The interior of the ornately decorated French villa, located somewhat conspicuously within an Orlando suburb, was dark and silent. The normally bustling foyer and living room were empty. A slumping figure sat in the darkness, head in its hands.
Evan Fournier knew he had screwed up. He knew he should have been more diligent terminating the primary target, Jan Vesely. But Vesely was long gone now, and he had been replaced with a new target: Mario Hezonja.
Evan, or “Unit #211-BX” as he was known at the DGES, didn’t dare question a direct order from President Hollande, figuring that the politics behind it where beyond his grasp. In his diary, however, he wrote often of the inner conflicts he had with his duties as an assassin. An almost suicidal thing to do, he thought, should the writings ever be discovered, but he figured the royalties from their publishing would be worth it.
Now was not the time for writing. It was a time for thought, and the normally ever-present sounds of French Romantic music were absent.
He knew that this new assignment required more tact than he had shown with the last. A crude bomb disguised as a gift basket of French delicacies would not do. Knowing Mario’s penchant for everything fried, such an item would very likely be regifted to someone else. The lives of innocents were a justifiable loss should they get caught in the crossfire of the killing of the primary, but Evan preferred a more covert approach.
What that approach would be, he had no idea. As he continued to mull in his darkened villa, a new sound became evident: the sound of choked back sobs.