Hale slide the blade between the man's ribs, feeling the soft tension of his lungs as they first resisted the blade, and then, with a sickening squelch, burst open. Air escaped, blowing bubbles into the blood that ran down the blade and onto her hand.

The man struggled and she instinctively applied more force to the hand that covered his mouth, pulling his head back towards hers, bringing his ear level with her mouth. He tried to scream, but it was a futile effort, what little air was left in his lungs was simply pushed out through the puncture, instead of past his vocal chords.

"There, there," she whispered to him, softly, gently. "It will all be over soon."

The man began to panic, his chest pumping wildly as he tried to draw another breath - just one last breath, but Hale felt only a slight prickle of air on her fingers from his nose. Instead the convulsions merely sucked and bubbled air ineffectually from the wound in his lower back, spattering blood over her hand and hastening the flow of blood into his chest cavity, speeding the collapse of his lungs.

He began to claw at the hand that covered his mouth, hopping to free himself and draw breath one more, but her grip held firm. His strength began to fail him, and his hands flopped away.

"Shhhhh," she said to him, relaxing her grip slightly. It would not be long now, and she felt his whole body relax, coming to the inevitable conclusion that there was no hope of survival.

He twisted his head slightly to look at his assassin, and she let me. His eyes were full of panic and terror, but she held his gaze. She watched him, his eyes, the glimmer fading as his life drained away. He passed into unconsciousness and then, suddenly, almost unexpectedly, his pupils dilated, taking the last spark of his life with them.

Her grip changed, her arms drawing around his body into a hug and she pushed her face against the side of his head, feeling his rough stubble on her cheek. A tear rolled gently down her cheek and she closed her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, sobbing.

Hale got out of bed, leaving the man in a pool of ever expanding blood, colouring the white sheets an ever deeper shade of crimson, and padded across to the table. She picked up her mobile and dialled her contact.

"It is done?" a distorted voice from the other end enquired.

"He is dead," she said, wiping the last of the tears away.

"Good." The line went dead and Hale put the small phone back on the table. It was smeared with blood. His blood. The blood of his last breath. Her husband’s last dying moment had been at her hands. She began to cry again, crumpling to the floor.