PRINCELESS by Cam Jace Storykiller
Copyright©by Cameron Jace 2019
Venus Wilde’s Diary Part 2
Thursday, Tel Aviv, 10 AM:
The gig was to kill the man on the motorcycle.
I didn’t ask of his name or his crime this time. Part was my earlier disgust when I knew, and part was thinking about Pierre. His implication to propose didn’t go unnoticed. I couldn’t sleep last night, not sure what to make of it.
My helmet was heating my head up. I had been chasing my target for too long. It was supposed to be a shoot and run. No discretion. No apologies.
But he was a damn good motorcycle driver so I hadn’t been able to get the shot for more than at least three minutes. He didn’t shoot back once, as if he were trying to lure me into a trap.
It was my first gig on a motorcycle, but hey, in the end, I did it.
His motorcycle flipped a couple of times and then slid with flickering sparkles against the asphalt until the edge where the road turned into sands. Soon the sun would scorch him to an eternity in hell.
I halted my motorcycle, one leg on the ground, and I looked around. The road was empty. None of his acquaintances were coming to attack me. A gig played well. It was time to go home and pack up and fly back to see Pierre.
But then the man moaned. The motorcycle lay over him so he was hardly a threat. I gazed to my left and right. He was going to die anyways, but the right thing to do was to finish him off. This wasn't about inflicting pain. This was about saving other people's lives, like the Pillar taught me.
It was going to be an easy shot, only if he hadn’t stretched an arm and called for me…
…by my name.
“Venus Wild,” the man spat blood on the ground.
Curiosity kills the cat. I couldn’t help it and carefully approached, my gun aimed at his skull in case he was playing games.
“You know me?”
“We all do,” he choked.
“Who is all?”
“They’re not who they pretend to be.” He spat more blood.
“Who are you talking about?”
“You know who I work for?”
“Wan Tzu also knew.”
Did he just mention the name of my gig in Singapore? The gun dealer I killed, pretending I was an escort?
“You knew Wan Tzu?” I squinted, the world dizzying all around. It wasn't the heat. It was my perception of my life and who I was supposed to be.
Instead of last words, the man in the helmet spat a last stray of red blood across the sand and then sank into his eternal silence.
I stood there, lost. My hands loose on the gun. Did he just leave me like that? Perplexed and confused?
Then his hand moved.
A set up.
I shot him right away. But missed because of my trembling hands. I saw him take off the glove from his left hand and spread it on the asphalt.
This time I shot him in the head. What a messy shot. I was about to vomit.
But… then I realized what just happened. It wasn’t a trap. He wasn't going to shoot me back or something.
He was trying to show me.
A circle of stars with a flute in the center. The same tattoo I saw on Wan Tzu.
Who the hell did I work for?