Assassin: Knight Takes Queen

By Daniel D. Mickle

What is an assassin to do when he is forced to take a contract he does not want to fulfill? If he is the best assassin in the galaxy, he must fulfill the contract, exactly and to the letter. Even if that target is a well-loved leader, revered by billions, it must make no difference. A contract is a contract. How many must live and how many must die, and will "Quantum Magic" play a part in it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel D. Mickle
• Release date: Apr 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310219993

Daniel D. Mickle

Daniel D. Mickle has written technical articles in the sciences plus science fiction stories for over half a century, beginning in high school with his school newspaper, where he wrote stories for the enjoyment of the other students. His varied interests range from quantum physics theory, communications, electronics design, work with lasers and microwave radio (lifetime federal license), computers, astronomy, chemistry, and the internet to building robots, riding his Harley, martial arts (multiple black belts), marksmanship (expert), writing, oil painting, and photography (to mention a few) give him a perspective on life which may be seen in the varied aspects of his stories. A stickler for detail, he makes certain the science involved in his fiction is either the latest views in the scientific community, or are his own interpretations and projections of logical science discoveries coming in the future.

Book preview

Assassin –

Knight Takes Queen

DANIEL D. MICKLE

Published by Daniel D. Mickle July, 2014 at Smashwords

Copyright © 2014

Cover art: Daniel D. Mickle

Line Editor: Melissa Ringsted

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9781310219993

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – Unwanted Contract

Chapter 2 – Don’t Get Up

Chapter 3 – Transacted

Chapter 4 – The Mural

Chapter 5 – I’ve Been Duped

Chapter 6 – When Gelar Was Ten

Chapter 7 – Revenge

Chapter 8 – Playing Dress Up

Chapter 9 – Stepping Out

Chapter 10 – Gelar Growing Up

Chapter 11 – When Gelar First Visited Earth

Chapter 12 – Infiltrating

Chapter 13 – Wedding or Funeral?

Chapter 14 – Death & Sol’s Retreat

Chapter 15 – Amy’s Dream

Chapter 16 – All That Jazz

The author asserts his moral rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including any photographic, electronic or mechanical methods without prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in critical reviews and other non-commercial uses as permitted by copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank all those who helped me with

their thoughts and ideas for this and the other stories

in the series, especially my son, Clint, and my editor,

Melissa Ringsted.

Finally, I wish to thank my readers for buying my

books. I hope you enjoy them

as much as I enjoy writing them.

CHAPTER 1 – Unwanted Contract

Carefully lubricating a square of white cloth with a few judicious drops of gun oil, the assassin turned the Skelorian laser pistol over in his hand to lovingly clean the other side. I could kill my target quite easily with this one, he thought. It leaves a nice, neat cauterized hole in the skull. Their brain cooks from the sudden blast of heat. It’s been done before. He retrieved the power pack from a desk drawer and snapped it into the pistol.

Some weapons were just tools, but to an assassin for hire, a Skelorian was a finely crafted work of art. With its accuracy, I could add on the shoulder stock and a telescopic sight and be far enough away that they would never catch me, but this time I must be very close. There can be no error.

Every contract—every assassination—was different, and this was going to be Sol’s hardest yet. He had tried to stick to the rule of no women or children, but this contract had changed that. His target was female, but not any ordinary female. He didn’t actually want to do this job, but the client had made it impossible to refuse, and he’d argued with himself that if he had not taken the job, someone else would have. Anyone else would surely make a mess of things.

As he mulled it over, he turned to look out the ninety-third floor window of the Draymen Assurance Bank, toward the endless skyscrapers dotting the horizon on the city-planet of Cíbola. As he watched, the skyline wrinkled and distorted, as snakes of water slithered down the panes from the torrential rain outside. In this distracted state, he idly flipped the name plaque, which proclaimed him to be Mr. Navillus, back and forth on his desk.

Any public figure was hard kill, but this might be the hardest hit in the galaxy. Yet, in spite of the notoriety this assassination would bring, he could never let anyone know it was his work. Ever! She was loved by millions … no, more like billions of people. Why did I ever agree to take this job? It must be done up close, face-to-face, and it must be quick and silent.

He decided the best way to kill her would be to somehow administer a knockout drug, and then use another drug like cyanide to kill her quickly in her sleep. She would simply doze off and never awaken. If he had to kill her, that was what he must do. Angry at himself for agreeing to make this hit, he slammed his fist down on the desktop so hard the entire desk shook, the crash echoing throughout the room. He was one of the billions who loved her. Better for him to do this than some other assassin who would treat her as no more than another faceless target, undeserving of respect. They would just put a bullet through her head or blow her apart with an explosive. She deserved better than that.

Everything all right, sir? It was the voice of his secretary and receptionist, Veatrica.

Yes. I dropped my ledger book. The big one. It knocked over the desk-lamp. All fixed now. No problem. To his secretary, he was just one of thousands of bank executives on this planet of banks, investments, and secret accounts.

At least this assassination wouldn’t be one of those where the client required a finger, a head, an ear, or some teeth from the body to prove the execution. As soon as the body was discovered, her death would immediately be splashed across every news channel. One of the touchy criteria of this job was that before he could leave the area, he must make certain the target was truly dead, even if it meant being captured. He could not leave her wounded or crippled; it had to be a clean kill. She must die in a way that was non-violent. He would leave no visible marks on her body. The death must appear to be from a natural cause, such as a heart attack or a brain aneurism, and indeed that was a stipulation of the contract. An untraceable chemical poison or a biotoxin might be the answer. Unfortunately, some of those took much too long, or let the person die in great agony, and he wouldn’t allow that. A knockout drug followed by the old standby, cyanide, was probably the best. If she were asleep it would spare her the violent reactions. Cyanide usually appeared to be a heart seizure, unless they were specifically looking for that poison.

Sir? came a voice over his office intercom. There is a man asking to see our chief financial officer. He does not have an appointment, and the way he is dressed, I’m certain he’s no banker.

His name?

Laosh Krillim, sir, his secretary answered immediately. Shall I tell him you are not available?

No, Veatrica. I recognize that name. I believe he is one of those ‘loss recovery’ ruffians. You may show him in.

The man was brought into the office by the secretary with a brief introduction, Sir, this is Mister Krillim. Mister Krillim, this is our CFO, Mister Navillus. She turned and left the office.

Have a seat, Krillim, he said, trying to show no undue respect to the man. Your arrival here could put me in a sticky situation. If it does, you’re dead. Tell me why you’re here.

To say Navillus was a nondescript banker would be misleading. He was a large, powerfully-muscled man whose physical description would most closely match the darker skinned Aboriginals of Earth, even though he was not from that planet. He was known only by rumor, speculation, and legend to be the famous assassin, Sol. This man, Krillim, was one of the few still living who actually knew that Navillus was Sol, the assassin, which put Krillim on a very short list of people who might still need to be killed at some point. A couple of years earlier, Krillim had given him money to buy back his life—to pay off the contract Sol had previously held on him.

The visitor held up both hands with palms forward, like a policeman stopping traffic. Yes, I understand the situation completely, but I knew of no other way to contact you. Laosh paused and looked around nervously. I came to hire you to do something for me.

I’m listening. Explain yourself, Sol told his visitor.

May I presume you remember the man who previously hired you to kill me? Laosh waited for a slight nod of agreement and went on, I want to hire you to return the favor. Abner Kelly. I want him … removed.

Mister Krillim, in buying back the contract on your life, you paid me double my normal fee so I wouldn’t kill you. From that, I’m sure you remember what the normal fee is, and that you no longer have that much money available.

I’ve had some good cargo runs in between then and now. I have the money. Here. You can cross-check my bank balance. My Cíbola account number is H453637— Laosh began, but was cut off.

I’ll take your word for that for the moment. More to the point, Mister Krillim, I am currently booked up with prior work on a job that should take roughly the next six months. While situations can change greatly on a daily basis, I will not take your money now. If you still want Kelly dead five or six months from now, contact me and I will decide if I will take that contract.

You should take it, because you owe me anyway, Laosh said.

What do you mean by that?

I mean the bomb on my ship three or four years ago. It took me a while, but I finally found out that you were the one responsible for the little surprise that almost killed me. The repairs to my ship cost a small fortune. Krillim looked serious.

You lived, didn’t you? Since you did, perhaps you should simply take it as a warning that I can get to anyone if I want to badly enough, if there is enough cash involved. Or if, say, you happened to let slip any information about my identity to someone else. The bomb on your ship was not me having a serious will to kill you, but rather me doing a friend a favor, when they asked if I could put a bomb on a certain ship. I did not even know whose ship it was until after I had placed it. Thus, when it turned out you were not dead, it did not matter much to me. I simply dropped the matter.

Take it as a warning? Krillim jotted something on a small notepad. After that, he seemed to be in deep thought as he began absentmindedly flipping the corner of one of the papers on the desk with his thumb.

Sol said with a fixed stare, "I advise you to stop touching my papers. If you flip any one of those up far enough that you see something—anything—from the other side, I will have to kill you. I dislike leaving witnesses. As you might deduce, these papers relate to a contract I … am considering. If I even thought it possible you saw something, I would be forced to remove you and make a mess of that chair and my office rug. I don’t like doing that, but you should have no doubts that I would do so with no hesitation."

Laosh quickly lifted his hands away from the papers, keeping his fingers spread wide to show he was no longer touching any papers, and that he held no secret camera. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing. My mind was on that ice planet where we crashed after the explosion.

Sol pressed a button on his desk to buzz his secretary. Mister Krillim, if I thought differently, you would already be dead. His aide reappeared. Veatrica, Mister Krillim and I have concluded our business. Would you see him out?

Laosh held out his hand as though to shake hands, but the man known here as Mister Navillus just gazed at it without response, so he nervously pulled it back. I … er, sorry. I will see you in five months, Krillim paused a moment and then added, if you live.

Mister Krillim. You don’t need to visit here again. Just send a message if you still wish to go ahead with the transaction we discussed. I will remember the details and let you know whether our bank will broker that contract. If I decide to accept your business, you can then send the account number to complete the transaction.

While Veatrica held the door for him to exit, Krillim said, I understand.

Once he was sure the man was gone, Sol turned the papers back over so he could look at them again. For the five hundredth time he asked himself, What have I gotten myself into?

After such an assassination, could he ever be free—truly free—again? He might be hunted for the rest of his life—which would likely be short. Would he need to have his looks physically altered? Wait, that was an idea. He had heard of plastic surgery and dermal regeneration. What would he need? Would it be possible?

From a desk drawer, he removed a small quantum radio, and called a contact of his, asking who was the best doctor of that type who would do work without asking problematic questions. It did not take long to get what he needed, and he instantly called the private number for a doctor on the planet, Kurtau Six. This doctor was not just the best in his field, but was also known for off-the-record work.

"Doctor M’gubu? My name is Kyle Simian. I’m told that you have done reconstruction work with patients barely alive after severe burns covered most of their bodies. I need to meet with you to discuss some special reconstructive surgery. ... Oh, yes. I want to ask how much of the body it’s possible to rebuild and reconstruct. If I needed massive reconstruction, would I be recognizable after such surgery? Would there be visible scarring and would I lose my memories?

Yes, I can come in and see you. Three days from now, your time? Yes, that will work out. ... Simian ... S-i-m-i-a-n. Right. Okay, I’ll see you at six. Thank you.

He wanted to ask the doctor if he had a head injury, something that cooked his brain, would it be possible to keep him alive until the cells regenerated, and would he lose his memories of who he was before. He would do that when he kept the appointment in three days. He looked at the photos of his next target one last time before he put them away in his briefcase. He had been given no real option except to take the contract. In one picture, she stood before an adoring crowd, who cheered her return from captivity. He had been in that crowd on the day it was taken, cheering along with the others. However, it was in his capacity as the galaxy’s top assassin; he had been scanning the crowd, watching for others of his own trade who would have ended her life. He remembered her smiling face conveying a simple strength of character as she waved to millions of fans and followers. After all of that time in captivity, it was amazing that she could still smile.

Now he was the one who must end her life. He had to fulfill the contract.

Sol gazed at a close-up picture of the pretty, young lady who was Queen of Abras, also known as the kingdom-planet. Placing this last picture and his Skelorian pistol in the case, he locked it closed and considered his dilemma. He must honor his contract and kill Queen Ishtaree.

A thought suddenly occurred to Navillus. Wait, ‘If you live’? That was an odd thing for Krillim to say. Although his mind began racing through possibilities, he did not have time to think about it, because there was a sudden commotion in his outer office. He touched a button on the desk controls to activate a monitor, allowing him to see what was happening in his reception area.

What he discovered made him hit another button, locking the intervening door. It was a strong door, but would still not last for long. What he’d seen on the monitor was that two men with guns had entered his reception room … two men he recognized.

The Krasange brothers were—like him—assassins. He saw Mklos Krasange strangling his secretary. He was certain they were not there for a guild meeting. The two worked as a team and their reputation for getting the job done was nearly as good as his own. Obviously, they had a contract on him. Was the contract on him as Sol, or as the banker Navillus? Did they know who they were attacking?

His eyes scanned the room looking for his best options. The office was mostly bare, other than the plants—miniature trees—growing from large pots in each corner of the room to soften the stark look of the office. Only those plus his desk with the two chairs could provide possible cover.

What was not obvious to any but himself was the secret closet within which he had a set of active armor hidden. It would take several seconds to punch in the code to the combination lock, and even longer to put on the armor. They were already at the door, trying to force it open.

As he stood up, he spotted a small note on the chair where Laosh had been sitting earlier. What’s that? On it, he saw the word bomb, and grabbed it up to read. That’s why he’d said ‘if you live’!

The note read: "If you live through my bomb, consider it a warning."

Crap! He used my own words against me.

He had a team of contract killers breaking down his door, and now to compound it, there was a bomb here—somewhere. It would have been set with a short timer and a couple of minutes had already passed since Krillim left. It was probably under the chair or beneath the desk. He didn’t have time to search. Clutching his briefcase, he dove for the corner to his right—the side of the room away from the windows—and tried to fit his entire body behind the large potting tub in that corner. The briefcase was the blast-resistant type, so he brought it up to help cover his head and upper body.

No sooner had he tucked his legs in, than a blast devastated the room. Two of the decorative trees along the window side—along with ten thousand tiny shards of window glass—blasted outward and fell ninety three floors, cascading to the street below. He did not know if anyone below was hit. With the torrential storm, the streets should be relatively empty, but passersby were not his problem.

The dwarf fruit tree above him, and the pot that previously held it, had taken a good deal of the blast. A shard from the shattered pot had driven through his calf muscle. The bloody end of it could be seen sticking out the back of his leg. It was excruciatingly painful, but had not shattered the bone, so he would be able to walk. There was also blood trickling down the left side of his face, but he checked that and found it to be only a small cut from a tiny piece of shrapnel bouncing off the wall behind him, getting past the briefcase shield.

His leg, however, was a huge problem. The banging at the office door stopped when the blast occurred, but he expected it would resume soon enough. They were professionals. Even if they were the ones behind the bombing, they wouldn’t just walk away thinking he might have been killed. They would want to see the body with their own eyes. I must get out of here … quick.

Had they hired Krillim to leave a bomb in his office? It did not seem their style. They preferred to make kills themselves and never sought help from others. Before taking care of his leg, he fished a remote—similar to a mobile phone—out of his pocket and called for his speeder to come up to the ninety third floor to get him. The speeder’s artificial intelligence would find him.

Next, he punched in the access codes to open his armor closet. The first time he entered it wrong, so he forced himself to calm down and try again. This time, he was rewarded by the door popping open. Even if he had the time, he could not put on the armor with a large pottery shard sticking through his leg. If he tried pulling it out, it could start gushing blood too fast and he would pass out. That would be the end of him.

Dragging himself to the closet, he hung onto the door to pull himself up. The banging on the office door had resumed. It wouldn’t be