I hate waiting for bloody meetings. Hmm... there's a good title.
by Jared Earle
(C) 2000 Nightfall Games. All rights reserved.
He watched her closely as he took a draw of his cigarette, her Arducci jacket hugged close around her form yet allowed the derringer to sit against her ribs without tracing a line; fine craftsmanship, both desirable and interspersed with flaqueweave. She turned her nose up as the cigarette smoke reached her face. The smoker noticed her icy stare even through her RayStops and ground his Coffin into the ashtray. Snapping it in the middle through too much force, he chased the burning ember until he finally extinguished it with the side of the snapped portion.
She returned to the case in hand. With the aid of charts, 'presentations' and visual aids, she managed to explain to the executives of Rassalon Holdings that they were out of business and she did so with a polite smile, almost as a professional courtesy. Towards the end, the smoker popped another Coffin into his mouth and lit it, no longer caring for the wrath of the slight, pale harbinger; she had already done her worst. One of his colleagues shed a tear. How pathetic, he thought, holding his own back succesfully.
He decided then that she had to die.
It cannot be too hard to have someone killed, can it? All it takes is a bullet to the head. Surely someone could do it for a small fee. He may be out of businness but he still has his savings; his contingency squirreled away through inevitable embezlement, almost like the pension the company wouldn't afford. It was his by rights and now, he would spend it on a hired bullet.
He sat down to research his target discretely. He had to be careful now as they would trace anything to do with his victim as soon as she was dead. He decided to make it look like a broad search, targetting everyone who had entered the building from the security records, deep-probing everyone's records, including his own. He did it as someone else, of course, using a casual accuaintance from the payroll departments Succubus login and password, leaving fingerprints all over the system. It would be better that we didn't know how he had these details of how he came by confidential login details as he was, obviously, beyond reproach.
There she is: Cherry Hinton. Ex-GBH squad, now Cloak Division operative and IA executive. Damn, this would be harder than he thought. Infernal Axe-fairs. This can still be done, surely. Nobody, except Him, of course, should be unstoppable. All it takes is a bullet. Just one bullet. He fingered another Coffin and dropped his Clippo as he fumbled to make the two meet. One bullet.
Cover your tracks. That much should be obvious. He decided that downtown would be the best place to find a hired killer; surely a prop in downtown could fire a gun at a target and, that's all she is, a target. One bullet in the side of her head or the back. That should do it. That'll teach her to close him down.
He wondered if he'd be safe in downtown but, he only wondered this once he was already there. He found a prop really easily, almost to easily but not quite. He skirted round the issue, mentioning a corporate target, describing his enemy as a 'business rival'. These words seemed to placate the prop, as if he'd done this sort of thing before and, at almost 2 metres tall and dangerously armed, this is someone you want placated.
Just put a bullet in her head, finish her off, end her life. That's all it takes. For this, you will make yourself some spending money. A little retirement fund, funded by 'retirements'.
Deals were done, arrangements were made, farewells were voiced.
He was a dead man, he knew that. He should have never taken this job. One attempt and the whole thing turned nasty. Where the fuck did that Shaktar come from? Before they got to him, and he knew they would; you don't mess with the likes of Jeff Moreau and get away with it, before they got to him, he'd finish that suited fucker off. He wished he'd never met him. He ran.
Fuck it, they will get him afterwards. Let the shivers take him down on the way out, instead of facing the wrath of a reknowned Contract Killer like Moreau. He couldn't wait, knowing that bloody Rassalon were closing down today. He strode into the building dead casual like. Pick a gun. Any gun. He drew a BLA, a fucking great blitzer; given to him as part of an Op hit payment. He burst into the office, watched the man drop the Coffin from his mouth and loaded the Blitzer with one bullet...
Pester Jared with your thoughts: Jared@nightfall.co.uk