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.
Gentle breeze, clear sky, 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 centre 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.