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The Assassin

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Unit of work: Original Writing Title: The Assassin Thin, whispy clouds patched the deep navy sky above Emanuel Avenue in the London suburbs. Streetlamps lined the pavement, piercing the darkness with their warm orange glow... but the blackness where light could not reach was asphyxiating. The low rumble of passing traffic on a busy road was audible in the distance. The Avenue was relatively silent however, perhaps apart from the odd car cruising through into the night. It was a street like any other; boxy houses sandwiched together in a row on either side, well-manicured front gardens with trim hedges and walls bordering each unit. A shady figure crouched low against the pavement behind a viridian Ford Fiesta. The pale moon dimly traced the contours of her slender leather-clad frame as she hid, tense and still. A lengthy rifle was clutched in her feminine hands. She was aiming low at one of the houses across the street, the windows lit with the same orange glow as the streetlights. ...read more.


She was frozen. They burst through the door, where they stopped and yapped at her relentlessly. One was a greyhound, lean and agile, thin head hosting sharp, pointed teeth. Strands of saliva escaped its maw with each time it opened. The other seemed to be considerably older, with ebony fur, short floppy ears and dirtied white paws. They were both very tall and one even came up to the assassin's waist. "Hush Spike! Oliver! Jeez, what's gotten into you two today?" a wizened voice asked the hounds, annoyed. "What's goin' on down there?" The voice was getting louder as she slowly hobbled closer. There was no time to waste. The assassin forced herself to her senses and began desperately thrusting her head left and right. There must be somewhere to hide in a place as ill-kept as this. Hurriedly, she dived under a table which was covered in a yellowed cloth, drawing her knees up to her chest so that she was relatively out of view. ...read more.


Terror was cast upon her creased face upon spotting the stranger. They glanced at each other from either side of the table. But in this brief moment, the assassin had also noticed the handgun grasped in her bony hands. Bang. A pathetic gurgle rose from the old woman's throat as she dropped limply to her knees. Crimson blood seeped from the corners of her mouth and the wound in her chest as she remained there to live out her dying moments. The pink nightgown blackened as blood oozed into it. Head lolling back, she lost her balance and fell backwards onto the wet newspapers. Her digits unfurled slowly and released the gun. Her eyes were still open, staring blankly into an empty cupboard... Lanced with remorse at the bone-chilling scene that lay before her, the assassin exhaled a sigh of relief. It was close, but she had finally managed to despatch of her enemy. She turned away, pondering whether to collect the money from within the house or dispose of the body. But her muse was interrupted by the periodic flashing of blue in the window, and the shriek of sirens. ...read more.

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