Hit

It was supposed to be a clean hit.  They usually were. How can anyone anticipate a sniper bullet ploughing through the back of one’s head and taking the brains to another dimension.

The problem was the bodyguard.  

The hotshots all have bodyguards. You know they’re doing something wrong that they need so many.  Lots of enemies. I personally didn’t care for the guy.  These upstart power mongers were all alike.  Wife and kids and mistress on the side. Lots of talk and no real skill. Not statesmen. Not engineers. Not doctors. Not even judges.  Little snots mostly who pissed off the wrong person. 

 Usually by the time I was called a whole bunch of people were angry.  I didn’t come cheap.  Not that the job was hard. It just carried the maximum penalty if I got caught. Not that I had. And not that I’d come close.

The police are good at catching the angry lover or the brother in law or the business partner. 

They’re not so good at catching beautiful women.  Something about high heels and nylons, cleavage and an unbuttoned blouse made them less likely to consider you.  Of course I’ve always worn dark shades and wigs. But Mano et Mano.  The police, men and women alike, thought with their balls. If someone was shot on their watch it had to be by a man.  By the time they’d considered a woman I was long gone, if they even considered a woman. 

He was sitting in the cafe, just inside the patio. Black suit with black crew neck sweater. I’d watched him order pasta from the white aproned waiter.  He ‘d come in with his bondyguards just like he’d done each week. One of them stood outside at each corner of the patio. . Another was somewhere inside while his closest companion sat at the table with him.  He was talking to him between mouthfuls. He didn’t have good table manors.  Not wrong. Just adolescent. Eating the way a boy eats rather than a man.  Nothing to impress a woman.  Talking with his mouth still full.  The body guard listening to his every word like he was some sort of intelligent. Hired muscle. Thug. I’d listened to their conversations before. Hidden mikes, Surveillance. It was always about sports . Women and spite. He thought himself a great critic of soccer and didn’t like anyone to question his authority.  He talked of women like the same kind of women talked about men. Mostly he talked spite and revenge. No wonder I’d been hired.

I’d worked for billionaires and bedded a few so I knees a millionaire was a wanna be. This guy was a wanna be.  

I got to choose my contracts. That’s the advantage of being private.  Government wet work is so political. Private is financial.  I liked taking out one criminal even knowing another was taking his place. I wasn’t serving the church by any means. My employers whoever they were were unlikely any better even if they did have better table manners. Often they just had better instincts for survival and were ahead in the game. Like now. 

I’d rented the pension a week before.  I told them I liked the view.  It really was.a great view of the street.  3rd floor.  I’d liked to have got further away or higher but the target sat in the cafe and the awning and pillars limited the choice of view.  

I’d worn my starched white blouse and black knee length skirt. Since the owner was male I’d undone the button on my blouse. My uplift bra showed a lot of cleavage and some high end lace. Men are so adolescent. But I do like the rights ones looking there appreciatively.  

For my work though I just want to ensure they dont’ remember my face. Hence the large black glasses, floppy hat, and wig. Today I’d brought the long gun in a cello case.   He actually thought I was with the symphony.  The affected accent helped.  Paying three months in advance.  Avoiding any security cameras.  I had a recording of a classical student practicing cello.  I liked the tune, played it as I watched the cafe and street.

  

The pension had a rear exit. I planned my escape in a parked Citroen I kept in a garage next door. I don’t like to walk too far In high heels especially hauling a cello case. I just had to remember to walk normally. A girl with a cello would be remembered perhaps but not the car, typical of these streets. I worried about traffic jams always but they were as likely to interfere with pursuit and police as they were with me.  

There never was meant to be pursuit. There rarely was. A  girl hasn’t to be prepared for everything. Good thing I was.

I liked the Winchester stainless steel 300 short win mag with Zeis Conquest scope.  Bolt action. I ‘ve got semi auto and auto rifles and guns but there’s nothing like the reliability of the bolt action.  It’s not like I couldn’t fire off a number of shells quickly too.  The longer rifles and single shots were thought more accurate but it all came down to practice and I liked the three shot possibility. I liked the conventionality of the Winchester. 50 mag or alpha would raise too many questions if jettisoned. Not a hunter’s rifle.  I even had a well forged almost valid  hunting license in one of my identities.

Once I’d missed the first shot but got the second.   After my shell hit the mirror behind the targets head tas he moved, there was was so much confusion. The target didn’t adapt quick enough to being prey.  I’d had kill shots at 600 yards but could shoot further. Just never needed too.  The argument for the lapis 338. Magnum  shell was good but I liked the commonness of the 300 wan. . Hard to trace back to me if I had to leave it.  Until now I’d never had to do anything in a rush.  I’d shot a lot of guys too who had body guards.Obviously not as good or bad as these.

I could see his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.  I’d thought to place the shot below there. Right at the base of his throat where the  neck joins the chest.  Let him drown in his blood.  Nobody was going to live with a 300 win mag chewing up trachea and severing arteries.  I could see there wasn’t an vest there not that a vest would do much good.  Better to be safe. An easy shot.  A mark could move the head at the last second.  Not that I didn’t like head shots.  My trade mark usually but sometimes even a heart shot is all that’s necessary to get the job done. 

I liked to lie on a beach in a bikini listening to the waves and attracting attention of athletic young men and intelligent older men. In my work it pays to be fit and at 35 I was in remarkable shape.  Not that I had to push it to be. I just had a lot of free time given I got a quarter million for a days work not counting the weeks of careful planning. I know some girls like to strip naked and dance for a thousand a night but I thought my gig had that beat hands down.

I really did like to read novels on the beach, eat fresh caught fish and dance slow with a body that I knew would pleasure me late into the night. It’s not like I had anyone to share my loot with.   I did like 5 star accommodations with room service and internet.  Not terribly expensive accommodation with no roof to fix or landscaping to pay for. No property taxes.  Wasn’t Howard Hughes but knew a hotel resort was a good thing. 

 I scuba dived and did photography.  I’d been a life guard when I was young.  I did keep up with martial arts.  Akido. Ju jitsu.  I found myself training in anticipation of work. Knife work, swords.  Whatever seemed of interest at the time. My rifle was my work but one never knew when I might have to rely on a pistol or a blade or even hand to hand to get away. I’d taken a number of fast driving courses too  and was hell on wheels on a motorcycle as well.

Right now I didn’t like his lips. Too full for a man. Kind of pouty.  My trigger finger was squeezing just as he spooned some more pasta from his plate. He was just lifting it from the plate when the silenced rifle made its tell tale sound. 

Zwit . The silenced shot emitted from my rifle.  Emit described the passage better than any other term.  

It should have connected with the base of his throat. But for some reason the body guard had leaned across  the table for god only knows what reason.  He certainly didn’t live  to tell. The shot meant for his boss  entered his ear and took brains and blood out the other side to splash all over the  horrified target who was already falling backwards as the table  collapsed under the weight of the  immediately very dead body guard.  I couldn’t see the target now down on the floor, to take a second shot.  Against all odds the other body guards had moved onto the street and were looking directly in my directions while other patrons obscured the view.  What a botch!

I was up and packing the rifle in it’s cello case, heading out the door, knowing I’d wiped everything and left no clue as I encountered the owner, who as usual wanted to chat with the beautiful girl with the appealing bosom.  I couldn’t stay but also couldn’t rush , so willed myself move slowly, to be polite to laugh and then walk purposelfully down the hall to the stairwell exiting onto the back street.  

I had the keys out of my black cowhide purse and was opening the citroen and placing the cello case in the rear seat. I climbed in the front seat remembered my seat belt and turned on the engine.  Traffick was light.  I drove down the road where high end fashion shops ranged while lovely shade trees lined  the street.  I could hear the police sirens in the distance.  I was free.  I was alive. I breathed slowly and deeply. 

I was leaving the police, the bodyguards, the target, and area.  I didn’t worry after I’d attained the freeway and driven for a half hour to the pier. I stopped there and reviewed events. What I wasn’t free from was the contract.  In my work there’s no room for failure.  Part of planning was having a back up location and shot.  But that would have to wait till another day.  I called the contractor. Explained the problem on the burn phone. Promised I’d deliver before the end of the week.  She was disappointed. It was all there in the tone. 

Then I was leaving the Citroen in the  underground parking lot while I rode the elevator to the loft I had  on the 20th floor. I didn’t like the lack of exits but it suited the profile.  

I put the cello in the closet.  I’m more partial to my rifles than I am to my cars.  I’d trade the Citroen for a common BMW next day.  I’d have to use the breakdown sniper rifle.  For now I’d like some entertainment.

“Marcie? Jan’ Could you come over?” I asked softly.  

Of course she could.  She’d be here in an hour. Just enough time for a shower and change.  I’d wear something loose and sexy.  Marcie was a tough lady I’d first met in a local bar. Drove trucks for a living but was clean and womanly.  Not too butch. We’d had sex that night at her place and I known then  I’d want her again. I had sometimes , not that I preferred blonds.  I liked a cock as much as the next girl  but when things weren’t going so good I preferred a woman who’d care,Already I could imagine Marcie holding me and comforting me. Not that she’d know why I was crying. But I was.  

I don’t like failure.  Now I was going to have to plan the hit with the target on high alert.  

The hot shower on my naked body calmed me.  Marcie arrived and liked the loose long sheer white gown I was wearing. She took me in her arms and hugged me. Her lustful firm body felt good. I said I like cock but I might like breasts more. Marcie’s had busts.   I liked too that she lead me straight to my bed . She has strong hands and liked to give what she calls her baker’s massage. Kneading themuscles like bread doe . Her hands were strong and soft. I was arroused by them especially when she turned me turned me over on my back . 

She’d made me quite naked quite fast.  She herself had been  out of her jeans and cotton shirt wearing just red cotton briefs when she began showing off her tongue, the strongest muscle in the human body.  She had a silver pearling in the middle of it that heightened the erotic. We were at least a couple of hours in bed before I napped all the tension gone and a warm glow in its place. Marcie let herself out. I heard her go.