The Shower Scene Series. Stargate SG-1 Fanfiction by Scribe
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Shower Scenes

The reply



All publicly recognisable characters and places are the property of MGM, World Gekko Corp and Double Secret Productions. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks was intended. Previously unrecognised characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.


Category: Missing scene - set towards the end of Absolute Power
Series: Number 17 in Scribe's Shower Scene Series
Season/spoilers: Absolute Power - season 4
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence
Summary: This is a sequel to The Message - nuff said<g>
Author's Notes: Thanks to Bri for a comment that gave me the idea for this


John Brassett slid silently into the mansion. Every instinct finely honed, every sense fully alert as he surveyed the wide expanse of marbled hallway. The sweeping curve of the stairs beckoned him, but he was too much of a professional to rush a job. His mind was busy running computer-like through a checklist of dangers - until each item was mentally ticked as cleared he would remain hidden in the shadows, listening to the house in its pre-dawn slumber.

The guards had already been disabled, the young one on gate duty would wake with a pounding headache, the older one had been less fortunate. Brassett disliked taking out anyone other than his intended target, but sometimes fate forced the issue. This morning the guard had been tempted away from his post by the warmth of the early morning sun and the call of his cigarette pack. He should've paid more attention to the warning that 'smoking is bad for your health'.

The checklist continued. Security cameras - off. Movement sensors - off. It was time to proceed. As light on his feet as a panther, Brassett crossed the hallway and moved up the stairs to airy gallery. A dozen silent strides took him to the door of the master bedroom. The merest hint of disturbed air on the gallery was the only sign he had been present as the door opened and closed.

Intelligent eyes surveyed the room. A rosewood wardrobe. An antique dresser. Brassett knew enough about wealth to realise he was looking at the best in quality and crasftmanship. The room was designed to draw attention to the king-size bed, covered now with a rumpled dark blue duvet, one corner thrown back. He noted almost instantly that only one pillow was indented, evidence that his information was correct. His target had slept alone last night.

Other senses kicked in again. The ensuite bathroom lay behind an open door; the sound of running water escaping from the confines of its marble prison. Hints of citrus and vanilla wafted in the air, battling with the aroma of fresh coffee in the pot by the side of the bed.

The thrill ran through Brassett. The hunt was coming to a climax. One hand slipped inside the casual grey suit he was wearing - the kind of clothes that blended into a crowd - and he drew out a handgun. From his left pocket came a silencer. Anticipation increased as he moved across the deep-piled carpet to the bathroom doorway.

There was his victim, shielded but vulnerable behind the frosted glass of the shower cubicle. Brassett allowed himself a moment to savour his success. Penetration to the inner sanctum was the real challenge of his job, the part he found most satisfying. There was no pleasure to be found in the actual act of assassination- even less so today, for here his target was little more than a naked body, totally and utterly defenceless.

He knew very little about the man he was about to murder. A name, an address, an appellation. He took little interest in world affairs, but it was obvious from the house and security the man was important. Not as powerful as the man who was paying him to do this job though.

A chill ran down his spine at the thought of his 'boss'. Brassett had worked for all kinds of people in the past - cheated wives, disgruntled business partners, political organisations - but this man, with his cool confidence… Only those who truly believed they were above the law gave a contract killer their real name. It invited blackmail. This guy, though, had simply looked at Brassett and calmly informed him that it would not be a good idea to cross him. That was the moment Brassett had decided he'd retire after this job. He was being paid enough. He'd leave the country, travel the world, maybe settle down in rural France or Spain - somewhere very far away from the man he was now working for.

It was time. Moving with athletic ease he crossed the tiled floor of the bathroom and pulled open the shower door. The man inside swung round, eyes widening with fear as he focused on the gun aimed at his chest, mouth opening to call for help.

The first bullet hit him two inches above the heart. The aim deliberately high. As he staggered back with a cry of pain, the second bullet impacted to the right. Dark red gore spattered across the pristine whiteness of the tiles. Bare skin slammed against the wall as the force of the impact drove him backwards. The third bullet was to the centre of the heart. His legs buckled and he slid inelegantly down the wall to crumple in one corner.

From the amount of blood spiralling towards the drain, Bassett knew his job was complete. He never made mistakes - had never had a target make a miraculous recovery. He looked down at the dying man with no compassion.

"Doctor Jackson said to return your message. Have a nice day, Senator."


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