WET WORK

A Final Mercy for a Killer

Elías Markov sat in the sterile flat he had rented in London, the faint hum of traffic a distant reminder of the world he had mastered from the shadows. On the table before him lay the dossier: a photograph of a six-year-old girl with auburn curls and bright eyes. Lydia Hammond. The target. Killing the daughter of the British Foreign Minister would weaken his resolve and dismantle the alliance to support Ukraine, and would line Elías’s pockets with ten million Euros — enough to finally retire and buy the vineyard near Seville he had dreamed of for years.

Yet, something in him resisted.

For two decades, Elías had perfected the art of detachment. A highly paid contractor in the clandestine world of wet work, he justified every kill with his own twisted Gnostic philosophy: This life is a cruel illusion; I am their liberator. He had killed men and women, criminals and innocents, all with the same cold precision. But this was the first time he had been tasked with killing a child.

His hand trembled as he lifted Lydia’s photograph. She was the same age as his daughter, Sofia, had been when she and his wife were killed.

Elías had buried that memory so deep it had become almost a myth. Sofia’s laughter, his wife’s soft touch — it had all been erased in an instant by a car bomb meant to silence Elías. A job gone wrong, a warning from the client to tie up loose ends.

The client… the client!

The realization hit him like a thunder bolt. The man who had hired him to kill Lydia was the same billionaire who had killed his family. Charles Whitmore, a shadowy oligarch whose wealth and influence extended beyond borders. Whitmore had been careful to keep his hands clean, outsourcing his dirty work to men like Elías, but his cruelty had no limits.

For years, Elías had compartmentalized that knowledge, burying his anger beneath layers of denial. Killing for Whitmore had been his way of surviving, of ensuring his continued existence in the wake of unimaginable loss. But now, faced with Lydia’s photograph, the walls of his carefully constructed detachment crumbled.

The gala was held in the grand hall of the British Museum, a glittering event of power and wealth. Elías arrived as planned, blending into the background as one of the servers, his weapon concealed beneath a silver tray. He moved through the crowd like a ghost, his eyes scanning for two people: Lydia and Whitmore.

At 8:45 p.m., Lydia stood alone near a sculpture. She traced its sleek surface with her tiny hand, mesmerized by its cold beauty. Elías approached her, his weapon ready. She turned and smiled at him, her innocence disarming him more than any weapon ever could.

“Do you work here?” she asked.

For a moment, he froze. “Yes,” he said softly.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked, gesturing to the Statue of Dionysos.

“Yes, it is,” he replied, his voice trembling.

But his gaze drifted beyond her to the crowd. Whitmore was there, surrounded by diplomats and dignitaries, laughing as though the blood on his hands didn’t weigh him down.

Elías felt something snap. This was no longer about money or philosophy. It was about justice.

At precisely 9:00 p.m., Whitmore moved toward the sculpture gallery, drawn by the crowd admiring the art forms. Elías followed, his heart pounding in a way it hadn’t in years. He had no plan, no exit strategy. All he had was the weight of his grief and a purpose he could no longer ignore.

Whitmore paused near the Statue of Dionysos, gazing at it with idle curiosity. Dionysos is reclining in a relaxed, almost languid pose, lounging on Mount Olympus. His laid-back position mirrored Whitmore’s own indulgence. Elías stepped behind him, close enough to smell the faint scent of his cologne.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Elías whispered, echoing Lydia’s words.

Whitmore turned, startled, but before he could speak, Elías grabbed the man’s neck and drove the titanium spire deep into Whitmore’s head. The titanium gleamed as blood streaked its surface. The shock of the spire piercing his pineal gland kept him standing upright long enough for Elías to slip away. When Whitmore finally collapsed, the crowd erupted in screams, chaos spreading like wildfire. The EMTs assumed he had suffered a heart attack because his head smacked against the marble floor, and the lacerations concealed the spire’s entry wound completely.

Elías felt strangely calm. He turned and walked away, vanishing into the pandemonium.

By dawn, Elías was far from London, his face obscured by a hood as he boarded a train bound for nowhere. He knew he was now a marked man, hunted by the same forces that had once paid him handsomely. But for the first time in years, he felt a flicker of peace.

Lydia would live. Whitmore would never hurt anyone again. And Elías, the liberator of souls, had finally found a measure of liberation for himself.