The estate is being used by someone else in the meantime. A guest.
Still, full security is in effect. A VIP is currently hiding in residence.
The assassin crossed into the protected zone of the property via the sea and onto the small beach. Coming in from the deep water where a ship dropped him off. He swam slowly through the darkness for hours to reach the beach. Protected and covered by a state-of-the-art synthprene wetsuit with nano-scramblers that block sensor detection on several levels, including IR.
For a long while the assassin watched the sands. Drifting out in the waves offshore, floating, before he finally came in with the surf. Waiting for the patrol detail to pass one last time along the beach before the next rotation came on for the day.
And when they did, the assassin watched them go. Knowing that before leaving they would check in their equipment. Steiger high-powered assault blasters with Mercurio close-engagement sights. The best money can buy. Both guards would leave the estate and avail themselves of the pleasures of Pthalo. Sun. Swimming. Drinks and gourmet food in one of the tiny pleasure villages. Then an afternoon nap.
Another day’s work complete, protecting the fantastically wealthy residents from the consequences of their lives—both real and imagined. Sometimes earned, sometimes not.
Pthalo isn’t for stars and or celebrities.
Pthalo is for lovers.
Lovers of wealth.
Pthalo is for the truly wealthy. The ones who are smart enough to remain hidden. Or to not even exist at all.
On the beach, with less than an hour before dawn, the assassin moves into the tropical gardens that surround the estate. He pulls out a pair of sensor-mags and scans the grounds surrounding the villa.
Looking for all the sensors and holocams set up to stop someone like him from entering.
He spots all the security measures and confirms his route to the target. Out of the dive bag he’s towed for two hours, he swaps the flippers for a pair of soft-soled dive shoes. He retrieves a coil of synth-rope and pulls it over his neck and chest.
That’s for later.
He pulls out the weapons case.
A gentle breeze kicks up the noise of the tropical palms, scouring the predawn dark with the hush of white noise the fronds make. Covering the pneumatic hiss as the clamshell weapons case opens softly. Masking the minute it takes the assassin to assemble the weapon.
This weapon is a Savage weapon. Something from the mythic times of those fabled boogies that once frightened, and almost conquered, the galaxy.
It fires the old nine-millimeter round. Everything about the weapon is precision. Magazine, chamber, barrel, sights, grips—everything is custom-made. The last bit before the weapon is ready to use is the silencer. Long and lethal, screwed on and sealed with a slight pneumatic hiss. Matte black fading to charcoal, the weapon is the same color as the synthprene stealth suit.
Light seems to disappear, or even flee, from the assassin. He must be invisible.
Weapon ready, the assassin proceeds toward the big villa at the center of the private estate. The Pthalo island villa. Where rooms upon rooms are filled with the latest luxuries. Legal and illegal. Stolen works of art thought long missing. Wealth on ostentatious display. Nothing fine has been neglected. A full staff always on hand, though most are asleep now in the distant servants’ quarters.
The first guard to die does so near the massive pool. Moving fast, low and slow, coming up behind, the assassin shoots the walking guard as the man enters a shadow. Before the guard can fall, the assassin gives him a slight tap and pushes him into artistically cut foliage alongside the sauna house. A nice hidden place where he can die without discovery.
The assassin put one through the man’s spine on initial contact. Now he adds one to the brain to make sure the work is done.
The man wore his hair high and tight. Was most likely former Legion. Blood pools around him, watering the palms.
The next guard dies within twenty seconds of the assassin violating the large glass doors that open into the villa’s main salon. The catering kitchen is there, and guard number two is working at a bowl of cereal as her shift ends.
The bullet smashes into the back of the guard’s skull. The woman didn’t even turn or rise up to defend herself. She didn’t hear death creep into the room with her. She goes down in the bowl of pink, cereal-dyed milk.
The assassin doesn’t pause.
He moves toward the villa’s main doors, deviating from the direct track to the target. Detouring to where the team commander and another guard spend the shift in a control room accessed off the greeting lobby that opens onto the front drive. Monitoring and filling out reports on a datapad.
A quick hack on the control room lock, using a worm far too sophisticated for even the latest in locks to withstand, works in under thirty seconds.
The assassin, moving like a swift inky blackness, enters the control room and sees the team commander working at a datapad. End-of-night reports.
The first bullet kills the commander. The other guard turns at the man’s dying gurgle. Two more shots deal with that one.
Mag out.
Mag in.
Checking the holocams, the assassin can now see that the two perimeter guards have gone to their last post for the night. Joining up with the main security team and reaction force out at the front gate.
They’re just running out the last minutes of their shift. Nothing ever really happens on Pthalo. Especially at zero dark now. Pthalo is the safest place
