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FOX Academy:

Book I - The New Breed

Book II - The Werewolf of Odessa

The Werewolf of Odessa - Chapter 2 - The Perfect Stalker

The assassin reclined in a lounge chair by his pool, basking in the sun after his daily swim, reviewing his last job. It was his habit to critique each job when he returned home. He analyzed what had worked well or better than planned, what had not and what could be improved next time. It was one of the reasons that he was 'The Perfect Stalker', the only independent assassin in the world with a perfect record.

The title had not been sought, nor had it come easy, but after a client had used the term in a reference it had stuck. He specialized in the more difficult assassinations, where the targets were inaccessible, well protected or hidden. He also committed the act in accordance to the client's wishes, quietly to simulate a natural death or publicly to send a message to others. The message was usually "no-one is unreachable". His reputation had grown so much that several deaths from natural causes were being attributed to him.

Of course there had been imitators, and he had had to deal with them in order to maintain his reputation. After killing two of them in a very spectacular fashion the rest stopped, although occasionally someone would claim to have been trained by him, but they weren't worth the effort of tracking down.

His previous job had involved the CEO of a large and wealthy cooperation that had made much of its profits through partnerships with less savoury organizations needing to have their money legitimized. When the FBI had moved in he had been given the option of 25 years in jail with a psychotic roommate or testifying and witness protection. He had chosen to testify, unwisely as it turned out. His former partners had hired the Stalker to prevent that, and to do so in such a manner as to discourage others in the future.

The problem had been particularly tricky, the degree of isolation unusually high. The target lived in a compound in a newer part of town, where cables and phone lines were buried, and on a hill, so there no vantage point to shoot into the compound. The sewers and conduit were gated and monitored, so there was no approach there. US Marshals had replaced the compound staff, and there wasn't enough time to bribe one of them. The target's family had left him long ago, so they couldn't be used to get close to him. Air restrictions were in place, so anything larger than a model plane would be detected and reacted to. The stalker could have lobbed a bomb into the house, but bombs were too uncertain, and he prided himself on his ability to take out the target, and only the target. Bombs also lacked finesse.

So the Stalker had begun to research the target. He used on-line municipal information and satellite images to generate a three-dimensional model of the target site. He programmed his 3-D model with real-world weather and physics; a five-pound brick thrown from a car going 30 mph would fly as far and hit as hard in the model as it would in real life.

Articles from business journals noted that the target was a champion swimmer in university, and a former Olympic contender. He still swam a hundred laps a day in a specially constructed salt-water pool, despite having a pacemaker fitted five years ago. Snippets from gossip magazines noted that his wife had left, amongst other things, due to his strict control of their lives; everything was scheduled: rise at 6:00 am, work from 7:00 to 11:00, swim from 11:00 to 12:00 and so forth. He was also very possessive; the pool was for his use only, no one else, including his family, was allowed in. The seed of a plan had begun to germinate.

The Stalker had considered his options. An underground approach would take too long. Ground level was feasible but risky with all the Marshals about. An air approach was easiest, but that meant size and weight limitations.

He had looked at target access. He was staying put in his compound for the most part, the prosecutors were coming to him for the final witness preparations. If he was going out it was not in any of his cars, but hidden in a US Marshall's car, so there was no way of identifying the vehicle or route beforehand. His only hobby was swimming, and the only time he ventured outdoors was to use the pool.

Some more research and a few phone calls confirmed that the pool service had been suspended since the US Marshals moved in. He had briefly considered turning the pool water into a super-saturated solution, one that would crystallize and suffocate the target when he dove in, but abandoned the idea; it would have been spectacular but logistically impossible without direct access.

He had turned to other avenues, running several lines of enquiry simultaneously on the Internet. The pacemaker the target wore was susceptible to certain electro-magnetic fields, but built to withstand 300 times the shock delivered by a Taser; the problem was the low amperage delivered. The Stalker opened a line of research on electrical engineering and discovered that amperage could be adjusted. Back to the pacemaker specs for the danger levels, over to a chemistry site for the electric dissipation properties of salt water. After a few calculations he knew how much power he had to deliver, but how to do it?

More research had ensued. The municipal plans were reviewed. He had contacted the local power company, for digging advice but there were no lines near the pool. The Stalker had researched generators, batteries and transformers, and then he had come to capacitors.

He determined that what he needed was a low-inductance, high-voltage, ultracapacitor suitable for delivering a pulse charge, but was there one available commercially? Those designed for radars, particle accelerators, pulse lasers and nuclear weapons were out, their sales were restricted, but they had other uses. He discovered that diesel locomotives, tanks and some big-rig trucks used them as engine starting aids, and lately, electric cars were using them to recover braking power.

Another line of research had led him to a company that made the devices for the electric car industry. They advertised one capacitor at 3000 farads that was the size and weight of a coffee can. He would need to convert the current but that was no problem. A quick check on the load capacity of a popular model aircraft and he was ready. Using a fake electric car research institute at a fictional college in a city near the target as cover he placed his order. While he waited, he ran scenarios through the 3-D model of the target site.

All that had remained was to move into the area and find a good spot to operate from. Again, the map and satellite image services available free on the Internet served to narrow the search. Once in location he rented the facilities he required and had the components he needed delivered. Tools and other sundries he bought second hand, to be dumped in recycle bins after use.

As a final precaution, he had advertised a contest in the local newspaper to promote the opening of a hobby store that did not, and never would, exist. The prizes were remote-controlled model aircraft. Again using the Internet map features the Stalker sent several aircraft to applicants in the target's neighbourhood. For a week before he arrived in town the neighbourhood was buzzing with model aircraft, and the Marshals were conditioned to their sound and presence by the time the Stalker began his own practice flights.

Two days before the trail was due to start there was no wind and clear skies, so the Stalker had changed the dummy package on his aircraft for the device had constructed in a rented garage. At 11:00 sharp it had lifted off from a neighbourhood park across the river from the target residence. The Stalker navigated with the small low-resolution camera that he had attached to the device, data-linked back to the aircraft remote control's display window. At 11:07 he had confirmed that there was someone in the pool at the target residence, as well as three others in tactical gear around it. At 11:09 he had set the aircraft into a dive, releasing the device when the pool filled the image window, as he had practised in the 3-D model, and pulled the aircraft back level, where he could monitor the results.

The device had dropped in a slight arc to land almost on top of the target, not that it mattered. When it hit the water the circuit was completed and it discharged 3000 farads of potential power all at once into the salt water at an amperage and voltage twice that required to fry anyone's heart, pacemaker or not. The target's limbs had shot straight out and water had foamed as he went into a series of spasms. By the time the first marshal had jumped in to assist the charge was dissipated and the body was sinking. The Stalker flew the aircraft into the river where it would be washed out to sea.

A tip off to a local gossip reporter known for covering gruesome events was all that remained to ensure that the grizzly results were duly reported. The Stalker was on bus to another city within an hour and on a plane out of the country that night.

For weeks afterwards the Stalker monitored the local papers and the police network, courtesy of a borrowed Interpol Internet account ID. Someone came to the conclusion that the device was delivered by air, but it was days later before any witnesses were found who recalled seeing or hearing an aircraft in the area. Two of his contest 'winners' were interviewed and the ad was discovered to be fake, but the trail ended there. All addresses, credit card numbers, invoices and phone numbers associated with the purchase of the identifiable components were checked and found to be false. The investigation was going nowhere, and the trial was cancelled for lack of a star witness.

All in all, the Stalker was satisfied with the operation. It had come in on time and under budget while exposing him to minimal risk. He had not needed to use a single one of his back-up strategies. It was time to collect his fee and launder the money.

He left the pool and walked to the house. It was modest bungalow in a small town a short drive outside a major city, one he refused to accept contracts in. He lived alone, doing his own housework and repairs, cleaning his pool and cutting his lawn. When he wanted sexual companionship he went into the city and rented a hotel room and an escort with one of his many false identities. He kept to himself at home. His neighbours thought that he was a consultant, and suspected that he was a sexual deviant.

They were wrong on both counts. Indeed, the Stalker never felt the need for social intercourse and seldom felt the need for the sexual variety. He was a bit of a prude actually. Although his house was surrounded by 12-foot, solid walls he still wore a bathing suit and often a robe to walk back and forth to the pool. He never left his bedroom naked and even closed the drapes and turned off the light before changing into pyjamas. He had been this way since growing up in a small house with a large family; a painfully shy and awkward boy, his mother had thought that he would never come out of his shell.

In the centre of his finished basement there was a single room, isolated from the rest of the world both physically and electronically. There were no windows and only the padded airtight door. The vents were baffled, the power and Internet cables shielded and filtered. Inside the room was his main work environment, a server with its own display and input devices, always the latest available.

He sat in a leather reclining chair built especially for him and attached the controllers. Each digit, each appendage, had its own motion sensor and feedback interface. A visor provided 360-degree views and surround sound. Settling in, he activated the sequence that would route his Internet connection through a number of proxy servers and anonymizers on a fast-flux network he helped financially. His destination was the virtual world known as Tilia Life.

Tilia Life had been established by those who found even the other virtual worlds too restrictive and tiresome. It was a haven for the high-tech underworld as a place to do business, transfer money and rip-off the unsuspecting and innocent. The currency, the Tilia dollar, was fixed at 1:1 with the Euro. The main industries, aside from banking, catered to the baser instincts; brothels, gambling houses, car dealerships. 'Gold Miners', companies that employed cheap labour to build up experience points and other virtual assets were rife. The Stalker rented his avatar out to one such company when he was not occupying it.

As usual The Stalker entered the world his avatar occupied slowly; he never knew what he would find himself doing and the shock of entering too quickly could be nasty. As the image faded in he found that he was on a Pony. The Pony was female, on her back and naked. The Stalker was not surprised to find that he was fucking her. Lao Huidan, the Gold Miner, panderer and pimp that he contracted with, had whored his avatar out again.

The Stalker examined the Pony. She had a short white coat and a brown face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open, gasping. Her breasts were large, with small pink nipples, and they bounced as his thrusts drove home. He could see and feel his orange and black striped paws on her shoulders, her arms twined wound around his. She tossed her head and moaned. She seemed to enjoying the sex, but he had not attached the appropriate feedback pads, so all he could do was observe.

He looked down, past his massive chest muscles and the rippled abdomen. He had her over the back of an overturned sofa, her hips higher than her head. Her long, slim legs were folded and pressing against his sides, her hoofs in the hollows of his hips. His penis, orange-red in its swollen state, slid in and out of her as his furry balls bounced behind. Her vagina was open like a flower in spring, glistening with moisture like the morning dew, pink and flushed and alive.

He watched for a while, holding himself back from taking full control, letting Lao Huidan or one of his employees drive for the time being. It was no secret in Tilia Life that the large tiger that lived at Lao Huidan's was The Perfect Stalker, and the citizens of the other worlds, real and virtual, paid a premium to be screwed by his avatar, always boasting that the Stalker himself was in it at the time, although it was hardly ever true. He allowed the practice with a few restrictions; he didn't want his reputation as a ruthless killer being ruined by allowing his avatar to do just anything.

Whoever was driving his avatar today was taking full advantage of the stamina and durability that the Stalker had equipped it with. A full five minutes had passed and the tiger's penis still pumped with amazing regularity, pulling out until the tip brushed the Pony's clit then plunging its substantial length back inside her. He wondered if the little barbs below the head were deployed. They could cause considerable discomfort to smaller animals, but some came just for that. He giggled at his unintentional pun.

The Pony was nearing the end, tongue lolling, head whipping back and forth, hips rocking to meet his thrusts. He felt his body lean farther down to lay against her, allowing him to let his great weight drive his cock in deeper. He was licking her breasts, nipping her nipples. He almost wished that he could feel what was happening below his waistline. He looked back to see what the rest of him was up to, and flared into a rage.

There was a Lemur on his ass! The primate was clamped to his rear, hands and feet clutching fur, its hips pounding madly, a look of ecstasy on its face. The Stalker's tail was clenched in its mouth, held up out of the way. The stalker felt nothing, no feedback device there today either, thank God for small favours.

He snapped into full control and reared up. With a roar he knocked the lemur across the room. The Pony still lay head down against the back of the sofa, cunt and arms wide open, both beckoning him to return. He pulled the sofa from under her and raised it above his head, ready to smash her where she lay; then he remembered where he was. He flung the sofa at the wall, it was no use taking it out on someone's avatar, it was Lao Huidan he wanted; but he did have a reputation to maintain.

He reached down and grabbed the Pony by the throat, letting his claws sink in a bit. Pleased with the sudden look of fear on its face he roared, barring his long fangs and blasting her with his hot breath. He cocked his other arm back and swiped at her, pulling the claws back in at the last second so that he merely knocked her flying, to land beside the Lemur. He took two steps toward them and froze; both were masturbating furiously on the floor, their eyes fixed on his crotch. He looked down to see his still erect red and orange penis swaying back and forth before them.

"God George," a distinctly male voice issuing from the Pony wavered, "This is even better than Huidan promised"

Why do I even bother, the Stalker thought, his anger deflating. I should just park myself in a locked room when I'm not here. He left them as they came, seeking Lao Huidan.

He found Lao in the main bar. Someone had tipped him off, probably whoever had been driving his avatar before he lost it, because the old Monkey was already making excuses as the Stalker approached.

"Now Stalker, don't blame me. That Lemur was only supposed to watch, not participate." The Stalker picked him up by the neck, to no effect; Lao wasn't stupid enough to link his avatar's pain sensors to his real body. Lao continued, "Besides, we get to keep their 'good behaviour' deposit now, we split 50-50 eh? Eh?"

The Stalker put him down. "Guess what Lao. I know that your real name in the real world is also Lao Huidan, 'the Old Bastard'. I know that you live in the Jade Tower building in Singapore. I know which suite, which floor, which room, everything."

The avatar's expression did not change but the pause told the Stalker that he had gotten through to Lao. After what seemed like several minutes, but was probably less than one, Lao spoke again.

"What do you want Stalker? This place? A bigger piece of the action? Anything. I'll make sure that it never happens again. I'll gut the guy who was handling your avatar and hang his intestines off my balcony if you want. I'll cut off one of my feet if you want. Anything Stalker; just don't kill me, okay?"

The Stalker considered his options. Lao was a bastard but he was convenient too. His public display of penitence at the bar must have cost him a lot of respect, considering his position in the underworld. Killing him would be difficult, expensive and create enemies he didn't need; but he had to maintain his reputation.

"Don't kill your man, just send me his name and tell him I'm coming. Let him go with enough funds to disappear for life if he's frugal. I'll mail his intestines back to you by Christmas and keep whatever he hasn't spent." That should take care of the reputation. "Let's go in back. I have some business to attend to." He turned and headed for Lao's office, one of the places where he regularly conducted business in Tilia Life.

The door to the room was actually a link to another system, more secure than Tilia Life's servers. It was sparsely appointed, with only two wooden chairs and a plain metal desk with a computer, which represented a link through another fast-flux network that connected Lao to his banking network. Lao followed the Stalker into the room and activated the link for him.

The Stalker navigated to his account and entered his pass code. He didn't try to hide it, Lao knew better than to touch his client's money. He verified that the agreed amount had been deposited upon completion. He initiated a transfer sequence that would filter the funds through one of Lao's gaming sites, through a bank in another virtual world, back to this one under another name and finally to a bank in the real world. There he would filter and move it again until it was safely laundered and deposited in a dozen proxy accounts on a reputable on-line bank. Roughly fifty percent of the funds would be lost to 'administrative fees' in the process, but that was the price one had to pay for security.

"Mind if I check my e-mail while I'm here?" He asked Lao.

"Sure, feel free."

The Stalker went to the mailbox he used for contacting clients. There was a Thank-you note from the last client; the Stalker appreciated these polite little gestures. There was another message, asking for a meeting.

This was the usual protocol. His e-mail address was easy enough to find for those with the right connections or enough money. Various police agencies were sure to be monitoring it, so most contracts were negotiated here in Tilia Life. Lao, or another of the Stalkers associates, would verify the client before leading them through a series of rooms like this one to talk with the Stalker. The process was solely to prevent an official agency from tracing the Stalker through his avatar. He replied with instructions for the meeting, exited the account and closed the link.

"Now Lao," He said turning to the old Monkey, "Let's go over the books shall we?"

* * * * * * * *

The client was waiting in the lobby of one of Lao's Tilia brothels at the appointed time. His avatar was a Sheep, and poorly rendered, obviously a free one from the guest selection of the new accounts section. It moved clumsily, indicating a novice with rudimentary control devices at the helm. He had been warned that he would have to wait while they verified him, and he spent the time practising walking and sitting.

There was a steady stream of traffic through the lobby. Clients for the brothel arrived and were seated by a statuesque bunny wearing what resembled a see-through handkerchief. Those with appointments were soon directed to a specific room. Others sat through a parade of available service providers, a sleek Siamese in a silk sarong, a plump panda, a male Lion in a loincloth. Lao catered to any and all tastes.

Finally the hostess called the Sheep forward and told him to proceed to room 5, the third door on the left. He went inside to find an old Monkey waiting for him.

"I am Lao, Lao Huidan." the Monkey introduced himself. "Follow me."

They left through a door at the rear of the room. The area they entered was a plain brown box.

"You may experience some temporary loss of connection with your avatar. If you check out okay it should return within a minute." The Monkey advised.

The sheep felt the room spin, felt nothing for a few seconds then he was back in contact. Lao led him back through the door, which now opened onto a short hallway with another door at the far end. In the room there they repeated the screening process. Another hall, another room, through another door and finally they were in a comfortable salon, equipped with music, a bar and several comfortable looking chairs.

"Sit here." Lao indicated a chair. "The Perfect Stalker will be with you shortly."

Several minutes later, during which he could feel the connection between him and his avatar being tested again, a large Tiger entered the room and walked over to the bar. The Sheep stood awkwardly.

"I am The Perfect Stalker. Would you care for a drink?" He waved a paw at the bar.

"No. Thank you. I don't think that I could handle one."

"Yes, you are very new to this, aren't you? That's a good sign; usually the police send the more experienced Internet cruisers after me. How would you like to be addressed?"

"Call me the Werewolf, if you please. Now that we are here I assume that there is no sense trying to hide my real identity?"

"No, there isn't." The Tiger poured himself a glass of wine and sipped it. "I note that you are a Wolf in the real world; a Wolf in Sheep's clothing?" He gestured at the Werewolf's avatar.

"I thought that it would be inconspicuous."

"Best be careful. In this world the form of your avatar is used to indicate your desired personality or the perversions that you are seeking. A Sheep wandering out alone is likely to be set upon and gang-raped by a pack of Wolves, or eaten by a Tiger." He launched a mock lunge at the Sheep.

The Werewolf didn't flinch, whether from lack of fear or lack of control over the avatar the Stalker didn't know. He decided to get down to business.

"So, you wish to kill whom?" The Werewolf handed over a file. The Stalker settled into a chair and began to read. After half an hour of reading, flipping back and forth to compare facts, he put the file down on a low table beside him.

"Not my usual sort of target. I usually try to avoid these types, and your background information is very thin." He stared unblinking at the Sheep.

"I do not hear a refusal. You will take the job?"

"For a million Euros, yes. Half up front, half on completion."

"That is very expensive. I hear that you did your last job for half that, and this target is not even in hiding."

"If he was easy to kill then you could do it yourself. He is not hiding but his location is not known either, other than the city. He is not being protected but he is his own protection. Killing him will be challenging, and dangerous. The backlash may even force me into retirement. No, one million Euros or nothing."

"Alright, one million, but the whole amount on completion only. Its only fair; if you fail I will either be dead or unable to pay, and equally unable to get my deposit back." The Werewolf paused. "I'll throw in a bonus, one hundred thousand for each of his colleges that you kill also. There are three of them listed in that file. If you kill them all they won't be able to come after you and you'll get paid for it."

The Stalker picked up the file and looked through it again. He was only putting on a show of reticence however, he had decided to take the job the instant he had finished reading the dossier. Yes, this job would be challenging and dangerous, and for that alone he would have done it for free; as he had stated, one million or nothing. The boost to his reputation alone would add another fifty percent to his fee. He put the file down again and sat back, smiling as he sipped his wine.

"We have a deal. What do you call this fellow again?"

"Silver, they call him Silver."

The Perfect Stalker savoured the word, "Sssilllver."