The Deadly Woman

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Who is this deadly woman and who does she hunt? Find out in this short story of death and deceit, and revenge.

Submitted: March 21, 2016

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Submitted: March 21, 2016



She was said to be the most deadly woman in the world.

She is just a wisp of a woman, less than five feet tall and thinned framed. She had attained a graceful sort of thinness and agility that is often associated with that of a Antelope or Gazelle; that was quite an achievement for a woman of her stature. 

The stories of her say that she is like the Honey-Badger, relentless in her move to the sweet spot.

Like the Diamond-Back Rattler, one strike is generally her death move. One puncture wound under the rib-cage to the heart with her long thin blade; yet alternatives were always available with her skill-set.

It was never a game with her, or a contest. It is life or death and she will do anything and everything that is needed to make sure she is the victor.

It is said that she holds black belts in most of the martial arts and is the designer of two of her own; and while still in her twenties, she has only just begun.

No one knows her given name, for she walks the way of shadows. One day she is a beggar-child, another day she is a school-girl, or possibly a delivery driver. It is said that her disguises are endless and designed with perfection, --- sometimes changing in mid-flight to confuse pursuers.

They call her "The Ghost" in Europe, "The Chameleon" in the Americas, and in most of Asia, the word means "A Shadow in the Mist."

She is for hire on the Dark Web and to this day she has left no client unhappy. She is an assassin for hire, but she only hunts those that hunt others. She is a freelance thief when items are not for sale at any price, mostly because they were stolen from others. And the way she goes about her work is like the shadow in a mist, seemingly unreal until the deed is done.

However, on this mission she may meet her match. Her reputation hangs in the balance.

Her target, like her, is a mystery. He too has been given other names, but all that know of him call him "The Green Eyed Dragon."

She has tracked him for nearly three years. And she has left coins of gold and other rare items as tokens of gratitude to those who might divulge his whereabouts, or his comings and goings.

Finally the information has been gathered, and all of it points to one place, the place that he was trained as a boy.

It seems that he returns there every year to center himself, to bring about Chi, and to collect his thoughts of reflection.

She traveled to that destination and she waited there for nearly five months. In the dense forest that surrounded his place of gathering, she watched and waited.


He has just arrived and she has given him three days, one to meditate, one to pay respects to his Master's memory. And the third day was for her sake, she wanted to watch him train on the bridge. But this is the morning of the fourth day and the fourth day shall know the sounds of battle. 

On a rope-bridge over the Great Falls River they stand, one at each end. This is the first that he has known of her presence at the falls; just as she wanted.

He is tall, six foot at least, muscular and thin. His golden-red hair acts as a sharp contrast to the raven-black clothes that he wears.

As he focuses on her, she cannot help but notice the color of his eyes, those Irish-green eyes.

She utters the words, "No Weapons," he responds in kind, they bow towards one another and then move forward.

Near the center of the bridge, at the point of no return, no escape, he draws two small sabers from their sheaths that were strapped to his back. Again he began moving forward with both sabers cutting the misty air, making sounds reminiscent of aircraft propellers slicing through the wind.

"You are a cheat and a liar!" She remarked.

"And you, my love, are still playing the fool!" He countered.

With that said she stopped, pulled a small caliber gun from her waistband and fired until the gun was empty.

As she watched him fall from the bridge she exclaimed, "My Mother always said, ("Irishmen, never trust them with your heart, your money, or your life."), and in this case, I'm afraid that she was right.


D. Thurmond / JEF03-18-2016

© Copyright 2019 D. Thurmond, aka, JEF. All rights reserved.

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