Templar's Quest

10

The serpent, the Cursed One, fouled the earth.

An orgy of blood, Paradise lost.

Kill the firstborn then burn in hell.

The serpent, the Cursed One, all covered in –

‘Pathetic.’

The assassin known as the Dark Angel disabled the iPhone in mid-song, bored with the shrieking vocals and discordant rhythm of the Black Metal music. Nothing but a pack of alienated young white men, their primal screams evoking a violent fantasy world.

So much better to live the fantasy.

Hitching a leather-clad hip against the wrought-iron railing, the assassin scrutinized the little green brick house on the other side of the walkway. The cream-coloured shutters looked newly painted, the brass door knocker was shaped like a pineapple, and the window boxes on the first floor brimmed with pink pansies. Too trite for words. Overlooking a placid stretch of canal, the row of brightly painted residences was more reminiscent of Amsterdam than Washington.

Oh, to be in Amsterdam on a hot, muggy night. With the lurid fluorescent lights and writhing bodies behind plate-glass windows. A red-light district second to none. A true outpost of the erotic frontier. Raw, raunchy and real. What’s your pleasure, bébé?

Annoyed to suddenly hear a tinny buzz, the assassin glanced down. It only took a few seconds for the intrepid mosquito to land on a patch of bare skin, oblivious to its fate. Unaware that the hand of God was two feet away, ready to strike.

How long should I let it live?

‘Hmm … I think that’s long enough.’

Intrigued by the sight of smeared blood and smashed wings, the assassin softly cackled. Do give my regards to Fabius Jutier. Who, no doubt, went to his grave snivelling and sobbing, the Frenchman having been an effeminate weakling.

Not like the two Delta Force commandoes. Fine specimens, the both of them. Real men, as the Americans are fond of saying. All bunched muscles, tightened sinews, eyes burning bright with hatred. Fighting against the restraints with every ounce of power in their big, muscular bodies. Right to the bittersweet end.

Such a shame that stolen pleasures never last long enough.

‘But the night is still young.’

Smiling in anticipation, the assassin glanced at the address scrawled on a crumpled sheet of paper, verifying the house number.

Time to get to work.