The Trouble With Masked Men

A short story about the problems one encounters when dealing with men who have no faces.

   His hands were swift and terrible. They flew in precise movements, never missing, never dealing anything less then what they had been trained to: death. The bodies that lay at his feet had been dispatched in spectacular fashion. He had moved with the grace of a dancer, silent and flowing. Not a shot had been fired, nor any alarm rose.
   Of course, she found none of this impressive. She was ten. Framed in the doorway, she had just gotten up from bed for a glass of water, and walked into a scene of pure terror. Now she stood frozen, her little body trembling slightly in her flannel pajamas, unable to fully comprehend the depth of what she saw. All she knew was her mother's motionless body lying on the floor. The trembling reached her hands, and the glass slipped to shatter on the floor.
   He turned at the harsh sound of glass shattering, blade raised high and ready. A mask covered his features, save for his eyes, those cruel blue emotionless orbs. They stared at each other for a moment, ant he fabric over his mouth shifted, letting out a small chuckle. He advanced toward her, the knife in his hand still dripping terrible red, and she realized he was smiling. She was to be killed by this smiling man in the black mask.
   He had nearly reached her when there was a flash of movement from the other side of the room. The man in the black mask gave a grunt and threw himself backwards as a throwing knife embedded itself in the wall by his head. The little girl turned to see another man had entered the room. His mask was blue, and covered the lower half of his face.
   "Leave her alone."
   He pulled a long blade from its sheath on his hip, and walked purposefully to join the man in the black mask in the middle of the room. With nary a pause to ready themselves, the fight had begun. They attacked with such intensity that belied years of experience. No movement was wasted as they traded back and forth. Each opponent searched for weaknesses as they attacked and defended. The blades flashed fantastically in the air, ringing out distinctly with each contact.  Finally, the man in the blue mask had it. His foot shot out, knocking away the other's knife before he buried his own deeply into the throat of his adversary. The body fell to the ground, and the man in the mask knelt to retrieve his weapon. As he stood, he locked eyes with the little girl. For a moment, she could see the depths of compassion and sadness within his dark pools of green. But the moment soon ended, as they both turned to the sound of a whimper that had escaped from the other side of the room.
   "Ambassador Nicolas, if you please. Your daughter is quite safe."
   A face peeked up, the ambassador's chubby cheeks flushed from the excitement. His dark hair slicked back with too much grease, and his mouth a tiny 'o' of surprise.
   "What?" He noticed his daughter for the first time, and shot a weak nervous smile at her. The little girl's heart lifted to know that her father was still alive. Her mother may be gone, but she still had her papa to take care of her, to love her. What ever happened tonight, they would be closer for it, or at least closer then before. Her father spoke again, not to her, but to the masked man.
   "Well, thank you for protecting my little girl. When I find out who was behind this insulting blow, heads will roll, I assure you! Now, is there anything I can do to repay you?"
   "Stand still."
   The ambassador had no time to ponder the curious demand, the masked man's hands becoming a blur again. There was the sound of escaping air, and before she knew what happened, the girl found herself staring into the lifeless eyes of her father. Now lying on the floor, a trickle of blood trailed from the hole in his head.
   The masked man sighed, and then retrieved a small phone from a pouch on his waist, returning the still smoking gun to its holster. He dialed a number, paused for a moment, and then spoke.
   "It's done. Talk to Frank and tell him The Scot double booked the embassy job . . . Yeah, he also sent in one of El Finito's guys." He nudged the body of the other masked man with the toe of his boot. "Well not anymore. Have Frank make it understood that we don't stand for this sort of unprofessional bullshit. He's not paying for some wet-nosed rook, so he doesn't need to hedge his bets." There was the sound of movement behind him, and he remembered the little girl. "Alright, we'll rendezvous and clean up in twenty." He replaced the phone and turned around, a mild look of interest readable on his face as he looked on at her.
   The knife of the dead assassin must have fallen near her, because it was now in her hands. He head was bowed, fine blond hair obscuring the view of her face. Her shoulders shook slowly, though it was impossible to tell if it was with grief or rage. The man stared, studying her. He needed to be on his way, as experience had taught him that in no time at all this gruesome scene would be discovered, and he had no desire to be present for that. But first, he knelt down to eye level with the little girl, though he was careful to move no closer.
   "Right now, you've got some powerful emotions rolling through you, and understand that I know exactly how you feel. Which is why I won't apologize for what I did, but for the fact that you had to see it. For that, I am truly sorry. The name for the desire you're feeling is called vengeance, and it can be a potent and terrible thing. It can empower you, push you farther then you thought you could achieve. But at the same time, it will eat away at you, and leave you a hollow shell capable of only one task. That being said, if you get older and you still feel the way you do now, you find me, and we will lay things to rest." By this time, the man in the blue mask was halfway out the window he had entered from. He was about to leave, but something stopped him, and he turned to face her once more. His voice was hushed and a little sad.
   "Just . . . try to remember. Tonight I saved your life."
   And with that, he was gone, vanished into the night. The girl stood there for an eternity, unmoving except for the heavy rise and fall of her shoulders. When the authorities finally came, they found her still in the doorway. She was unharmed, but as they came upon her, the knife was still gripped in her hands, white knuckle tight.

Reviews

[Montilee Stormer]

Minor typos, but my goodness you have a flair for the action slice of life story. Everything leaves the reader wanting more.

I've got nothing to critique.

Sorry

*grin*