| General Fiction posted June 22, 2023 |
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Fictional account of the assassination of a monster
Operation Jasmine
by Mario PIERRE
Assassinate Me A Thriller! Contest Winner
Perched on the sixth-floor balcony of a decrepit building a hundred metres away from the Indian Prime Minister’s residence complex, Oscar watched as the tumult below grew louder. Anti-Putin protesters yelled in unison: ‘F*ck you Putin’, ‘Putin = Hitler’, and other obscenities. They were being continually pushed back by an overwhelmed Indian police force.
The dozens of international reporters stood in the front rows, microphones in hand, recording equipment on tripods, eagerly awaiting the historic event. Security was everywhere.
The Russian army squad, strategically positioned in and around the crowd, were clad in full riot gear—face shields, gas masks, shiny black body armour and submachine guns raised to the firing position. Some were scanning the horde through binoculars, talking simultaneously over their radio.
Oscar felt tense. He could not locate Leila. She should be right behind the rows of reporters, blending in with the group of eight or ten high school students brought in from the prestigious Vasant Valley Public School. But he hadn’t been able to get any visual on her till now.
The residence's main door opened and the Indian prime minister crossed the lawn and climbed the improvised stage. A minute later, Putin followed, surrounded by four imposing bodyguards from his Special Elite Protection Force. The crowd roared: ‘Murderer!’, ‘Shame on you, Putin!’ “Leave Ukraine alone!’
Putin appeared serene, seemingly oblivious to the uproar. He climbed up the stage and went directly to the pulpit where he was expected to address the press.
Two girls in the Vasant Valley School uniform walked up the steps, garland in hand. One girl went to the Indian Prime Minister and placed a garland around his neck, then bent down and touched his feet, a sign of utmost respect in India.
Oscar recognized the other girl as Leila.
When he first met her in Delhi a week before at their briefing for Operation Jasmine, he suddenly found himself questioning the soundness of his views on celibacy. She had been hand-picked for this mission for three reasons: she was Indian, she was well respected among the CIA ground agents, but most importantly because of her child-like appearance. At twenty-six, with her hair parted in the middle and plaited in two braids falling on her back, she looked like a grade ten student.
Leila walked toward Putin but two Russian guards immediately barred her path. Another Indian guard talked to the Russians and after an interminable moment, they let her through. Leila stood in front of Putin. The president bent down and allowed her to place the garland around his neck. He brought the front part to his nose and chatted briefly with Leila, probably telling her the jasmine flowers smelled nice.
“Awesome job!” murmured Oscar. It was his turn to act now. He waited until Leila regained her spot in the crowd, then drew a tiny controller from his pocket. As the Russian president started to talk into the microphone, Oscar pressed the green button.
"What a waste of flowers," he thought.
Perched on the sixth-floor balcony of a decrepit building a hundred metres away from the Indian Prime Minister’s residence complex, Oscar watched as the tumult below grew louder. Anti-Putin protesters yelled in unison: ‘F*ck you Putin’, ‘Putin = Hitler’, and other obscenities. They were being continually pushed back by an overwhelmed Indian police force.
The dozens of international reporters stood in the front rows, microphones in hand, recording equipment on tripods, eagerly awaiting the historic event. Security was everywhere.
The Russian army squad, strategically positioned in and around the crowd, were clad in full riot gear—face shields, gas masks, shiny black body armour and submachine guns raised to the firing position. Some were scanning the horde through binoculars, talking simultaneously over their radio.
Oscar felt tense. He could not locate Leila. She should be right behind the rows of reporters, blending in with the group of eight or ten high school students brought in from the prestigious Vasant Valley Public School. But he hadn’t been able to get any visual on her till now.
The residence's main door opened and the Indian prime minister crossed the lawn and climbed the improvised stage. A minute later, Putin followed, surrounded by four imposing bodyguards from his Special Elite Protection Force. The crowd roared: ‘Murderer!’, ‘Shame on you, Putin!’ “Leave Ukraine alone!’
Putin appeared serene, seemingly oblivious to the uproar. He climbed up the stage and went directly to the pulpit where he was expected to address the press.
Two girls in the Vasant Valley School uniform walked up the steps, garland in hand. One girl went to the Indian Prime Minister and placed a garland around his neck, then bent down and touched his feet, a sign of utmost respect in India.
Oscar recognized the other girl as Leila.
When he first met her in Delhi a week before at their briefing for Operation Jasmine, he suddenly found himself questioning the soundness of his views on celibacy. She had been hand-picked for this mission for three reasons: she was Indian, she was well respected among the CIA ground agents, but most importantly because of her child-like appearance. At twenty-six, with her hair parted in the middle and plaited in two braids falling on her back, she looked like a grade ten student.
Leila walked toward Putin but two Russian guards immediately barred her path. Another Indian guard talked to the Russians and after an interminable moment, they let her through. Leila stood in front of Putin. The president bent down and allowed her to place the garland around his neck. He brought the front part to his nose and chatted briefly with Leila, probably telling her the jasmine flowers smelled nice.
“Awesome job!” murmured Oscar. It was his turn to act now. He waited until Leila regained her spot in the crowd, then drew a tiny controller from his pocket. As the Russian president started to talk into the microphone, Oscar pressed the green button.
"What a waste of flowers," he thought.
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Writing Prompt In 500 words or less, write a thriller (or/and horror) prose involving an assassin/assassination or hitman/hitwoman. No poetry or script, please. Be creative and have fun! |
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