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>Some time ago, I was confronted with a contract to terminate a known Ukrainian War Criminal-- Anna Yarema. The Client hinted that she was hiding in the southern US, somewhere between Florida and South Carolina. It didn’t take me very long to track financial records from the National Bank of Ukraine and follow 8.3 million hryvnia that had been stolen from the Canadian Bank Note Company a few years prior. The contractor also provided me with computer screenshots that displayed a paper trail of financial exchanges where she could convert her money into US dollars-- $314,000. Not much, but it was enough for INTERPOL to take notice, and latch onto this case. They were calling for the US to find and extradite her, but my handlers had other plans.

>“Under no circumstances is she allowed to be apprehended.”

>The phrase repeated itself in my head a thousand times as I committed her address to memory as I left the airport.

>“She is to be eliminated and made to appear like an accident. If she is allowed her day in court, she will undermine the work of this organization. This cannot be allowed under any circumstances.”

>Every instruction seemed to latch to the front of my mind as I drove in the dark summer rain from Florida to the last known address of the target- A dingy apartment complex in Hinesville, Georgia.

>I followed the GPS to the exact location and just outside her building, I staked out. I brought a camera to take pictures of Anna when she would appear to go to and from work, taking out the garbage, standing outside the porch topless at 2AM, anything with her face, I snapped a photograph. None of them were close enough to confirm that it was her. Her facial scar that crossed from the inside corner of her right eye, diagonally across the bridge of her nose, stopping just at the inner edge of her left cheek, beside the nose and above the lip. It wasn’t large, but it was noticeable, the skin had darkened and swelled up there-- a dueling scar, no doubt.

>The lack of any other scarring on her face noted that she was adept with bladed weapons-- a trademark she made known when she was supervising the POW camp outside of Roman-Kosh, near the Stilya river. She had taken prisoners and subjected them to suffer lingchi- Death by a thousand cuts via rapier. Evidence noted that she was capable of horrendous torture, when she was allowed. Otherwise, she would kill most of her victims by hanging. Dozens of victims of nondescript origin, gender or ethnicity-- died by her hand.

>I figured the best course of action to ensure a positive I.D. was to stalk her, follow her to her school, and get as close as possible. I couldn’t just park at the elementary, but the construction site down the road left plenty of room open for me to park and make a casual walk at the end of the school day to catch a glimpse of Anna “The Cleaver”.

>As the moment arrived, I took my walk, a picture of Anna in my hand to confirm her identity, obscured by the front of a novelized version of Macbeth. As I walked across the front courtyard of the school, the students stood in lines, waiting for their busses to arrive. I caught a woman kneeling in front of a small child, no older than five or six. As he wept, he kept telling her “I don’t want to go home yet, Miss Mallard, I want to stay here with you!” He cried. She comforted him with a hug and a gentle pat on his head, she would whisper comfort to him as I stared at the photograph. Is this the woman? The same war criminal capable of killing so many innocent lives, cutting them to ribbons and hanging them from the limbs of trees in the Crimean wilderness?

>Then her gaze caught mine, as she turned her head to face me. The scar lined up perfectly with the photograph, even the depth of her gaze matched as she looked deep into my soul.

>She smiled. Slowly, she’d stand up and let the boy leave as she approached me, her brown apron covering the conservative dress she wore underneath.

>“You look lost, sir. May I help you with directions?” She asked me this in the sweetest tone of voice, as if the picture was simply a formality.

>"No,” I said, clearly taken aback at first with her frankness. “I think I’m right where I’m supposed to be...This is the middle school isn’t it?” She gave a soft laugh and shook her head, pointing to the south along the road, as a convoy of yellow school busses appeared from around the bend.

>“Next block down is the middle school--I could show you, if you’d like. You’d have to give me a moment to lock up my classroom so I can help you,“ She said quietly, an offer I really couldn’t refuse-- If I said no, and went back to my car, she’d disappear forever. But following her would open me up to attack, and I was supposed to make this look like an accident; so you could see my predicament as she was luring me back into what was clearly a trap, at least I perceived it as such.

>I reluctantly agreed.

This is awesome.

>As we walked into the school, past the lobby, the teacher’s lounge, into the wing where her office was, she suddenly picked up a conversation with me.

>“You been around these parts before?” she asked, the sway of her hips caught my attention for a moment as we rounded the corner.

>“I can’t say that I have, but it’s quite lively...has it always been like this?” A long pause as Anna thought of what to say next as she stopped at the door to her classroom, fishing a large keychain out from her apron as she walked inside.

>“You can come in...and we can sit. Nobody’s going to disturb us for the moment...” She motioned for me to enter, and I did so, walking up to her desk to see the dozens of activity papers and pictures of smiling students; cheerful and proud was the look on her face in every photo. But the scar and those distant eyes never left her face. Not once.

>She closed the door behind her, and she walked to her desk, taking a seat in her chair, her hands splayed open across the table, revealing she had no weapon. There I stood, beside her desk, before I pulled the photograph from the book cover and placed it in front of her.

>“Anna Yarema...” I trailed off for a moment as she studied the photograph. “This is you, correct?”

>“Yes.” There was no doubt in that answer as she gently touched the photograph. “I was so young then...I suppose you’ve come to kill me...it’d explain why an adult would come here, not looking for a child, but a woman...” She then undid the apron and revealed the red blouse and black skirt she was wearing underneath as she sighed quietly, crossing her fingers together, as if she was starting to pray. I took a moment and reached into my suit jacket and pulled out a small metal case, placing it in front of her. She would take a moment, before reaching to the case and opening it, revealing a few capsules of Cyanide. She nodded, accepting the reality of her situation, as she turned to face me for a moment.

>“I have a request,” She said. I tilted my head slightly, encouraging her to continue with her query. “...If I am going to die here, I would like to at least be given a proper good-bye.” I hesitated for a moment, unsure of what she was referring to, but after a moment, she smiled and motioned me to come closer. As I did, she leaned up and gave my lips a gentle kiss as she lingered on the lips for a moment, a smile pressed against my own bemused expression. With that, she reached for the cyanide and placed it in her mouth.

>“A shame I’ll never have children,” She said, before biting into the pill. She leaned against my thigh as she tried to maintain her posture, before suddenly falling forward, striking her forehead against the edge of her desk, her twitching body choking and hacking up spittle as her legs seized against the laminate floor, her death rattle apparent. As her body finally stopped fighting the embrace of death, I slowly knelt down and rolled her over onto her back so I could take her final picture. I softened her gaze by closing her eyelids slightly and angling her so that the photograph of her at the POW camp was right next to her face, scar and all.

>I then snapped the photo.

>"I have to go now Gretel" She said stroking the little boys hair. The agent was tapping his feet impatiently as he stood by the car.

> "Nooooooooo!" The little boy

> "Trust me. When you get older. When your little hands become big and strong. You will understand why Ms. Wolffen has to leave. I just hope the love I left with you al is enough to make you understand."

>"But I dont want you to leave! I want you to be here with us forever!" The little boy cried some more.

>"Please dont go Ms Wulffen!" Sara hugged her from behind with a sob. Tristan the youngest was too broken up by the news that she was leaving to even face her. The poor child was bawling his eyes out. She had been one of the few caregivers at the orphanage who had been genuinely kind to them.

>"The world isn't always a fair place little ones. Not to people like me certainly." She said with a smile. "I will miss you as much as you will miss me. She hugged the children one last time each.

>Sara the clingiest of them refused to let go of her embrace of her favorite teacher, and another orphanage caregiver had to come in and pull her away. She kicked and screamed as her mother in all but blood was put in cuffs and escorted across the street to a long dark car surrounded by several tanned men in military uniforms. She could see the children crying as she looked through the window when they drove away.

>On of the Pashraeli agent that sat across from her in the limo said staring at her with an expression of loathing. He wished with all his heart someone, anyone other than him would pull out a gun and end her. Merely being in the same vehicle as this woman made him physically ill. He remembered when he first saw her through the barbed wire of the camp at Tomilitz as she marched his grandmother up the stairs to death by chicken wire.

>"For what it's worth, *Shuden*" She said with a twist of resentment in her voice and a little bit of hatred left in her towards the tan man and what he represented. "I never enjoyed it."

>"I'm sure all the Pashraelis at your camp would disagree. Barya the butcher." He said, barely keeping himself from flying off the handle.

>She smiled trying to bury her genuine terror and sorrow underneath an expression of joy. "Did I kill someone you know?"

>The agent slapped her with the back of his hand so hard she tasted blood. The other agents didn't even flinch as he did so.

>"One more word 'Miss Wulffen" He said grimacing, and you wont even make it to Pashrael alive. Don't expect you coming along of your own free will to change anything. You're going to burn for what you did."

>He slowly pulled off his white glove to show the number burned into his palm. "and this time, we're the ones holding the branding iron."

bumped

Niggaz iffy, uh
Blicky got the stuffy, uh.

WTF it was so good why did you have to ruined with this cheesy suicide and request bullshit?