(2013) Shooter
JACK PARKER
Copyright © 2013 by
Jack Parker
Cover and internal design © 2013 by
Jack Parker
SHOOTER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be used or reproduced, in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locations is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
I hummed a song softly to myself, a soothing habit I used to calm my nerves and still my quivering muscles as they tried to cope with the freezing winter cold. I didn't really mind it overmuch, mentally separating myself from my physical discomforts.
Snowflakes fell softly on me, forming a thin blanket before I shifted to brush them off. The black leather coat I'd worn wasn't thick enough for the freezing winter weather on the rooftop I'd perched myself on, overlooking the apartment of one Solomon Kramer.
A heavy high-powered rifle rested across my knees, the blued gunmetal finish glinting dully in the moonlight.
It was a monstrous thing, nearly three and a half feet long and with a scope sporting a max range of two miles. Probably a bit much for what I was here for, but I prefer to be prepared. No sense in getting caught with my proverbial pants down, not that I would ever be caught without pants in this blasted cold.
I impatiently brushed a lock of dark brown hair out of my face with frozen fingers.
My accuracy would be a bit off, I noted to myself.
I fervently wished Solomon would come home already, so I could go home and have a nice long soak in the bath. I'm not a very built woman. Definitely not a winter-loving one.
I glanced around me a little, made certain I was unwatched, and pulled my custom made leather gloves over my hands more tightly, and adjusted my knit wool cap over my ears.
"Hands armed with broken bottles, standing no chance to win, but- what the hell?" My soft singing was interrupted by a buzz in my back pocket. Who's calling me
now
? I had to shift my weight to reach the portable in my jeans pocket, and it took some fancy maneuvering that nearly tipped my rifle off my knees and onto the street below. I think someone might be a little curious about why there was an entirely illegal firearm in somebody's windshield. "Kendall? Can I help you?" I answered the phone, trying not to sound annoyed.
"Is the target dead yet?" My employer's flat tone crackled with static. Crappy connection.
"If he were dead, I would have called and told you already."
"Why isn't he?"
"Because he's not home, and I've been sitting out here waiting for four hours." I grumbled.
"Remember, the longer you sit up there, the more likely it is that you'll be seen and identified."
"I'm aware of that." A shiny black Lexus drove by under me, pulling into a space and stopping. "Speaking of which, what kind of car does he drive, again?" I pulled a grainy photo from my pocket. Solomon's face.
"A black Lexus."
"Thought so." Click. I stuffed the phone and photo back in my pocket and lifted the rifle off my knees, settling into a firing position.
I leaned forward, my elbows resting on my knees, my cheek on the cold maple wood of the buttplate, held in the cradle of my shoulder to steady it. The hand not on the trigger adjusted the scope quickly with several quiet clicks. Range… roughly a hundred and fifty yards? No wind curve to cope with either. Good.
Now, the timing? Kill him as he's stepping out of the car, or while he's sitting there in the driver's seat? Stepping out would give me the best visibility, though he'd be moving. Getting out would work.
I trained my crosshairs on the dark tinted window of the sleek black sedan. This guy had a pretty nice car, considering the living arrangements. That's a pretty shitty little apartment building, and a nice car?
None of my business. My only concern was making sure he stopped breathing.
"Don't hold me up, now, I can stand my own ground, I don't need your help, now…" I trailed off, resting the fore of my weapon in my left palm, the index finger of my right hand tickling the hair-trigger. Half an ounce of pressure would fire it, and end a life.
The shiny Fiberglas door cracked open, swinging around too slowly for me to bear. Hurry up, asshole; I'm trying to kill you.
A gray, balding head poked out of the car, and Solomon looked haggard. Hard day at work? Probably not. I could practically smell the alcohol on the guy up here.
Hey, at least the man gets to go out drunk. Not everyone gets that luxury.
"What I really meant to say, is I'm sorry for the way I am…" I tensed infinitesimally, awaiting my opening.
Solomon stood, holding a briefcase, and went to shut the door. He never got the chance.
The shot rang out through the night, and I was already moving as his fingers slid off the door, and his blank eyes stared at the ground. He fell in an odd heap as gray matter splattered the car behind him. Right between his eyes.
"Let's move." I muttered to myself, grateful that the hard part was over. I flicked open a small case, fitted with foam lining with slots for the parts of the rifle to go into. I quietly dismantled the weapon with some difficulty, due to my damn frozen fingers; but I had it packed into it's case in roughly thirty seconds, clasped the box closed, hauled the backpack onto my shoulder, and dashed helter-skelter to the waiting fire-escape ladder. Behind and below me, a terrified scream rang out, which meant I had about a minute to get my ass out of there.
Not bothering with any climbing, I grabbed both sides and slid down it, earning a few nicks in my gloves for my trouble. I hit the filthy ground running, going for the beat up green Toyota parked halfway behind an overflowing dumpster. I flung open the door, tossed the bag in the back seat, and practically leaped in, turning my key and peeling off, deftly avoiding the smelly obstacles in my path.
Now that I was in the car, it was much less likely that I would be seen or identified. It had false plates, and so if somebody caught the number, it would never lead them anywhere.
My phone rang again.
"Hello?" I growled, and that was my hello good evening voice.
My boss again. "Graecia. Is the target dead yet?"
" Of course he is. What did you expect? That I'd get sloppy and miss?" I smirked to myself, looking out for police.
"Perhaps. Were you seen?"
"No."
"Good." Click.
I sighed. Never even got a goodbye from the man anymore. "Graecia Pryor, hitman extraordinaire, can't get any respect."
I really needed to stop talking to myself. Twenty-nine and cracking up. Uh-oh.
"Oh shit."
Red and blue lights flashed up ahead of me. A police blockade. That would mean that they'd had about five minutes to get here and set up. Were they already here, perhaps? Either way it wasn't a good thing for me.
But I really had no choice but to pull up beside the first flashlight-wielding officer. I rolled down my window and did my best to look as though I had no idea why they were there.
"What's going on, officer?" I asked innocently, my hands in plain sight and firmly on the wheel. You know, so as not to make them nervous.
The cop looked me up and down, and around and behind me in my car. "There was an incident not far from here. Would you happen to know anything about it, Ma'am?"
I pretended to be thoughtful. "I thought I might have heard a gun go off, but then I thought I was imagining things. Has someone been shot?"
"Can I see some I.D?" He asked curtly. Apparently my innocent act wasn't quite working.
"Sure sure, just a second." I reached slowly into my left pocket, which held my false driver's license. It had my photo and fake name, Veronica Keyes. I handed it to him and tried to suppress the nervous fidgets attacking my hands. He studied it and glanced back at me a couple times, checking the photo to my face.
Apparently it was good enough, because he handed it back to me and grunted. "Thank you. Have a good evening, Ma'am."
He walked slowly back to his police cruiser, watching me from the corner of his eye.
I rolled the window back up and pilled away just as slowly, trying not to look too suspicious. I wonder if that guy knows just how close he was to catching the perpetrator of that murder down the street? In his defense, though, I didn't exactly look like a hitman. Five foot four, shoulder length dark hair with a single blue streak in artful disarray all over my face, ripped low-rise jeans, leather jacket. I looked like a rebellious sixteen year old. A thin, short, rebellious sixteen year old.
Which kind of reflects my way of doing things. I preferred to kill from afar, stay away, because quite frankly, I wasn't big enough to overpower too many people physically.
Although, I did have a bit of wiry strength to me, borne more from determination than actual muscle mass. So I wasn't completely frail.
I chuckled to myself as I pulled my phone out for another call and dialed a number without looking. It only rang twice before my sister answered.
"Hello?" She sounded sleepy.
"Hey, Con, what's up?" I grinned, cheerful tone in place.
"Grace? Why are you calling me at one in the morning?"
"Sorry, I work third shift now, and I'm on break." The lie flowed freely.
"Jesus, Gracie, they got you working the weirdest hours. Why do you put up with it?"
"Doesn't bother me too much, really. So how are you?"
There was a grunt, and a few more muffled noises. "Just about the same as last time I saw you. Not much changes with me anymore."
"I don't suppose it would, you married thirty-something." I laughed. "How's Ray doing? I think I hear him in the background."
"Oh, he's fine. Work's running him ragged, as usual. Hey, we're having a little get together soon, you hear? Haven't seen my sister in a while."
"Um, sure. When?" That might be difficult. I couldn't just 'take off work'.
"How about Friday? Ray's out of town this weekend. I'll get some takeout, and we can watch a bad zombie movie."
"I think we can manage that. I have some time off."
"Alright, hon. Look, can I talk to you again at a normal hour?" Constance yawned.
"Yeah, just call me later." I answered.
"Thanks. Bye, Gracie."
"Bye."
Click. Only my sister would have put up with all my crap, namely answering the phone at all these weird times.
Constance was basically everything I'm not. Thirty-five, mature, kind, married. And she seemed so soft hearted at times that I worry. Is she going to get mugged one day by the homeless man she tried to feed? That seemed like something that could very well happen, and it scared the hell out of me. I was very protective of my older sister.
Anyway…
I cranked up the CD player in my car and settled in to a long drive.
