the floor, his breath slowly returning to normal, he contemplated his next move. A noise from the back of the storeroom interrupted his mental process. Someone was trying to jimmy the lock on the door to the service corridor.

Slipping the knife from the dead man’s hand, Martin bolted for the rear exit. As he reached the door, the lock clicked. Slowly, the door inched forward as Martin stood just out of sight—the T-knife gripped tightly in his hand. Then, the barrel of a gun slipped through the crack. Martin quickly realized that these were trained assassins, as possessing firearms on-station was a major offense. In the eight years that he’d been on Taloo, he’d not laid eyes on a single weapon of the sort. Even the station police were disallowed to carry a side arm. Something to do with having a stray bullet puncture the skin of an exterior wall.

Martin lunged forward, gripped the barrel of the gun, and ripped it from the assassin’s hand. The surprise was instant. He quickly tossed it to the floor behind him then looped his arm around the killer’s neck. As he did so, the killer, his body much smaller than the first one, attempted to free himself from Martin’s grip. Suddenly, he stopped his protest, as one of his hands disappeared into a trouser pocket. Before Martin could react, the compact killer produced a tactical switchblade in his left hand and began thrusting it backward, narrowly missing the side of Martin’s head.

“Enough!” Martin yelled, as his patience ran out. He drove the T-knife into the ribcage of the attacker, and a high-pitched scream blurted from the killer’s mouth.

Martin withdrew the knife and released the grip around the killer’s neck. As he did so, he latched onto the black face mask, ripping it free. What he saw would have never been cause for alarm or hesitation, but that was years ago. Now, so long removed from his previous life, seeing a female assassin was cause for him to take stock of the situation.

“Who sent you?” Martin demanded.

The killer didn’t answer. She widened her stance, awkwardly bouncing from foot to foot. She clearly was favoring her injured side but was still a force to be reckoned with.

“If you leave now, I won’t have to hurt you anymore,” Martin said.

Again, no reply. Instead, the killer feigned an attack to the left but then thrust to the right, most likely seeing the blood-soaked shirt that Martin wore. Unfortunately for the attacker, Martin was ready for the advance. As the killer’s blade got near, Martin swiped his T-knife across her hand, slicing through the glove and lacerating the skin beneath. She lunged again, stabbing quickly at Martin’s chest, just barely nicking the skin. Martin once again responded in like force, driving the T-knife into the killer’s side. The blade caught on a rib bone, and Martin lost his grip. The killer increased the intensity of her attack now that Martin was unarmed, but the pain she was suffering was taking over. She half-heartedly slashed her knife at Martin’s face, but he deftly caught her hand in midair. In a blinding quick movement, he disarmed the killer and drove the knife into the side of her temple. Her body dropped to the floor, lifeless.

Paying no mind to this second dead body in his tea shop, Martin raced to the back door, re-secured the latch, and propped the security bar across the door just to be sure. Then, he rushed back out onto the sales floor to lock the front door as well. He dimmed the lights and activated the obscure glass filter on the storefront.

“What the hell was that all about?” he murmured as he retreated to the back room. Halfway through the sales floor, he stopped and grabbed a few items off of the retail display rack: a pair of sweatpants, size extra-large; a hooded shirt with the saying
The Celestial Teahouse Is Out Of This World
printed across the front; and a charcoal-colored messenger bag.

Once in the back, he stepped over the first attacker’s body and into his office. He quickly changed from his blood-soaked shirt, wincing from the pain with each movement. He noticed the blood had already begun to clot and was thankful that his injury wasn’t too severe. He did his best to clear off as much of the blood as he could before slipping on the new clothes.

Suddenly, he heard the back door of the shop rattle again. So, there are more, Martin thought as he calculated his next move. He was confident that whoever was out back would not be able to get through the security measures he now had in place, so he focused his attention on the two attackers’ bodies.

Starting with the man, he quickly turned out his pockets to see if there was any sort of ID. There was no wallet or passport. All he found was an energy gun and an assault knife similar to the one currently protruding from the second killer’s head. Before he moved to the second body, Martin pulled the mask off the man to see if he recognized the face. Beneath, Martin found a face around his same age. He was clean shaven and was relatively nondescript.

Martin stuffed the knife and gun in his messenger bag before turning toward the female. Just like before, he found no ID or travel permits. He had already disarmed her of all weapons, so there was nothing left to discover on her body.

The rattling at the back door finally ceased, and Martin knew that whoever it was out there, they were probably on their way around to gain entry through the front door. It was time to leave.

Martin dropped the shoulder bag across his chest and made for the front door. As he walked past the sales counter and through the main aisle of the store, he had a sinking feeling that he would never see the place again. After eight years of hiding out there, he was saddened by the sudden loss of this part of his life.

Before regret seeped too far into his mindset, he unlatched the front door and stepped into the bustling foot traffic of the pavilion.