The Tale of an Assassin (A work in progress…)

This is a little story I’m currently writing… however, as it’s taking me a little time to write (I usually find I become lazy when writing for no deadline! lol) so therefore I’ve decided to post a little of it online… basically what you are reading is the first page of this story.

A little background first: this was intended to be a sort of “prequel” to my last written story (Chen – The Tale of a Spy) hence this story’s similar title. However, as I’m writing it, I’m finding that it’s becoming… something more… hmmmm… well, here’s the first page, hope you enjoy!

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Russia, 1989

Reports in the local newspapers carried the devastating news of the slow demise of the Soviet Union. Everywhere, people were in worse condition. The effects of the destructive Cold War were still being felt, and those still trapped in this war-stricken Union were helpless…

In the icy town of Murmansk, a young boy was being ushered into a dark, hostile-looking building.

The wooden structure was anything but grand; there were no windows, and it had only one door, which was protected by a series of locks.

The two burly guards threw their young charge into the dimly-lit room, and closed the door with a resounding thud!

The young boy, barely fifteen, was in dismal condition. He had two blackened eyes, a heavily bruised face, and a nasty cut along his left arm; all work of the Mafiya that managed to capture him.

In fact, the two guards had no idea what would be needed from such a young boy, but they were under strict orders from the Boss, and failing to comply with him meant sure cold death. There was also the matter of the hefty sum awaiting them on delivery of the subject…

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Mikhail Matvei was afraid. There was no other emotion surging through him that was any more powerful than this one. He feverishly looked around him, taking in whatever little there was to see in the room.

As a young boy growing up in the Soviet Union, he knew of the harshness and difficulties of living in the nightmare, but never had he expected to actually be in a situation such as this.

Just then, the door rattled – and slowly pushed open. Standing in the frame, silhouetted by the bright light from the snow, was the figure of a tall, thin man.

Slowly, with careful, calculated steps, he left the biting cold outside and entered the warmth of the dark room.

“Ah, Mikhail. Good to see you’re well…” the man said, his voice rasping like nails scraping down a chalkboard.

Mikhail didn’t say anything; he was already under the spell of this man’s authority. Of course, he knew who the man was… he had seen his face in the local newspaper often… they referred to him as Gustav…