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C H A P T E R O N E

C H A P T E R S O N G - F E E L I T S T I L L
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T H E P O L I T I C I A N

A lone woman sat at a cafe while seemingly watching people go by. This was a very French thing to do. The seats at a cafe almost never face each other, they always face the sidewalk where Parisians scurried to and fro. People-watch is what some call it.

Élodie likes to people-watch as well, but for a different reason. Her intense gaze settled on a passerby's figure, holding their image in her brain until they left her sight. She was looking for someone, not really interested in what the other people were doing.

The blonde felt boredom overcome her as she lazily stirred her café au lait. Lifting her small spoon out of the cup and tapping it lightly to get rid of excess coffee, she turned in her seat to get a better look at what was around her.

As the woman shifted in her seat, the hilt of her Glock dug into her back, making her acknowledge its presence with its silencer.

All at once, a train of five black SUVs pulled up to the curb of an elegant building in perfect formation. Élodie perked up immediately and set her café au lait down on its saucer.

With her vivid green eyes focused on the motorcade, her finger pointed up in the air to call for the waiter.

"Excuse-moi," Élodie glanced up at the teen boy who stood next to her chair with his hands folded in front of him. "L'addition, s'il te plaît." (The bill, please)

The boy nodded and ducked back inside the café only to emerge with her receipt in a tray. Looking at the printed numbers at the bottom of the short piece of paper, Élodie dug out the precise amount and left it in the tray.

A buzz came from the blonde's mobile phone and its screen lit up with a notification. Holding the phone up to her face, the device immediately recognized the assassin and it unlocked. A picture of a man with a round face, thin lips and a gray five o'clock shadow popped up on the glass screen, his tired eyes bore into hers. In big letters, the screen read:

HAROLD JOHNSON - TERMINATE

One of the car doors from the motorcade slammed shut as a man with a trench coat stepped towards the building. Élodie got up in an instant, putting on her cat-eye sunglasses.

As she was making a beeline towards the building, Élodie stealthily snatched a black, wide-brimmed hat from the table where a woman wasn't paying close attention. The thief placed the hat on her head and quickly grabbed a black trench coat that hung from the back of a chair.

It wasn't until the woman got closer to the building did she see it was a hotel, Hotel De La Revolution. Forcing herself to swallow down her anxiety, she stepped up to the foyer.

Eyeing some lone baggage by a porter, she bent down ever so slightly to pick one up. This made Élodie feel a bit more confident as she stood in front of the front counter.

"Excuse me, sir?" A fake Southern accent floated out between her lips and melted onto the ears of the worker before her. "Hi, I think I left my card key in my room?"

"We can fix that for you. What is the last name?" The boy's head turned towards the computer as he pulled up the right search system.

"It should be under Harold Johnson." The assassin tried to flash a big, bright smile but it wasn't reciprocated. Her anger started to brew and in an instant, she was planning his death. How should she do it? Should she stab him? Shoot him? It came to her that she might just pierce his skin with wires and twist his face into a smile. That would make her feel better.

"Here you go," the boy stopped her train of thought as he handed her the card to the room. She tried one more time to smile at him as she took it and left, but it felt more like a sneer.

When Élodie got to the elevator, she noticed two men in suits standing by it and immediately turned to go up the stairs. As soon as she opened the stair doors, she heard someone call out, "Ma'am?"

Locking eyes with one of the men who was bigger built and around six feet tall, Élodie gave him a sweet smile and switched easily into an English accent.

"Yes?"

"Elevator's open, you don't have to take the stairs." The man's arm held the door open for her and Élodie had no choice but to enter the lift.

Damnit.

She tried to think of ways to enter the floor in which the American politician was being kept, the third floor, but the man was trying to speak with her.

"Ma'am?" He asked again.

"I'm sorry," Élodie chuckled innocently. "Yes?"

"Which floor?"

"Oh, second please." The man pressed the second floor button along with the third floor. She stared longingly at the third floor button for a while, almost as soon as the elevator landed on the second floor.

Almost with a sense of disdain, Élodie exited the elevator and went towards the hall with the most rooms. As soon as the elevator door shut, she turned on her heel and went up the side stairs.

Élodie pressed the bar to the door open very slowly and quietly, looking at the two men in suits who were in the elevator with her. They just settled onto their post right outside what Élodie assumed to be the room to the politician.

Tightening the silencer over the barrel of her Glock, Élodie ditched her luggage and hat to instead enter the hallway with her gun poised in the air. The men noticed her as she walked swiftly down the hall, but it was too late.

The sound of stifled air filled the hallway and both bodies fell limp on the floor. Élodie swiped the card through the receiver on the door and it opened with ease. The sound of running water greeted her as she stepped into the Victorian-styled hotel room.

Élodie followed the sound of water into the bathroom that was unlocked. Her footsteps echoed on the white-tiled floor as she tightened her grip on her gun.

"Darrell?" The sound of a man's voice came from the shower where the white curtain was drawn. "Is that you?"

Élodie drew the curtain back harshly, exposing the old, white man to the cold air. He screamed and covered areas on his body that he felt deemed necessary as fear clouded his vision.

"Nope," Élodie responded with a smile. "It's me!"

She grabbed the naked man and threw him out of the tub, making his slide across the tiles. The woman pulled out a gun and pointed it at him, ready to pull the trigger.

"Please! Please! I have children!" Harold held his hands up to cover his face as he cowered in a corner.

"I don't want your children," Élodie sneered. She knew what he was doing but it wouldn't work on her.

"No! I- please, have mercy!" Harold squeezed his eyes, but then peeked when he didn't hear an answer. Élodie had a look of conflicting feelings as she processed what he said.

She took a deep breath then made an overly exaggerated look of thought. "No."

With a pull of the trigger, Harold was dead, bleeding out on the bathroom floor like hunted prey. Élodie disassembled her gun and stepped out of the hotel room, walking down the stairs.

Élodie was outside, standing on a street corner. Sirens could be heard from a block or two away, signaling that there was an emergency. It was most likely for her recent attack. The hotel was far away but she could still see the top of its roof.

Élodie doesn't like to dwell on her murders because she does feel a little bit of guilt. She doesn't want to hurt anybody but the only way to stop violence is to end violence... with more violence. It wasn't very balanced but it made sense to her.

An old silver Renault pulled up next to Élodie and the window rolled down to reveal a deep-skinned woman with luscious hair flowing from her scalp.

"Excuse-moi," the woman called out. Élodie glanced at her from the corner of her eye, unmoving. "Excuse-moi?"

"Yes?" Élodie sighed and turned to the woman. She seemed to be taken aback but that unfazed the blonde.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you not speak French?"

"I just prefer English," Élodie explained plainly. She started to get annoyed by this woman asking her so many questions when she was out in broad daylight.

"Oh okay, I was just wondering where there would be a nearby bakery?" Élodie couldn't help but scoff a bit.

"It's Paris, there's a bakery around every corner." The assassin couldn't help but snap back at the woman, urging her to stop talking to her. The woman didn't say anything but instead drove away.

Élodie glared at the silver car driving away, when she noticed something strange about her license plate. The area number on the plate showed 75, the number for Paris.

Why would a local ask about a bakery nearby? There were no rent tags and the woman looked to be comfortable with the narrow street, so she wasn't from out of town. Something was off.

When a suspicion finally hit Élodie, she started to go off in the direction the car went, straight towards the Nôtre Dame cathedral.

-

"You disrespect me, you disrespect your family, you have disrespected your country!" A strong, loud voice boomed through the halls of a large house that sat in the mountains of Russia.

"Trying to run is seen as an insult to us," a large man looked down at a man strapped in a chair. The one who spoke had a wide body and white hair. His moustache covered most of his upper lip and he wore a navy blue suit.

"So be a good boy, huh?" The man's face was the one of Ivan Novikov, a high-ranking individual for Russian's central intelligence.

Dimitri Novikov, a well-known KGB agent, was strapped in a chair in the middle of a cold, dark living room that had a lingering stench of tobacco. His torso ached and stung from all of the punches he had taken from the agent who was in the room with him.

"And if I don't?" Dimitri mused. His father was displeased and his jaw locked in anger.

"Then we will kill you, or worse, throw you in prison. Either way; it will be in your best interest to comply."

Dimitri only chuckled at this. It didn't matter to him, his country didn't matter, this organization didn't matter. He didn't understand why they wanted to keep him so bad.

"You are walking on thin ice, son." Dimitri didn't respond. He didn't need to; he has already said what he wanted to say to his father. When Ivan realized that he wasn't going to say anything else, he stood up straight with his hands behind his back and nodded at one of the agents in the corner.

"My zakonchili zdes'." (We're done here.) He left after that; leaving his son alone with the agent who was taking his time untying the ropes. Dimitri was impatient and thrusted his head back, hitting the agent in the nose. With the chair still attached to him, Dimitri swung his body so that the wood would hit the agent, splintering it and making it easier to wiggle free.

Swiping the access wood splinters off of his black suit, Dimitri opened the door of the living room to find his father standing right there with a smirk on his face.

"You read too easily, like a children's book," Ivan stepped back into the room with a knowing look on his face.

"Don't call me a children's book." Dimitri bared his teeth at his father, wanting to wring his neck. Ivan looked down at the unconscious agent then back up at Dimitri.

"But you do act childish, no?" Ivan approached his son with quiet, cautious steps. They were meticulous and careful; this is what Dimitri knew to be as his kill step.

"I don't want to want to kill my own son," Ivan whispered, staring deep into Dimitri's blue eyes.

"You didn't seem to have a problem with killing your own wife- " Dimitri's words were met with a harsh slap and his head whipped to the side. Ivan's many rings cut deep into his skin, allowing scarlet red blood to run down his cheek.

Dimitri faced his father again, staring him down with a murderous look in his eye. Ivan's finger was pointed in his son's face, waving slowly with disappointment.

"They are willing to be merciful," Ivan decided to steer the conversation back on course. "If you do this one job for them."

"I already told you, I'm done working for them," Dimitri watched his father walk around the room. The air felt thicker and the tension between him and his father was almost suffocating. They both wanted to kill each other, they both knew it. It just depended on who has it in them to commit.

"I don't think you understand," Ivan leaned on a desk that was hidden in the shadows, a serious emotion swirled behind his blue eyes.

It all came down to Dimitri's life and the lives of innocents. He would never in good conscience work for the interests of the KGB again, but if he wanted to make sure that nothing bad would happen, then he should take the job and save the risk of someone else carrying it out.

Less blood would be shed.

Dimitri sighed and looked at his father, "What is the job?"

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