THE RECALCITRANT ASSASIN
S.A. ISON
THE RECALCITRANT ASSASIN
Copyright © 2019 by S.A. Ison All rights reserved.
Book Design by Elizabeth Mackey
Book Edited by Ronald Ison Esq. Editing Service
All rights Reserved. Except as under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a data base or retrieval system, without prior written permission of S.A. Ison
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the production of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons – living or dead- is entirely coincidental.
OTHER BOOKS BY S.A. ISON
BLACK SOUL RISING
INOCULATION ZERO WELCOME TO THE STONE AGE
BOOK ONE
INOCULATION ZERO WELCOME TO THE AGE OF WAR
BOOK TWO
EMP ANTEDILUVIAN PURGE
BOOK ONE
EMP ANTEDILUVIAN FEAR
BOOK TWO
POSEIDON RUSSIAN DOOMSDAY
BOOK ONE
EMP PRIMEVAL
PUSHED BACK A TIME TRAVELER’S JOURNAL
BOOK ONE
FUTURE RELEASES
EMP ANTEDILUVIAN COURAGE BOOK THREE
POSEIDON RUBBLE AND ASH
BOOK TWO
PUSHED BACK THE TIME TRAVELER’S DAUGHTERS BOOK TWO
BRAKING NEWS
THE HIVE
SMOKEHOUSE SMILES
SHATTERED MIND
BIO VENGENCE
Other books by S.A. Ison under the name: Stefany White
Dragon’s Fortune
Alaskan Heat
The Seeding
Future Releases
The Butler Did It
Little White Lies
ONE
Imani Zakarian had many names. Her favorite name, which always gave her a giggle, was Angel of Death. Angel indeed. She sat comfortably in a chair, her long legs crossed at the ankles, her Italian leather boots scuffed, and the leather buttery soft, they were her favorite pair. In her lap, her hands rested, holding her Fabrique Nationale, 5.7 mm. It was one of her favorite weapons. It had a suppressor attached to it, custom fabricated and was very portable. Its range was good as well as its accuracy, that is, if the shooter was any good.
She made a point of keeping up with her marksmanship, it was never good to let one’s skills gather dust. While she was in Italy, it was the one weapon she used. In each of the countries she operated in, she kept her choice of weapons in bank security lock boxes. The boxes were private, they were safe and she didn’t have to worry about inquisitive clerks. Each bank was paid a year in advance.
She was in Rome at the moment, sitting in an apartment that overlooked Piazza Perin del Vega. There across from her was a small café, one of many that peppered the cobbled streets of Rome, like spots on a cheetah. The sunlit piazza was subtly shifting, fading. Long shadows creeping in heavily and the electric lights had started their timely illumination, crowding out the coming night around the piazza. The streets were always crowded with tourists and locals. She caught the scent of something delicious and her stomach growled. She’d skipped lunch as usual, when she was zoned in on a target, she forgot to eat sometimes.
It was near time to terminate her target, then she’d go and have an early dinner. Many Italians ate later in the evening, but she’d never quite acquired the habit. The man below was just finishing his early dinner. She’d let him finish, it was after all, his last meal. She wanted him to enjoy it.
Imani was neither a cruel nor sadistic assassin. This was her profession and she was, if nothing else, very professional. Each kill was done with one shot to the head. The target would never know what happened, never dying painfully, never experiencing fear.
Her head itched and she scratched it, the long pale blonde wig shifting slightly. She tugged at it, setting it back in place and then looked at her target once more. The man seemed satisfied. She smiled, aimed carefully, precisely and pulled the trigger.
The sound of her weapon was quite muffled with the silencer and she felt the blowback puff of air. The bullet had gone right into his temple. Neat and clean, unfortunately, it would come out the other side a yucky mess, but that couldn’t be helped. It was just one of those nasty consequences.
She unfolded her long legs as she caught the screams from below. She was only on the third floor, and so the screams were easily heard from the open window. It was an easy shot. She walked out the door of the apartment, using a handkerchief to touch the door knob, her gun already tucked away into the leather satchel that was slung across her body. The fine leather had a stronger composite sandwiched between the leather straps, so would-be purse snatchers would find it difficult to cut the satchel off her body.
Like many metropolitan cities, theft was rampant. Rome was no different and she’d seen for herself, the speedy mopeds and vespas streak by, snatching the unwary tourists’ purse or backpack. She could not afford to have her purse taken. The tools of her trade were in there, and though she had backups, she didn’t like to think that her personal items were out there, falling into who knew what hands. In her line of work, it was a no no. Secrecy was all.
Imani stepped from the back of the apartment building, onto a side street. Which was conveniently on the back side of the piazza. A row of old apartment buildings separated her from her target. She walked up the street, passing many people who were looking around, looking for the uproar. They didn’t know that on the opposite side of the apartment building, was a dead man, laying in his empty plate, his brains mixing with his ragu. She walked between two buildings, five blocks up and stepped out onto the main street. She looked up the street, and could now hear the seesaw shriek of sirens from the
