Angel and the Assassin

Provincetown to look at gorgeous men on the beach.
    But that day, after his mother had left, he had taken one of Sven‟s cars and
    managed to dent the driver‟s side door against a lamppost.
    Deciding he wanted a Coke he grabbed his robe to head downstairs. “On
    second thought,” He tossed it on the floor with his clothes. Sven got furious when he
    left his room naked, but he no longer gave a damn what Sven thought. Sven could
    call him “queer little fucker” all he wanted; tomorrow he‟d be gone.
    Leaving the shower running, Angel padded down the stairs into the wide
    entrance hall, his bare feet silent on the hardwood floors. The kitchen stood on the
    west side of the house, and he had to pass the lounge to reach it. One side of the
    double mahogany doors stood open, the light from inside illuminating a small area
    of the dark hall. A loud voice erupted from inside.

    Angel and the Assassin
    15

    Sven was on the phone screaming at Angel‟s mom. “Get your fucking ass home,
    bitch!” A pause. “Oh yes you are; you are coming home. Do you think you are going
    to get alimony out of me? You‟ll get nothing!”
    His mother didn‟t care about alimony. She was still young, only thirty-four,
    and beautiful. She had found Gregoire St. Germaine several months before when
    she had taken Angel skiing in Whistler. She wanted the designer clothes and purses
    she had got used to being married to Sven, the expensive perfumes and trips to
    Europe. The new man would give her all that and more, and without the abuse
    Sven doled out.
    Sven had a vile temper. Angel had lost count of the number of times he had
    listened to them screaming at each other, followed by Sven giving his mother a
    smack. Then there were days of bliss when they made up and cooed at each other
    while her black eyes healed.
    He crept up to the double doors and stood behind the closed side, peeking in.
    Sven sat on the dark red leather chesterfield sofa, his back to the wide French
    windows that looked out onto the sea. The surf was loud tonight, the waves roaring
    in. Fists clenched, Sven shouted, “No one else will have you, whore! Get the fuck
    home!”
    She’s not coming home, and she’s already found someone else, dickhead. He’s
    richer than you and too old to knock her around.
    Angel watched his stepfather, handsome and tall, always well dressed even at
    home. The anger on Sven‟s face was beginning to melt. “Please, Samantha, come
    home. I love you. I‟ll never lay a hand on you again.”
    Angel stepped out from behind the door and stood in the full light, waiting. It
    took Sven a second to see him. Hands on his narrow hips, Angel wiggled his ass
    while offering an exaggerated wink. Anger flaring quickly again, Sven‟s face
    contorted. He angered easily and had never had even the smallest patience with
    Angel. Grabbing the case containing his reading glasses, he hurled it. It landed on
    the rug about ten feet from Sven, missing Angel by another six feet. He ducked back
    behind the door, still peeking at his stepfather, a grin plastered across his face.
    “How come you didn‟t take your fucking faggot son with you? He dented the
    door on my BMW today. He doesn‟t even have a license, and that‟s the third car of
    mine he‟s damaged. You should have taken him, because I‟m going to kill him.”
    Angel shivered. He might be wise to leave tonight.
    “I will, Samantha. You come home, or I‟ll kill your son. He‟s a useless piece of
    shit anyway.”
    A silhouette flitted past the French windows and was gone. Angel squinted.
    There was nothing there. He had imagined it.
    It was back.
    A very tall, broad-shouldered figure stood at the French windows, doing
    something to the lock. Either he was completely silent, or the surf and Sven‟s voice
    drowned him out, because he made no sound.

    16
    Fyn Alexander

    The next few moments were surreal.
    The French windows opened a slit, and a man dressed in unrelieved black
    stepped inside, closing them behind him so fast that the rush of the wind and surf
    had no time to enter with him. He was huge and handsome, with a shaved head,
    and his eyes were a stunning bright blue. His jaw had that chiseled, masculine look,
    like he‟d just stepped out of a magazine.
    He must work with Sven.
    Sven had no idea anyone was behind him, not even when the man stood so
    close that he put a gun directly behind Sven‟s ear and fired.
    Almost no sound came from the gun, just a little pop . It looked like the