The Don’s Deadly Assassin

13. The Handler

The Handler

Chapter 13

I slam my fist on the antique oak desk, sending papers flying. The crash of my anger echoes through the vaulted chamber filled with weapons and trophies from countless victories - victories the Huntress played a crucial role in.

How could she let me down like this? After all the years I spent honing her skills, sharpening her into my prized weapon. The Huntress was to be my legacy, the culmination of everything I built in the shadows.

Through gritted teeth I hiss, "Camela, you worthless bitch. I should have known better than to trust you with the most important kill shot."

I should have killed Vincenzo myself.

I cannot abide weakness. Any empire is only as strong as its weakest link. And she has proven herself weak, unable to do what must be done. A liability I can no longer afford.

I open the secure line to my top fixer. His cold voice comes through. "Yes, Sir?"

"The Huntress is now the hunted. I'm putting a $10 million contract on her head, dead or alive."

A pause. Good, let him appreciate the significance.

"Consider it done," he says. Of course it will be. The message shall be dissipated into the coldest, darkest corners of hell itself. The best assassins from all over the world will smoke her out of whatever hole she's crawled into. I've lost one weapon, but I can always sharpen a dozen more.

The Huntress sealed her own fate when she became weak. There is no room for it in this world of shadows. She'll learn that lesson before her final breath. I will make an example out of her betrayal.

A lesson that will not be soon forgotten by those who serve at my side in darkness.

Kyoto, Japan

The Shadow kneels in seiza position on a stone amidst a sea of raked white gravel, meticulously cleaning his katana. The sword's razor-sharp edge glints in the sunlight, filtering through the cherry blossom trees.

He focuses intently on each pass of the cloth along the naked steel, removing any hint of blood from his last target. This is the ritual that centers his being, purifying his spirit along with the blade.

His phone vibrates once with a coded message. The Shadow does not break focus, but the corner of his mouth turns up ever so slightly. A new hunt, it seems.

When, and only when, the last smudge of crusted blood is polished away, and he clearly sees his reflection in the pristine metal, does he sheathe the katana with a click? Then, he picks up the phone.

He scans the coded message carefully, a slight smile forming on his disciplined face. Ten million dollars for the capture of the Huntress – dead or alive. The challenge intrigues him, as does the prospect of claiming such a substantial reward.

Rising fluidly to his feet, he glides silently across the garden path and vaults the wall with cat-like grace. As he disappears into the city shadows, there is only the rustling of leaves in his wake.

The hunt is on.

Siberia, Russia

The Siberian wilderness of the Taiga stretches endlessly in all directions, an icy tundra whipped by bone-chilling winds. In the heart of this bleak landscape sits an isolated camp, the single spot of life for miles.

The Temptress stands in the center of the camp, focused intently as she moves through a fluid combat drill. Each punch and kick cuts swiftly through the frigid air, swishing stronger than the wind.

Her breath comes in controlled bursts of steam, unaffected by the subzero temperatures that would freeze a normal human in minutes.

She pauses mid-drill as her phone vibrates. Good. She’s ready to emerge from the snow desert for a while if there is a promise of excitement.

She was getting bored.

A cruel smile slowly spreads across her face. Finally, it is a worthy challenge. She has heard much about this Huntress - her cunning, her agility, her thrill for killing. Such a worthy competitor.

The Temptress craves the chance to test her brute strength against the Huntress' skills. To crush the defiant light within her. To prove that she alone stands atop the food chain, the apex predator of the shadows.

With a grunt of anticipation, the Temptress resumes her training regimen, each strike designed to maximize pain and damage on a human target.

The Huntress' days are numbered. The Temptress will see to that.

Tel Aviv, Israel

Thousands of miles away, the Ghost crouches on a rooftop overlooking the bustling streets of Tel Aviv. Methodically, he disassembles his state-of-the-art surveillance setup – a network of micro-cameras, long-range listening devices, and encrypted wireless transmitters that have allowed him to monitor every movement within the city block.

"Target acquired," he mutters, detaching a tiny camera lens from its hiding place beneath an air vent. He rolls the delicate piece of technology between his fingers before placing it away.

As he carefully packs away the final pieces of his equipment, a discreet vibration signals the arrival of an incoming message. With practiced ease, the Ghost retrieves a slim, untraceable burner phone from his pocket.

"Ten million dollars for the Huntress," he whistles quietly, his voice barely audible even to himself. "This won't be easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is."

His face remains an impassive mask as he reviews the details of the bounty contract. Inwardly, his tactical mind begins analyzing all angles, calculating how to track down and eliminate the Huntress.

At last, though, the Ghost allows himself a slight smile. This contract represents a worthy test of his skills in infiltration and pursuit. The Huntress was reputed to be elusive, almost a phantom herself. But he would find her. He always does.

After securing the last case, the Ghost slips out into the night. He has preparations to make, contacts to leverage, and resources to marshal. The hunt is on. And when it ends, the Ghost will be the last one standing. With ten million in tow.

A pretty prize for a pretty girl.

Cairo, Egypt

The wind sweeps across the dunes, whipping up a sandstorm that obscures the horizon and turns the world into a blur of golden particles.

Amidst this tempest, the Scorpion sits cross-legged on a woven mat, his face covered with a well-worn keffiyeh to shield it from the relentless gusts.

"Your payment will be sent as agreed," the Scorpion assures the informant, his voice barely audible over the hissing of the storm. The informant nods nervously, eyes darting around as if expecting danger to materialize at any moment.

"Remember," the Scorpion warns, narrowing his eyes, "if you betray me, there's no place on earth where you can hide." The informant swallows hard, clearly understanding the gravity of the situation.

As the informant departs, the Scorpion's phone vibrates in his pocket. He retrieves it with a gloved hand, shielding the screen from the sand as he reads the message. Ten million dollars for the Huntress – an offer too tempting to resist.

"Camela," he whispers, the name barely escaping his lips before being snatched away by the wind. His smile is edged with greed as he confidently prepares for the pursuit, reveling in the challenge that awaits him.

He has survived countless battles in the harshest environments, making him a formidable adversary.

"Let the others chase her through cities and forests," the Scorpion tightens his headscarf against the biting sand. "I will find the girl, teach her the meaning of true hardship under an uncaring sun before her end.”

He wonders what the girl did. The Handler wouldn’t be rid of her unless she betrayed him. She’s gone soft.

The Scorpion's mind turns to preparations - which safe houses to utilize, what weapons to bring, who among the desert tribes might be turned to his aid with enough coin.

The hunt stirs his blood, a welcome challenge to pit his skills against the Huntress's. Only one will walk away. And it will not be her.

"Ten million dollars and the satisfaction of bringing down a legend," he muses, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "This will be a hunt to remember."

The wind continues to howl outside. Somewhere beyond the storm, the Huntress waits. He will make it quick if she does not resist. A small mercy - far more than she would get from most.

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

In the heart of Rio de Janeiro, the Silent Death finishes her capoeira dance amidst the cheers of an adoring crowd. She leaps, spins, and kicks with fluid grace, her body a blur of motion as she revels in being the center of attention.

Sweat glistens on her brow, but she doesn't pause, her energy seemingly endless.

"Bravo! Bravo!" the people shout, clapping their hands and stomping their feet to the rhythm of the berimbau. The Silent Death smiles and bows, basking in their admiration.

But as she straightens, her eyes narrow, and she surreptitiously glances at her phone, where a new message awaits.

"Ten million dollars," she reads, her eyes widening. "Camela, the Huntress..."

The crowd continues to cheer, but the Silent Death is no longer focused on them. Instead, her mind races with excitement. She imagines the thrill of the chase, the taste of victory as she closes in on Camela.

Time to show the world what she’s made of.

Selva Moricento, Italy

The Snake carries the limp body of the young woman through the darkened forest, her long blonde hair trailing down over his arm.

She had struggled at first when he grabbed her, but the toxins on the blade of his kukri knife had quickly robbed her of any further resistance.

He reaches the secluded clearing where an old metal tub sits waiting, filled halfway with clear acid. Without ceremony or hesitation, he unburdens himself.

She lands with a splash and settles into the corrosive liquid.

The acid eats away at her clothes and flesh, dissolving her features into anonymity. The Snake watches dispassionately.

Another job finished. He pulls out his phone to check for new contracts, curious what the Handler might have for him next.

When he sees the bounty notice on Camela, he stills. The Huntress...she had been like a sister to him once, trained by the Handler alongside him.

But that was before she had gone rogue, refusing to complete her last job. “Camela, my dear. You should have known better than to cross the Handler.”

Now, there is a massive price on her head that many will seek to collect.

Part of him wonders if he should let this one go. Camela…the one by his side.

Yet, if he doesn’t go after her, someone else will. Why lose both her and the bounty?

She severed their bond the moment she betrayed the Handler, turning herself into nothing but a target to be run down and eliminated, a loose end to be neatly tied off.

He is the Handler's most skilled assassin, after all. But the larger part knows it does not matter who brings her in, only that the job gets done. Sentiment has no place in this job.

As the last of the young woman's remains disappear, the Snake puts aside any lingering doubts. He is a weapon wielded by the Handler. And he will fulfill his purpose, no matter the name of the mark.