Chapter 87: Arthur's Assassin Code
Rule #1 of Arthur's Assassin Code:
No amount of background investigation is ever too much before engaging the target.
That's why, before making a move on the cult leader—even after the agency laid out every scrap of intel in front of him—Arthur still took the time to verify each and every detail on his own. He left no room for error.
Rule #2:
Every mission must be backed by a meticulous plan. But when the plan falls apart and chaos takes over, improvisation becomes the new plan.
And that's exactly how Arthur operated. After eliminating the target, his escape was delayed. When one of the guards was about to spot him while adjusting a mirror, Arthur didn't hesitate—he raised his gun and blew the man's brains out.
Rule #3:
Before any assassination plan is put in motion, a more thorough escape plan must be in place. And the best escape plan? Split up.
That's why, right now, Arthur sat calmly in the departure lounge of Ontario International Airport, clutching a freshly acquired passport and waiting for a connecting flight to the UK.
The passport identified him as a mechanical engineer. The name? Irrelevant. It belonged to someone who never existed. But the document was completely legitimate—flawless even under scrutiny. Even the police wouldn't find a single red flag. After all, it was obtained through entirely "official" channels.
In America—the heartland of capitalism—if you've got money, nothing is impossible.
Sitting in a terminal lounge chair, sipping his coffee, Arthur pondered one lingering mystery from the mission:
Who was the sniper that had his back during the hit?
Another assassin hired to eliminate the cult leader? Unlikely. The underground world of contract killing has strict rules. Once a hit is assigned, no second assassin is dispatched—unless the first one fails.
Then perhaps it was a rival organization acting on its own? That sort of thing happens all the time in the underground—but not this time.
Why? Refer back to Rule #2. During his initial recon, Arthur had investigated all of the cult leader's known enemies. Sure, there were others besides the client who had beef with him, but their resources were a joke. Hell, most of them could barely afford the fee Arthur charged.
And Arthur wasn't just any assassin. He was one of the agency's top-tier assets—a marquee name. His fees were steep, far beyond what common grudge-holders could pay.
Still deep in thought, Arthur was pulled from his internal monologue by the arrival of a tall man walking into the lounge. There was something theatrical in the way he moved—too poised, too polished. A classic pompous Brit, Arthur thought. The kind who'd get mugged with a crowbar if he strutted like that down the wrong street at night.
But he also knew: guys like that never walked the streets of nighttime Los Angeles alone.
Why? Because Arthur had recognized the man's suit—specifically, the brand. It came from one of the most exclusive royal tailoring houses in the UK. The kind of place that carried a royal warrant and did only bespoke work for private clients.
Arthur's eyes narrowed.
This wasn't just some arrogant traveler.
Something was about to happen.
A suit like that? It usually ran upwards of a hundred grand. Not the kind of thing you picked off a rack—it was luxury tailored for the ultra-wealthy. Arthur had only ever seen it on a handful of high-value targets.
The sharply dressed man strolled casually across the departure hall, stopping right in front of Arthur. With a crisp, posh British accent, he asked:
"Good afternoon, my dear friend. May I have the seat next to you?"
He didn't say much, but everything about his tone and posture screamed aristocracy. It made Arthur instinctively uncomfortable. The waiting area still had plenty of empty seats, but not wanting to draw attention by seeming unfriendly, Arthur begrudgingly slid over to make room.
"Much appreciated, truly," the man said warmly. "I'm Ron."
Ron extended a hand as he introduced himself, chin lifted with exaggerated elegance, fingers dangling ever so slightly—like he was bestowing Arthur with the honor of a handshake.
"I had no choice but to sit with you," he continued, his voice playful. "The American ladies around here are far too affectionate. If I sat over there, they'd eat me alive."
He winked in the direction of a group of giggling young women across the hall, who responded with a volley of flirtatious air-kisses.
Arthur ignored his hand. He had no intention of touching him. That pompous handshake posture was just begging for a punch in the face.
"You could always sit with those Black gentlemen over there," Arthur muttered coldly.
Ron chuckled and shook his head. "No, no, no. Those lads look far too friendly—like stand-up comedians, really. No, I'd rather sit next to you. If I may say so, you don't look like a very nice man."
That last remark made Arthur's blood pressure spike. It took everything in him not to snap the man's neck on the spot. He might not have a weapon on hand, but as a professional killer, Arthur had a thousand ways to take out a smug Brit who clearly had more show muscle than skill.
He kept his head down, saying nothing. But the man didn't take the hint.
"I'm a businessman," Ron went on cheerfully, "traveling frequently between the UK and the States. Mainly in the whisky trade. You've probably tasted one of my bottles. Shame I'm rushing back to London today—and my bodyguards happen to be on vacation. What line of work are you in?"
Arthur gritted his teeth. He said nothing, just stood up and moved one seat over. With annoying people like this, a little distancing was perfectly reasonable—and wouldn't raise suspicion.
But Ron was like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe. The moment Arthur slid over, he followed suit and sat right beside him again.
Arthur shot him a deadly glare.
Ron, ever the picture of polite British civility, just smiled back with the same irritatingly warm expression.
Then, with no regard for Arthur's icy warning, Ron leaned in close—too close. Close enough for their heads to seem conspiratorially bowed. And in a hushed tone only the two of them could hear, he said:
"I'm guessing you're a hitman, aren't you?"
Arthur's nerves flared like a tripwire had gone off. Inside his pocket, his fingers curled tightly into a fist. If Ron made one wrong move, Arthur would strike. Fast, lethal, no hesitation.
But outwardly, he remained composed.
"Sir," Arthur said coldly, "I have no idea what you're talking about. Please stop harassing me. If you continue, I'll call airport security."
Ron just smiled wider.
"Feel free to do so, Mr. Richard Smith," he said smugly. "That is the alias you're using this time, isn't it?"
Arthur's heart skipped a beat.
"You're a genius, and I don't say that lightly," Ron continued. "Each year, you live under that name for a while at a small farm in Orange County, right? Even the old lady next door remembers you fondly. If the cops came asking, she'd swear on her life that you're a hardworking man with a good heart. Not a single hole in your cover."
Arthur's eyes narrowed.
Ron's smile stayed plastered in place, but every word made Arthur's skin crawl.
And in that moment, Arthur knew—this man wasn't just some chatty idiot.
He was dangerous.
And he knew far, far too much.