If you want REALLY wild assassination methods. . .
From “Rogue”, by Michael Z. Williamson:
He pointed to a desk set up as a collection and monitor point and said, “We found this halfway across the room. It’s mostly intact. I’m calling that the murder weapon for now. You’ll need gloves or. . . .” He grabbed a pair of tongs, grasped the item and handed it over.Silver took it, raised her eyebrows, and carefully passed it over.I examined the projectile. It was just crude enough to indicate it was custom made, but of sufficient quality to be professional. And it was a creepy little thing.I passed it back to Silver. “What do you make of that?”She took it, held it carefully and examined it, then said, “Great Goddess.” A few more turns and long looks and she punctuated it with “Holy hell!”
It was a syringelike dart, with a reservoir in the body. Said reservoir had been breached on contact. Then it had dumped a large volume of ultracompressed fluid—my guess was about a liter—out the syringe and into the target, in this case, the target’s abdomen.It had been a hypergolic fluid or fluids.“What was it? Any idea?” I asked.He said, “Residue indicates chlorine trifluoride.”
All I said was, “Daaamn.” I handed it back very carefully.There really wasn’t much that profanity could emphasize. The substance in question is more reactive than straight fluorine, self-oxidizing, and the decay products are hydrochloric and hydrofluoric acid.
What followed was a low-order deflagration burn. You might know it as a “fuel/air explosive.” I’m very familiar with them.Only this one had been inside a human body. Inside the lower GI tract. Hence the reeking mist of blood and shit pervading the atmosphere in this locale. A liter of outrageously reactive gas inside his guts had flashed them into burning vapor, blown him into cooked shreds coated in acid, and splattered those shreds on the walls, which were now etching bubbling pink paisley moirés into the surface.
It was beyond excessive or obscene. It was awe-inspiring.The body stopped just below the shoulders, with the arms hanging from muscle around shattered joints. One leg wasn’t far away, the other lay below a trail of blood down the wall it had hit in flight. The entire torso had been gooified.
Among the smells, though, were things I knew, even through the mask. “I can smell the chlorine,” I said. “The acid level seems rather high. The victim eats a lot of seafood and bitter vegetables.”
Now THAT is an assasination. . .
