The Ashen Horse

The assassin slowly watched the sunset over the coastline. She was patiently awaiting the dark, for it was the dark when she came alive. The rest of the time she was just an imposter, but it was in the night when she was her true self. Only in the silence of the night.

She didn’t know any others like her. That probably shouldn’t surprise her, contract killing was a solitary sport. It wasn’t advisable to walk up to the unemployment agency and say ‘murder’ as the preferred skillset, and that ‘killing’ was the employment opportunity that was being sought. Yet, here she waited for tonight’s bloody events to unfold.

She considered herself a true master of her craft. In an era of technology and weaponry, she opted to be a traditional artist. Modern weapons were loud and obnoxious, no finesse. She preferred the slick art of the kill, which could only truly be accomplished with an assassin’s blade. She was carrying the standard weapons with her tonight as she carried with her on every mission. A sleek sword which she could readily fasten to her back or hang at her waist. She preferred the katana, but was well versed in various styles, tonight carrying a custom-made Ronin Katana. She had spent a great deal negotiating the exact specifications of the weapon with the manufacturer, convincing them it was for a rich collector who wanted it to exact specifications. The result was a weapon of mastery, perfectly balanced—and with the exact length for her to optimally carry and swing. A weapon of death.

She carried a medium size dagger, tight on her waist to not impede movement. At one point in time she had carried shurikens just for the nostalgia of the bygone era. She had gotten reasonable adept at using them as well, but she had found them to be slightly impractical and had exchanged them for more versatile throwing knives. They were securely fastened to the other side of her waist.

She had an assortment of other standard weapons she employed from time to time, but tonight was a quick in and out mission and she wasn’t packing excessive weight. Although her most bloody work was done with her true weapons. She was also a realist and took the work seriously. Because of this there was a Browning Buck Mark pistol, with a laser site and silencer, nestled comfortably in the small of her back. It wasn’t useful at any range, but put the target under a hundred feet, and she wasn’t going to miss.

The .22 wasn’t going to do a lot of damage, it was an executioner’s tool. Meant for close range, the double tap to the skull, would see it used most effectively. But a lightweight ranged weapon was required in this line of work, so she found a perfect compromise in the pistol. The other option was bow and arrow, and although she would have preferred it on so many levels, pragmaticism had to win the day.

She had been waiting for hours, waiting for the depths of the night. This is when the art came to its true light. The purest form of the skill was always found in darkness. She finally stirred from watching the beach and hiked a mile along the beach to the cozy cottage nestled above the breakwaters. A small summer vacation home for the elite executives of McDouglas Banks. A shady business that owned banks throughout the Caribbean, especially any island known to be a haven for dirty money. The irony being that it was in Cape Code Massachusetts, even outfitted with a lighthouse at the corner end of the property.

Her target should be sound asleep as the time slowly marched slightly past three in the morning. He was a senior vice president of operations and reported directly to the chief operations officer. Not only had been swindling money from the drug dealers, he had been swindling money from a prominent South American dictator. The drug dealers chalked it up as a cost of doing business and keeping the authorities away from their money while the South American dictator took it as a serious afront to his honorable sensibilities.

When it was over, she took the twenty thousand dollars that was bundled on the kitchen table. She had found the vivid custom-made black notebook that her client said she would. Apparently, it held details to various hidden secrets the vice president didn’t want to get out. Her client told her expressly that she was to find the notebook and return it to him if she wanted to get paid. She always got paid.

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Ron Troder got the call early that morning. As a senior detective he got called out on anything that might make the headlines, and apparently today was no exception. They woke him at six thirty in the morning. He had cursed ever obscenity possible at the dispatcher. He only had one rule, only one. Don’t ever talk to him before coffee. There was just no decency in this world.

He swung by the Starbucks on his way to the address the dispatcher gave him. He didn’t shower. There was no way he was going to shave. He didn’t even change from the clothes he was wearing the previous night when he fell into his bed in a drunken stupor from being out too late with the boys. Wrinkled, half undone suit, but a full cup of joe. Just as the world should be. If they called him before coffee, they were lucky he showed up at all. That’s how he saw it.

He rolled into the beachfront property to see five squad cars blocking the entrances with several cops securing the property. Seemed like a pretty big contingent for the run of the mill homicide, but apparently the guy was some big shot. No press yet, he said a small prayer of thanks to the Almighty. He knew you had to take every blessing you could get, and no press was a might big blessing.

Sally was standing near the front door as he walked up to the house, she had made Lieutenant last year and she was quickly moving up the ranks. Quite impressive for a twenty something hotshot. But then she worked twice as hard as anyone else, and even if her beauty helped her move up the ladder quickly, she never abused it. Her normal shining sparkle wasn’t quite there today, her light brown complexion looked an ashen white today.

“We closed it all off Troder, wanted to wait for you and the photo guys to get here. The first officer on site, we got the detailed report, didn’t touch anything but the front door handle. We literally retraced his steps.”

“Ms. Sally Escanda, you know for sure he didn’t touch anything? How could you know? Why tell me this up front?”, questioned Ron.

She made an audible gulp. “You can see his steps. He didn’t go all the way in, you can see where he stopped and called for backup and then walked backwards back out of the house. We…”, she grew silent for a moment as she visibly shivered. “We think it’s the Ashen Horse, he struck again. If it isn’t him, well, it’s a bloodbath sir.”

Ron didn’t hesitate, looking over at a junior officer at the scene, “Jackson! Coffee! Go get lots and lots of coffee, Jackson. Better get the frou-frou stuff man, and the black stuff. Don’t mess around here, deliver the goods.” Jackson rolled his eyes but getting away from this place didn’t sound like that bad of a deal for him so he was on his way to his patrol car before anyone could contradict the order.

“Let’s go in Sally. Where’s the camera guys, they go in first. Did you get two of them? Stills and video? We aren’t messing around on this one.” This was not Ron’s first rodeo and he wasn’t going to have his case against the Ashen Horse thrown out on a technicality.

“We are here man, calm yourself. You sure you really need more caffeine? You probably could jump start a rig already. Seriously man, that can’t be good for the heart bro.”

These new crime photo ‘dudes’ were all college photography students. Full on wavy hair, California beach bums turned photojournalists. When they realized they couldn’t get a gig shooting girls in skimpy bikinis they applied for other photo jobs. And landed in Ron’s lap as crime scene photographers. Did everyone of them have to be this way though?

“Listen rock stars. Video first, still photo second. Touch nothing, shoot everything. Video capture, full view, two steps forward, repeat. Slow, steady, calculated, full view. Sally and I will be right behind, and the forensic team behind us. We capture everything, we bag everything.”

They might not be the state-of-the-art crew that they had in Boston, but this team had rigor and discipline on their side. Even Mr. California could deliver. They quickly started shooting, tagging, bagging, and documenting the entire scene.

It was gruesome, there was blood spatter over half the house. There were two victims, apparently a senior bank VP and his young lover. It wasn’t sure if the girl was hired or a mistress, but it was sure it wasn’t the VP’s wife. It looked like the VP didn’t really see it coming. He had been hacked to pieces in the bedroom, the blood splatter literally outlining where the Ashen Horse had stood, leaving his frame outlined on the double doors leading outside. Tampering with the lock showed he had entered the house right there was well, picking it barely a hand length away from his victims.

It appeared the girl woke in the middle of it and tried to run. She made it to the next room. She didn’t make it much further. She was, scattered, throughout the room. The Ashen Horse was not so much flamboyant as efficient. He killed with a thoroughness that might have been envied if he applied his skills to a better trade. It looked like the girl had been cut maybe ten times, but that was enough to sever body parts and they had been loosely kicked out of the way. It was surprising how much blood was really in the human body.

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The newspapers ran a full report the next morning, front page news. “The Ashen Horse Strikes Again.” The first detective in Texas had named the contract killer, what they had been calling the serial killer of the century. The blood and gore were just too much for the press. They went out of their way to cover the story. News agencies from halfway around the world descended on Cape Cod just to get quotes from anyone who knew anything.

A news reporter finally cornered Ron and asked him what he knew as the lead detective on the case. Ron hated the press. Everything about them he loathed, but he also knew if he didn’t feed the beast the beast would never leave him alone. So, he answered their questions with the answers the team had cleverly devised about what they would tell the press and what they wouldn’t. Nothing was going to leak on this case.

The interview was slowly coming to an end, and the reported twitching, had to ask one more question. “If you don’t mind Ron, can I ask you why you call him the Ashen Horse? That seems like such a silly name for a serial killer.”

“Truth be told we don’t know that it is a serial killer. There’s no modus operandi to suggest that’s what is going on here. The victims are butchered with blades, that’s the only similarity between many of them. This isn’t someone who enjoys killing, as most serial killers do, or someone who needs to kill. This is someone who is efficient at killing. There is a subtle difference. Serial killers make mistakes because they get caught in the moment, that moment of need or desire. We haven’t seen that from Ashen.”

Ron was quite for a minute, and then he looked at the reporter and said, “When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, ‘Come.’ I looked, and behold, an ashen horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death, and Hades was following him.”