Ripped: A Hitman Romance

Season one
Episode one
***
Cades
I pushed open the door to Prince Larbi Hassan’s office. Really, I didn’t think he conducted any actual business besides rerouting large sums of money to terrorist organizations, but he had an office anyway.
Little Larbi was well known to be a playboy and party prince. Though his lifestyle was diametrically opposed with the morals of the extremist groups, they took his money anyway, probably even lied to him and told him that his gifts made up for his sins, that he was a holy man. Crazy people had been doing that to rich leaders for centuries.
Prince Larbi looked up from his massive desk. He was typing something on his computer, staring at his razor-thin monitor. “Who are you?”
I smiled. “They call me Ripper. I’m here to kill you.”
Larbi pushed up out of the desk, the look on his face telling me that he wasn’t quite sure if he should take me seriously or not, but he was halfway towards screaming for his life anyway.
I strode across the room to meet him, casually pulling out my Browning Hi-Power and pressing it into his stomach. “It’s nothing personal,” I said. “Well, I personally do think you’re a waste of space that only uses people and funds mass killers, but I’m not the one who wants you dead.”
Larbi drew in a lungful of air. I put the gun in his mouth. “Don’t scream. It’ll make you look like a lily-hearted pussy. Aren’t you people supposed to be trained to face death bravely?”
He tried to back away. I snatched him by the collar and held him close. “You want to know who wants you dead? I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but since you’re going to be dead soon, I don’t suppose it matters.
It’s the U.S. government. Not that they’d cop to it if anyone asked. This is all on the down low. But they hired me to kill you because they can’t touch you legally, not with your diplomatic immunity, and they know that you’re giving money to their enemies.
They don’t like you very much.” He swallowed.

Episode Two

I sighed. “You know, I don’t know why I bother. But it does seem to me that every man deserves to know why he’s being killed. So, now you know.”
Larbi made a noise, around the gun, something like a word.
I didn’t want to hear what he had to say. Nothing he said would excuse him. And besides, nothing he said would unhire me to kill him. In the end, it was a job like any other. If I didn’t deliver what I advertised, I’d go out of business.
So, I pulled the trigger. It was loud. Larbi’s blood spattered the wall behind the desk. He toppled to the floor. People would be coming.
I tugged a small spray bottle of bleach water out of my pocket. I sprayed down the gun. I dropped it. I wore gloves to avoid fingerprints, but the bleach was just extra protection. I advertised the fact that I provided a clean crime scene and there wasn’t any call for leaving my DNA all over the place.
I didn’t have a lot of time. Striding past the desk and the body, I headed for the door behind the desk. I had found it in the building’s schematics earlier, when I was planning this out. The plan was to go out this door, go through Larbi’s personal rooms, hit his private elevator, go down to the bottom floor and leave through the back entrance.
It was a good plan. But when I opened the door, I came face to face with two girls. One was wearing a lot of makeup and an expensive-looking robe. The other was in a t-shirt and jeans. Her eyes widened when she saw me.
The girls looked a lot alike. But there was something about the girl in the t-shirt.
Maybe there was just something about the t-shirt. It was clingy, and I could see her nipples sticking out of the fabric. Either she wasn’t wearing a bra or it was a thin one. Funny thing to notice when fleeing a crime scene, but killing sometimes gets me worked up.
Not that I had time to worry about that. But there I was, staring at the chick’s tits, standing there, wasting time. And the girl in the robe screamed. “What did you do to Larbi?”

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