Added£1.59Add to basket(A short story of 3998 words)
The Female of the Species
Crime and Thrillers
by Joanna Sterling
Helena a professional assassin, was angry and impatient to be back in London. This latest job - all the meticulous planning wasted for no reward, someone was going to pay.
With one professional and practised sweep of her grey eyes Helena checked out the VIP lounge at Barcelona airport then lowered herself into one of the smart leather chairs. She sat well away from everyone else and sipped her strong espresso. No one noticed the business woman in her navy suit. But if they were observant, they might recognise this season’s designer silk scarf by Ferragamo and shoes that were handmade. Not the obvious outfit for an assassin. But then Helena did not conform to the stereo-type glamourised by TV and films, depicted in black leather and boots. She looked down on the crowd below; the executive lounge was built a level above the main concourse with full length plate-glass windows, completing the sense of voyeurism. Helena was angry and impatient to be back in London. This latest job – all the meticulous planning wasted for no reward, someone was going to pay.
The day before she had taken the Eurostar from St Pancras to Gare du Nord crossing Paris to Gare d’Austerlitz and caught the overnight train to Spain. Helena often travelled by train, security was less stringent. It also gave her time and space to go over all the details of the hit. As she lay in the compartment she let the rhythmic sway of the train form part of her mental shut down exercise, clearing her mind of all extraneous trivial matters.
From the Franca train station in Barcelona, it was a short walk to the rendezvous point. Even this early in the morning Helena could feel the beginnings of the heat of the day as she entered the narrow winding streets of the Gothic Quarter. It took ten minutes to reach the Cathedral. She was early. Inside there was an aroma of incense and candles. She walked up the south aisle pausing at one of the small side shrines to the Virgin Mary. Helena was not religious – how could she be in her line of work? But whenever in a church she lit candles. She put five euros into the box and took three candles. One for her father, killed by a bullet in Northern Ireland, one for her sister, who had swum out to sea too far and one for Jack. She bowed her head in the merest gesture to prayer. This done she walked on through the choir stalls and turned right into the cloister. Here there was dappled shade and the sound of water. She leant over the stone balustrade and breathed...
With one professional and practised sweep of her grey eyes Helena checked out the VIP lounge at Barcelona airport then lowered herself into one of the smart leather chairs. She sat well away from everyone else and sipped her strong espresso. No one noticed the business woman in her navy suit. But if they were observant, they might recognise this season’s designer silk scarf by Ferragamo and shoes that were handmade. Not the obvious outfit for an assassin. But then Helena did not conform to the stereo-type glamourised by TV and films, depicted in black leather and boots. She looked down on the crowd below; the executive lounge was built a level above the main concourse with full length plate-glass windows, completing the sense of voyeurism. Helena was angry and impatient to be back in London. This latest job – all the meticulous planning wasted for no reward, someone was going to pay.
The day before she had taken the Eurostar from St Pancras to Gare du Nord crossing Paris to Gare d’Austerlitz and caught the overnight train to Spain. Helena often travelled by train, security was less stringent. It also gave her time and space to go over all the details of the hit. As she lay in the compartment she let the rhythmic sway of the train form part of her mental shut down exercise, clearing her mind of all extraneous trivial matters.
From the Franca train station in Barcelona, it was a short walk to the rendezvous point. Even this early in the morning Helena could feel the beginnings of the heat of the day as she entered the narrow winding streets of the Gothic Quarter. It took ten minutes to reach the Cathedral. She was early. Inside there was an aroma of incense and candles. She walked up the south aisle pausing at one of the small side shrines to the Virgin Mary. Helena was not religious – how could she be in her line of work? But whenever in a church she lit candles. She put five euros into the box and took three candles. One for her father, killed by a bullet in Northern Ireland, one for her sister, who had swum out to sea too far and one for Jack. She bowed her head in the merest gesture to prayer. This done she walked on through the choir stalls and turned right into the cloister. Here there was dappled shade and the sound of water. She leant over the stone balustrade and breathed...