The Target

My mind flashed to the president, but I quickly toned my thinking down to people I might actually have access to and thought of my boss, then his boss, then, I'm sorry to say, I thought of The Asshole and the pompous bastards he moved with.

Before I could ask, he continued, “Not to worry, it's no one you know, yet. Furthermore, it's not even one of your countrymen.”

Now thoroughly confused, I asked, “Who is it?”

“A man known as the Khan.”

“Okay, why?”

“He's become a problem and I want him removed.”

“I'm not an assassin, why does this involve me?”

“Because, Miss Alex, only a vampire can get close to him.”

“So shoot him instead,” I responded.

The voice on the line chuckled, “No, Miss Alex, his death needs to send a message.”

“Try a billboard,” I grumbled quietly.

“But first, I need to know about your condition. I've arranged for the underground apartment you're in. I will also arrange for your dietary requirements, once I know your needs.”

“Coffee,” my mouth says, before I can think better.

“Ah, so you aren't limited to a hemorrhagic diet; do you consume food as well?”

“Yes, but coffee first. Then, maybe some toast or a bowl of cereal—wheat Chex, if you have it.”

“I'll see what I can do. How often will you need blood and does it need to be ‘fresh from the vein’, so to speak?”

“I… don't know. A little every day is good or maybe a lot every couple days—more than once a week,” I add as my newfound addiction stirs in my mind. “And it doesn't need to be directly from the body,” and I add as an afterthought, “so long as the donor's still alive,”

“Interesting. The blood will be available by sundown. The coffee will be delivered sooner; please don't eat the maid who delivers it. As for your mission, there are instructions in a box on the table. Goodbye, Miss Alex.”