Isadora slid onto a chair and the chatter around the bar picked up again. She again tried to ignore that it was louder than before, that she thought she could hear her name in snippets of conversations and speculation. When she had the information and the deal concluded, Isadora stood up and walked out of the bar and out onto the street, pausing to inhale the fresh cold air and gather her wits in preparation for her first ever assassination.
As she rode the cushy lift up to his hotel room she planned to offer herself as a prostitute and then kill him afterward. The levels of floors in the expensive building in the business district of Nova Cheiros were designated by color; his was the yellow.
“Level Seven.” A soothing voice breathed out the information and Isadora stepped out into the hallway darkened for the night, only the ends of the hallway were still lit in glowing lemon for those who roamed the city late.
After she’d serviced him, she stood fluffing the Mohawk ridge on the top of her hair in quick nervous movements before a small mirror, glancing back at him and her black bag with her gun inside it, waiting for the chance to kill him. He stood up and began pulling on his clothes and she walked to the table where her bag lay, sliding a hand into it and grasping the gun to slowly pull it out. Before it was halfway out he yanked it out of her hand, spun her around to face him and lifted her up, slamming her against the wall making the mirror jump. He thrust the gun up against her crotch.
“Let me give you three pieces of advice on assassinating people,” he hissed at her. “One, never get close enough to your mark to give them an advantage. Two, never put down your weapon, and three, always, always, get half the money up front.”
Isadora could not stop the uncontrollable trembling and could only make tiny mewling sounds of fear.
“Got it?” He snarled at her, waiting for a response from her white face. “Got it?”
“Uh—uh huh.” She managed, too frightened to even cry.
“Good. Now get the fucking hell out of here and never let me see your face again, anywhere!”
He opened the door, still carrying her off her feet and then tossed her full force out the door, her bag and gun after her. Isadora landed on her hands and knees on the plush rubberized carpet vomiting out her terror. When she finally stopped retching she sat back against the hallway wall sucking hysterical gasps of breath for a long moment. She turned her head and gazed down the hall and then scrambled, half-crawling toward her bag and gun flung nearly to the end of it.