Boyd Kuznetsov’s knees quivered, then collapsed underneath the weight of his listing torso as his head tumbled from his shoulders, a geyser of blood spurting from his neck into a cloud of fine red mist.
Rasputin stood up from his stance, took a silk rag from within the folds of his gi and wiped slowly along the length of his sword.
There were better ways to kill a person – cleaner, quieter ways – but certain jobs required more of a spectacle; this was one of those jobs. Few escaped death by shifting between dimensions, and certainly none of his marks, but there had been a group of them using this particular locus as a staging post. This could not be tolerated, a warning had to be sent.
He sheathed his sword, rolled up his sleeve, tapped and swiped at some of the pictures and text scrolling across his forearm. He looked at the corpse, at the blood, then up and around the empty parking lot.