#hydrasweapon

October 29, 1973 - 15:54.

Forest of Rambouillet, France.

"Monsieur Boulin, what a pleasure it is to see you."

The commander's eyes gleam as his mercenaries drag Robert Boulin, a French government official, bound and bloody, from the trunk of his car.

"You wrote your letters, yes?"

Boulin cries quietly, his only answer a soft whimper and sniffles. The commander raises an eyebrow at the man, then nods to the soldiers holding him up. They release their grips and the woman clutches his hair and smashes his face into the ground.

Boulin shouts in pain and squirm's frantically, attempting to escape her grasp. The commander clicks his tongue and strides forward, placing his foot between the captive's shoulder blades with a soft laugh.

"We will try again. Monsieur Boulin, do you have your letters?"

"Yes!" He yells, a pained gasp following his broken shout.

"Wonderful. My associates will take care of them for you." He nods again at the woman and she yanks the man back up onto his knees, crouching in front of him as she shuffles through his jacket pockets. After a moment she locates two envelopes and hands them back to her commander.

The Hydra commander skims through Boulin’s letters, nodding thoughtfully as he flips through the pages. 

"Beautiful, beautiful work, Robert. Truly." He flashes the man a smile, though it quickly shifts to a mocking frown.

"Too bad it all has to end this way."

"Please, please, " Boulin begs tearfully, "I have a family. Please. I'll do whatever they want- whatever Hydra needs- just please spare me."

The commander watches the man plead as if he is contemplating his options. Then, he grins and hands the letters to the male soldier.

"I'm sorry, good friend, but you made a mess, and now Hydra has to clean it up. My soldiers will ensure your family remains, ah, relatively unharmed."

The commander winks, grinning at the horror that spreads over Boulin’s face, then turns, striding away calmly as the soldiers set to work.

Boulin thrashes as the man and woman turn toward him, freed from the watchful eye of their commander. "No- no! Please! Please, don't do this!"

The woman's hands find the captive's arms, pinning them to the ground as her partner plunges a syringe into the Frenchmen's neck. Boulin cries out and struggles under her hold as the drug seeps into his system.

"Please. Please."

He claws at her hands, his nails leaving gouges deep in her leather gloves. Sobs turn to choked gasps, but neither of the soldiers seem fazed as foam erupts from his mouth and he gags violently. Finally, Boulin falls silent and his body stills. The woman releases him, and the two soldiers stand over him for a moment, then barely spare each other a glance as they turn away and hurry to cover their tracks.

Once their preparations are completed, the soldiers return to Boulin's corpse and drag him to a nearby pond, where they lay him face down in the shallow, murky water. The assassins cover the trails left by his body with dirt and foliage, then return to the man's car. They place the empty bottle of the barbiturates they had used to kill him next to his vehicle, and rest his letters on the seat inside.

With the scene set, and the crime now identifiable to the police as a suicide, the soldiers vacate the area and walk several miles before they meet their commander on the outskirts of the woods. A long road curves along the edge of the forest, and a nearby sign points them in the direction of the closest town. The woman scans the area as she and her partner approach their leader, watching for any movement in the tree line.

"Is it done?"

"Yes, sir." The man states, his voice low and hard.

"Good." The commander pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and holds it out to the soldiers. The woman grabs it, her partner glancing over her shoulder to read their new orders.

"You are to head back to the town you took Mr. Boulin from. Lay low there for a few days until you receive further instructions. Understood?"

The woman folds the paper, handing it to the man behind her.

"Understood."

Their commander gives them each one last long appraising look, then nods. A grin creeps on to his lips as he turns away. He takes a few steps away, then turns back to the mercenaries, and his smile grows.

"Until next time, my friends."