April 14, 2021. 15:30. Vancouver.
"I hate men," I mutter, adjusting my sniper rifle on the balcony railing.
Well, I don't actually mean it—but why do half my contracts involve men in some kind of dick-measuring contest that always goes physical?
Although I never met my target, I'd done enough digging to know his type: the over-the-top music artist who bragged about money and gang ties until you wanted to gag.
But at the very least, the payout will be worth it—and he had something I wanted, for a bonus.
I check the scope and take a steadying breath. At least it's in territory I know; it should be a quick hit. I aim the barrel down the street and tune into the city.
A tangle of red, brown, and grey brick apartments bleeds into a guttural sprawl some people generously call a neighbourhood. From my perch, cars and pedestrians move in lazy, indifferent patterns.
A gentle breeze, a clear sky, a warm sun—all reminders that today was supposed to be my day off. Instead, what was supposed to be a perfect afternoon to be lazy has turned into a rushed, last-minute job, and I've got nothing but the bare essentials for gear.
The only reason I agreed at all is that the contract is in my city; anywhere else, I would've turned it down.
Laughter and music drift from an open window, sharpening my annoyance even further.
My finger twitches with impatience, though it's not on the trigger. I hold it there.
"Where are you, asshole? I don't have all day." Out of the corner of my eye, several black cars pull to the curb.
They differ—from high-end to modest—but they all share the same tacky motif: a white skull spray-painted on the hood, surrounded by obnoxious luxury decals.
The Dead Kings. Fashionable, as always.
I count them: eight. Each man stepping out bears the same tattoo that matches their cars.
They're not getting anywhere near me. That much I won't allow. Getting into a fight in what I'm wearing—or with what I've got—would be dumb.
So I lock on to someone new. A Hispanic man pushes through the center of their group: tanned skin, black hair, small round red shades. He walks with a swagger that practically shouts "manslut"—mid-twenties, tops. I crank the scope and focus on his necklace. Nice to see you finally show up, AXIS.
I check the distance and wind, then set myself. My stance shifts as I plant my feet and lean into the rifle to brace for recoil. I hold my breath, time the lull in my heartbeat, and squeeze. The rifle kicks against my shoulder; a comforting, thunderous crack answers me.
AXIS drops to the ground—finally, dead. I unmount the rifle from the railing and keep my eyes on the street. Civilians duck for cover; the Dead Kings splinter and run. Offing AXIS was the hook on the contract, but the real reason I took it was a particular item at his place.
A smile tugs at my mouth as I break the rifle down into smaller parts, slotting each component into a suitcase before shouldering it and heading for the stairs.
If memory serves, his place shouldn't be far.
While stepping off the last stair, a woman carrying a baby rushes past while a young man stammers from behind a bench, "W-What's going on?! Is there—there a gang shooting?!" A Dead Kings member yells the other way, "Damn it! What do we do?!"
Good. Stay confused.
I count the men still milling around the corpse, then sweep my gaze down the block. Oh—what's that? A Cadillac CT5 rolls into view: tasteful, middle-of-the-road luxe.
Helloooo~! What do we have here?
Detouring across the sidewalk, I angle my phone and take two quick shots for my private "wish list."
The few minutes I lose shift my timing, but not by much.
I'll be fine—there's plenty of time.
At least that's what I tell myself.
By the time I reach the corner, a black Ram 2500 sits where I expected.
With a casual motion, I pull out my phone and tap an app. The truck's trunk pops open; I drop the suitcase inside and close it. Engines cough to life just as I head for the driver's seat—a satisfying beep follows, and the door swings open.
Distant sirens prick at the edges of the street. Ah, shit. A reminder that I'm still on a time limit, even if it's a relaxed one.
My fingers dig through the jacket's inner pockets: knife, pistol—both where they should be. Trunk shut, I hop into the seat and, through the windshield, give the Dead Kings a smirk. "See you later," I say under my breath.
The engine settles into an idle. I hum a quick tune, pull up my phone's map, and start entering the address.
As I punch in the destination, the phone rings, a familiar caller ID blinking. And I can't help but groan.
"Oh, for fuck's sake." I hit accept and switch the call to speaker—no relaxing today, then.
"Heyyy, Wissen. What's up?" Driving onto a busier street, I set the phone down and keep an ear on the road as I pass a police cruiser at the edge of the scene.
"Good afternoon, Artemis. Hope this wasn't a bad time?" His voice is polite; I bite back a sigh. Giving him sass won't help.
"Ah… I'm wrapping up a contract right now. So I'm basically almost free. What do you need?"
"I'll keep it brief then." Paper shuffles on his end. "I have a job for you—something I wouldn't trust many with."
Nevermind.
A snort escapes as I ease through traffic; the truck obeys with effortless grace. "Oh, lovely," I say, sarcasm thick in my voice. "Please don't tell me it'll take the whole day."
Wissen chuckles instead of matching my attitude. "You have five hours from now before I pick you up outside your home."
"Can we do this tomorrow?"
"Haha, no."
"Will I be paid a lot?"
"I'll tell you later tonight."
"Why not now?"
"I'm unfortunately busy."
"Can you at least tell me what this is about?"
"I'll see you later."
"What the fu—" I get cut off as he hangs up mid-sentence.
Did he really just do that?
The light turns red. I sit there, staring at the screen in disbelief.
"Whatever." I sigh, switch my phone off, click my tongue, and drive toward the growing cluster of dark skyscrapers downtown.