Angel and the Assassin 3: Sins of the Father

Southwark.

    “You’re like me,” Romodanovsky had said to him. The man was a rapist and
    definitely a killer. Was Kael really just like him? He felt alive when he hit a target.
    Fyn Alexander | Sins of the Father
    185

    Working for SIS was more than simply a highly paid career; it kept him sane. But
    tonight the only target was of his choosing. Taking out Clement last year had been a

public service, but what was this? A bloodlust, like Conran had said?
    In a poorly lit alley at the back of a row of dirty shops, Kael pulled on a pair of
    latex gloves and palmed his scalpel. He had chosen a medium blade as the best option.
    The tension that had built up in his body since meeting Romodanovsky could not be
    unleashed by running, going to the gym, or sex.
    Dressed in black and wearing the shoes he favored for work—soft black leather
    with black crepe soles—he strode confidently but silently through the alley. In a
    stinking, urine-soaked recess he waited, his acute sense of smell overpowered by the
    foul odor. But it would be impossible to find a doorway or alcove that had not been
    used as a urinal in an area like this.
    A young girl accompanied by a man walked past. The girl, tottering on high heels,
    had to be a prostitute. The man was middle-aged and wearing an expensive suit.
    Anyone else would have a hard time making out their features, but Kael could see them
    both clearly. Away from the light coming from the open back door of a cheap Chinese
    restaurant, the girl leaned up against the wall and lifted her skirt. With subdued grunts,
    the man did his work and then fastened his trousers. Uninterested, Kael continued to
    scan the alley for a target.
    “Twenty quid,” the girl said.
    “I’m not paying you a penny for a dose of the clap.” The man had an upper-class
    accent. He probably worked in one of the better businesses in the area. Southwark, like
    many of the older areas of London, was a collision of poverty and wealth. Prostitution
    was everywhere, and so were snotty little wankers like the one who now had Kael’s
    gaze riveted on his back.
    “You should’ve used a fucking condom then!” the girl screamed. “Gimme my
    twenty quid.”
    Fyn Alexander | Sins of the Father
    186

    Drawing back his fist, the man landed his knuckles in the girl’s face with a
    sickening crunching sound. This was the one. Kael had stalked the alleys for over two
    hours for the perfect target. He had almost chosen the thick-as-pig shit young chav he
    had watched rob the assistant in the all-night launderette. Only the pallor of the man’s
    face and the anxious look in his eyes had told him that the bloke was desperate for
    drugs. But this man could pay for his fix; he just didn’t want to.
    A thin scream tore through the alley as blood poured from the girl’s nose.
    With a look of disgust on his face, the punter left her trying to stanch the flow of
    blood and walked off in the opposite direction. The young prostitute began to stumble
    back along the alley toward the streetlamps. Kael followed the man. About twenty feet
    ahead, a left turn would bring the man back to the well-lit street and the safety of the
    evening pedestrian traffic. Picking up his pace, Kael reached the target without alerting
    the man that he was being followed. Taller by half a foot, Kael grabbed the man’s neck
    with his right hand, jerking him back until he fell against Kael’s chest.
    “Don’t move,” he whispered into the man’s ear, as he pressed the tip of the
    retractable scalpel against the pulsing jugular. Fear overtook the target, and all the signs
    of fight or flight manifested. A sweat broke out on the man’s face, and his breathless
    voice indicated a pounding heart and shortness of breath.
    Maneuvering the target so he could look into his eyes, Kael slammed the man’s
    back against the clammy brick wall and stood in front of him, very close, his scalpel in
    position. Even at this proximity, he doubted the bloke could see his face clearly, partly
    because of the darkness and partly because he was in a state of shock. In a stammering
    confusion of words, he said, “My wallet in my inside pocket. There’s about five
    hundred pounds in it.”
    “So why didn’t you pay that girl her twenty quid, you fucking wanker?” He spoke
    into the man’s face.
    The man’s tone was apologetic. “I should have.”
    “You hit her in the face.”
    Fyn Alexander | Sins of the Father
    187

    A sudden intense smell of warm urine filled