The Hit Woman's Assassination Handbook Read online

  Title Page

  THE “HIT WOMANS ASSASSINATION HANDBOOK”

  Jane Brooke

  Publisher Information

  The “Hit Womans Assassination Handbook”

  Published in 2013 by Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  The rights of Jane Brooke to be identified as the Authors of this Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998

  Copyright © 2013 Jane Brooke

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Prologue

  Cambodia

  Before The Benediction

  Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia, the usual Manifest Destiny screw up, had been cannibalized, an acid bath, eaten from the core, regurgitated into a horror show, caskets, coffins, black-body ash, all of it vaporized into the heart of the Mekong Delta. The generals had lusted for it and the President had rock’n’rolled into it.

  Thus, millions of indigenous innocents had been slaughtered for it.

  Collateral damage was a bitch, so the fuck what, you gotta pay the VIG if you want the prize, hell, every gambler knew that. Body counts, black body bags, nobody wanted to know the numbers or the tote board for such a blasphemous genocide. It was an abortion that had gone bad, the dead fetus, well, they wanted it to go away, but it would not.

  He was a Ranger, as were his hand-picked group of Green Berets. His white flesh was rotting, decomposing, as were his heart and soul. Jungles, bullets, blades, napalm, rain, blood, killing, hunting did that to a Ranger and it had done that to him.

  The monsoons had come, crippling, drenching, and quieting the screams of the jets, high above. He had been stationary for hours now, planted on the edge of the paddy, gawking out through his binoculars. His men we’re wounded, ripped up, it had been an ambush by Viet Cong regulars.

  They had fought their way through it, killing every one of the yellow, fierce soldiers. His wounded men were stationed behind him in the jungle. His Green Beret unit was waiting, for a sign, the rain to cease, so they could be E-vacced out.

  Watching, the Captain peered out through the glasses as thirty Viet Cong began to cross the rice paddy some hundred meters across the plateau. He winced; fire ants were eating his sponge skin. He didn’t blink for he no longer felt physical pain. The Cong were moving in his direction. His men needed help, he needed help, he was going insane from the senseless killing, he wanted out.

  His radio crackled. Lifting up the phone, he watched as the soldiers drudged across the paddies. It was decision time, death time, final time, they were less than fifty meters away, and it was the right time. He cared no longer if he lived or died. His soul had vaporized long ago, his heart along with it.

  Lightning thumped in the black clouds, it illuminated the paddies, partial remnants of his blond hair. He saw the Vietnamese soldiers faces, clear, their weapons, AK-47’s, rocket launchers, they were formidable, and he knew it.

  He whispered into the radio, 40 meters, 30 meters, a roar off in the storm, the ants eating his skin, more death, more grief, he heard it now.

  There were flashes of fire, not lightening this time. Jet engines roaring, there were flames in the sky as his eyes closed, his heart imploding. More death, soon, now, it was time to remake his skin, for he wanted change, any way he could get it, he was ready. Twenty meters, ten meters, their faces were his own; soldier’s faces.

  SILENCE, blackness, Thor’s Hammer of light in the sky, silent, mute and, then a thunderous rolling liquid cataclysmic explosion ruptured of fire and flames. The earth ignited, night became day, screams, bodies burning, shrieking, the world became a holocaust of fire, then silence, darkness, smoldering odors of burning flesh permeated the lost world of the monsoons.

  SILENCE, darkness and, then a single man ran bellowing in pain, he was engulfed in trailing flutes of flames.

  THERE was silence, the cave was dark, black, water dripping, cool, pungent of deep life, SILENCE, and it was waiting for something, something odd, beautiful and odious.

  Blackness, then a fireball of sweeping flames flowing off a white soldiers skin ignited the cave, threw up blisters of purples, yellows, greens, for skin burns green when caught with in the love of fire.

  Flashes, fire flashes, then SILENCE, the cave returned to night. Water and mud sizzled; burnt skin smelled as if death. Then, a scream of unbearable joy and pain crushed through the night world of Cambodia.

  Engulfed in mud, blue eyes exposed, whites of the eyes, stark, struck of understanding, the final transformation from soldier to something so very odd, horrific, wonderful had ended, begun.

  THE clouds were heavy, like lumps of cordite, a full ochre moon, at a man’s touch, breaking through the clouds illuminating the world. There was silence, quiet, the sounds of rotor blades, men’s voices, winds swirled, mixing the stink of burnt flesh with monsoon winds.

  A SCREAM from a creature ruptured all sounds. It was filled with understanding of the brutality and finality of transformation.

  SILENCE and, then a SCREAM, again.

  The morphing from cocoon, to butterfly to gargoyle had just begun, was not complete. It would take many decades of a secret life for the final canvass to be completed. Over three decades will pass, it will be a surreal world of Indian lore and pain, and then death will visit in the guise of physical beauty, and it will be as if it had never left him at all. It will be a completion of what he was, what he wishes to become. It will be a full circle of finality, tragic, filled with awe and a woman’s lips and above all it will be deadly, yet, so very beautiful.

  Montreal Canada

  25 years later

  Montreal, winter, satiated with snow, brutish winds, ice scape’s of awe had come the day Mandel Beckwith’s new life had Vogued, thus changing forever.

  Sunday, the streets were moving, French was spoken in cafes, churches were filled and Canada’s northern jewel was alive.

  A Black limousine hit it out of the city, time moved, it always moved. The limo was now on a rural road; there was white snow everywhere, brittle blue sky, countryside, sleet-tipped forests. It was nature at its wildest. Off in the distance, red brick buildings loomed, Gothic Cathedral, towers of St. Anne’s Private School for privileged young girls.

  There was quiet in the stretch, there was always numbness in these people’s lives.

  A Chauffeur was driving, handsome Carl, uniformed, knowing something, eyes peeking into the rear view mirror, at her. She was white, young like the snow, hair, skin, indigo eyes set along the crippling beauty of something God had made perfect. He could not help himself, he knew nothing was perfect, especially her, for she was magnificent, filled with demonic genius, run amok.

  Behind her façade of beauty, wraiths dwelled, he knew that too.

  Her Father, The General, medals, pressed uniform, ram rod back, patent leather black shoes, reflecting his daughters white blond hair, sat silent as he stared through the mirrors of his sun glasses.

  Mandel sat, quiet, between her father, her mother wearing pearls, pearl ear rings, diamonds on wrists, fingers, heavy woolen dress, cashmere white coat, white gloves on her matron mothers hands. Mandel was a sec
ret pressed between mother and her father The General no one knew. Her mother’s sweet perfume made Mandel want to vomit, as did their mere presence.

  The limo slowed, began to drive up the winding brick driveway towards the ancient school. The Chauffeurs eyes flicked back through the mirror at the girls titanium blue eyes. Her eyes locked, loaded on the mirror, flicked, seem to smile, perhaps passing a message back to him.

  His message was cryptic.

  Be careful young lady, be very careful.

  The Limousine stopped, Nuns, old and wizened, black and white robes, withered skin, friends of Jesus (what did that ever get anyone) moved along the red brick walkway of the school. There were girls eyes, faces peeking from windows, upstairs, down stairs, wondering who would be the latest victim at a brothel the rich off loaded their children at so they could continue to live trouble free, self absorbed lives.

  Mother, General, daughter exited, as the chauffeur delivered matched bags to the snow covered ground. Words passed back and forth between mother and nuns. It was a banter Mandel had heard before.

  “Please Mother Superior, help us, wean her away from this writing, this reading, you are our last hope.”

  Whatever.

  The penguin bitches replied. “Not to worry, we are who we are; we are St. Anne’s after all.”

  Blah, blah, fucking blah, blah, blah as their words hurt Mandals elfin ears and her twisted savant brain.

  More sonnets passed between parents and nuns. Mandel stared at the red brick, fogged windows and, then at floor after floor of girls laughing, pointing, gawking.

  Her mind held a crushing IQ, beyond genius, it flipped French, Italian, and now Greek passages within the cortex of her brain. She was tall, 5-9, string thin. She will be taller, thinner in the coming years, even more beautiful, if that was at all possible.

  Her breath fogged, her face, sharp nose, full lips, water eyes wide on her face, Pisces eyes, cheek bones, white eyebrows, all of it would be weapons in the future for her. There were no white trailing scars on her elegant face, but one day there would be. She was just barley sixteen years old.

  Yet, she held the pain and brilliance of a deviant seer. Her brain was a straight jacketed psychiatric patient gone insane banging around a padded cell. She now was so close to freedom from her jailers that she could literally taste it.

  Looks, more secret stares shared by her and the stoic chauffeur, perhaps a conspiracy was in play. The conversation ended. Mandel in her white cashmere coat, black leather gloves, red scarf, and red knee socks cheek kissed The General, her mother, nothing to be said now.

  Mother Superior, along with her second, Sister Anne, smiled at the darling tall child. She smiled back, they began to walk. Mother Superior held the fragile girl’s gloved hand as Carl followed the trio towards the great oak doors. He trailed behind, carrying luggage and also carrying a secret that he knew and would miss. He would miss that secret, but was bitch slap glad he would have no part of it any longer.

  Once inside, Mandel’s eyes became illuminated. She gazed at the rectory, the work offices, the towering hallways, sky lights showing fluttering snow, floor to ceiling windows which all showed the great courtyard leading to the girl’s rooms.

  They reminded her of Paris in books she had read of a hundred years ago. The school was elegant, old, refined, and filled with whispering and walking girls, dressed in white blouses and blue skirts. All were toting books, back packs, secret porn, MTV brain crap in their brains. They all wore white stockings and black polished shoes.

  They were soiled virgins, living lies, and no one wanted to hear about it.

  Through the double oak doors, Mother Superior leading, Mandel, mind on fire, close at her side, the Chauffeur lagging behind, watching, wondering, knowing and glad she would soon be gone.

  The courtyard, Oaks, Willows, Elms bending from snow, red brick, fountains, iced breaths; summer will come and there will be flowers everywhere, not now though.

  Through more double doors they passed. Slowly, they walked down a wood paneled hall, black tiles inlaid into the floor, polished, sheen on them, throwing up a reflection from the last remnants of the sun silhouetting off of her white skin and hair.

  Inside the room, it was private, vast, white sheeted bed, small oak dresser, tall oak amour, dressing mirror stuck into its doors.

  There was an oak desk with a computer mounted on it. Mandel smiled at The Mother Superior. They passed kind banter back and forth.

  “Unpack my child, rest, wash if you must, come to registration when you are through, we shall chat.”

  White teeth, a virgins smile, a purr of words, lies.

  “Yes Mother, thank you, so kind, I will see you in a moment, I am very happy, I am such a lucky girl.”

  The bent back nun moved to the door, hesitated. Her grey eyes stared at the Chauffeur, at Carl who had laid the bags to the oak floor. She waited, her face cracked in wrinkles as then the girl and man stared at one another. Moments passed. Carl peeked at the door and, then at Mandel. He sighed, moved forward, hugged her slender body, stepped back, they locked eyes.

  Something passed, no words needed here. He nodded, turned, walked to the door. Taking one last look at the girl with such translucent skin, he nodded and with Mother Superior watching, he walked away.

  Moving to the window, her face was expressionless, was like a slab of ice as she stared out of it. Sartre was in her mind, his words and his genius mixing with her gift. Few could understand this; she did though.

  Time moved and, then the Chauffeur was there leaving foot prints in the snow. At the limousine he hesitated, exhaust fogging from the limos tailpipes. He looked to her window.

  Inside, Mandel smiled, pressed her palm against the window. Carl nodded; both lovers knew that they would never see each other again.

  Turning, she stripped her cashmere coat off and let it spill to the floor. Stepping before the wall mirror she stared at her naked body, except for her knee socks and patent leather school shoes. She was a white tendril of skin, muscle, sinew and bone. Her breasts were non evident, her ribs accordion and stark striking against her paper thin skin. Her hips were like a child’s. They would always be that way; genetics was cruel for others that way.

  To her, her body was a tool and a gift of wonder. The socks and shoes made her giggle. Kicking off shoes, socks follow as they were taken off of her tiny toes and small feet.

  Barefoot, nude, she laughed, did a dance, twirled and, then threw her arms up into the air; she was manic.

  She centered, stared at the miraculous image of her white diamond colored body. She knew on the open market her body was worth a fortune and she was ready to whore, peddle it to the highest bidder; she was a very bright girl.

  On the mercury slat of reflection staked into the oak she saw the new her. She was mesmerized as she jacked her finger between her legs. She wanted to masturbate, knew that she was on the clock, time for that later.

  Her mind was bending again, thoughts of suicide, never far away, raked her brain. For a genius, it was a constant thought for her, one that would never leave her in a lifetime. She thought of a passage, from Rimbaud, it calmed her, his madness, his words. Blinking, once, twice, she jerked her head, twisted around, threw her tiny ass out and slapped it. She giggled, liked the pain, there would be more. It was a part of her makeup. It kept her sane, displacing mental pain with the physical.

  Turning, she moved to her bed, flopped on it and giggled. She kicked her legs into the air, shaking them wildly.

  She calmed, thought, so much rapture in her head.

  Standing, she hefted a leather valise, plopped it on the bed, un-zipped it. She plucked a pack of Marlboro’s, took the filter from the pack with her full lips. From the bag, a chrome-Zippo, she revolved it in the palm of her hand. She allowed it to settle. Staring at it, she saw a military insignia, a r
ed dragon welded to its chrome plate. It would be a life time companion to her, almost bringing her one day to a violent death.

  She did not know this, as she flicked it to flame, lit her cigarette, exhaled through her nose.

  The transformation was beginning, she could hardly wait.

  Bone colored, like a filament of white smoke from her cigarette tip, she glanced into the mirror, watched the stranger, the new girl, the better girl staring back at her.

  It was now time.

  She bent to the valise, retrieved a black just below her thighs mini skirt, and donned it, no panties, nothing to constrict her from feeling alive. She whipped on a pair of blood red tights, heavy black motor cycle boots and, then a skin tight black tank. She snapped it between her wet legs, groaned. She was sexual and that excited her too. From the valise she took a heavy black leather bomber jacket, spun before the mirror, legs apart, boots stuck to the floor, tough girl, new girl, adventure girl, she smoked more.

  Lifting her skirt, she dropped her tights, leered at the sterling wedge between her legs, smiled, she was turned on. A brain genie, she was in the know, got it, knew this sole living organism, her bling would be a passport to her new life. Eager to use it, anyway she could to get what she wanted, when she fucking wanted it, she smiled.

  She was a self absorbed maniac on a roll.

  No time to waste, she grabbed a small black leather back pack, stuffed it full of clothes. She hesitated as she pulled a black iron 38 from the pack, spun the chamber, giggled and, then placed the snub barrel between her lips.

  It was her fathers, he would not miss it until it was too late; it was already too late.

  She could taste the acidic gun oil. She pulled the hammer back with her thumb and pulled the trigger.

  “CLICK.”

  She giggled, slapped open the chamber, saw one copper cartridge cap, grinned and slapped it closed.

  Fate was on her side.

  Grabbing a box of cartridges, she threw both handgun and bullets into the pack, zipped it, shouldered it, smoked more and, then crushed the butt dead on the floor with her boot heal.