(2013) Shooter

by Jack Parker

  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

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 1

  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 a
nything 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.

  CHAPTER 2

  I punched in the ten digit, randomly changing code into a keypad holding the back door to my building closed. It beeped once and clicked and the steel door swung open.

  "Home at last…" I mumbled, stepping inside and kicking the door shut. It closed and clicked, the lock sliding back into place. I was met with a dark nondescript hallway, only one door at the very end. This door led to a spiral staircase, which I climbed slowly.

  At the top, I walked into a warm, spacious room where a crackling fire roared in the center of it, surrounded by several wine-red sofas and chairs, and tasteful décor. Cherry wood made up the flooring, conservative bookshelves lined the room, and pricey artworks adorned the pale yellow walls.

  A small Hispanic woman was draped over one of the sofas, reading a paperback book. One crimson painted foot dangled over the arm.

  "Hey Julie." I called to her, crossing the room in a few strides and taking off my gloves and wet shoes when I reached and adjacent couch.

  "Hey Ghost. So I guess you're done with the Kramer job?

  "Thank God. Bastard stayed at a party forever. I sat on that rooftop for four hours. I. Am. Freezing."

  Julia grinned at me, dog-eared her page, and set the book down. I read the cover upside down with some curiosity.

  "Dante's 'Inferno'? That's different."

  "I thought I'd try some of the classics. Those romance novels were turning me into a softie." Julia sat up gracefully and stretched, her toes soundlessly touching the hardwood floor.

  I snorted. "Please." Julia Serrano, a softy? Right, when Hell freezes over, and pigs fly, and Sunnis start holding hands and singing campfire songs with Kurds. In other words, not bloody likely.

  "Seriously. I would have been useless pretty soon."

  That would be a sight.

  By the way. Wondering why she calls me Ghost? A little bit of professional respect, and a reflection of how we do things. My nickname's Ghost, because you never see me coming. Want to know what we call her? Medusa.

  Because once you're close enough to look her in the eye, you're fucked. It's over; kiss your happy ass goodbye. If we weren't such close friends, I'd be scared shitless of her.

  "Catching you useless would be like catching me singing karaoke to 'Achy-Breaky-Heart'." I gave another derisive snort and pulled off my wool hat, leaving my hair free to fall in my face.

  She laughed and winked one chocolate brown eye. "That's at the top of my list of things to see before I die."

  "Well, that box is going to have to remain unchecked. Sorry, hon." I grimaced as I shrugged off my coat and gathered the rest of my discarded clothing.

  Such a stripper, gosh.

  "Even if I said please?" She sounded cheated, and her grin turned into a frown of disappointment.

  "Not even if my life depended on it."

  "Ooh, careful who you say that to, Ghost." She flashed me the barest suggestion of a dangerous smile that gave me the willies despite myself. I almost shivered.

  I stood up with my armful of stuff and started toward my room. "I think I'm going to go soak. Work the chill out of my bones." I smiled again.

  Julia nodded, picked her book back up, and re-draped herself back over the couch, and called after me. "You can borrow my bath beads, if you like."

  "Thanks, Julie." I stopped and detoured to her room, going in just long enough to grab the little box from the bathroom and leave, closing the door before returning to my humble abode.

  The layout of the building was, two floors, the second floor divided up into a big center room with a large kitchen branched off of it, and three full bedrooms with full baths, and an office. One bedroom belonged to me, one to Julia, and one to Daisuke Kasuka, our roommate who shared our profession and our general way of life. A half-Asian guy who was pretty easy to live with, as well. The office was Kendall's, though he wasn't here too often.

  My room consisted of just a queen bed (I like my space), a modified walk-in closet (I like my clothes), a recliner chair and fifty-two inch plasma HD TV (I like my entertainment). A silver laptop rested on my bed, a little portable game system atop it. You wouldn't see anything here out of the ordinary, no hitman's gear.

  All that's in my closet.

  I hung my coat and hat on the waiting peg by the door, and went to go stick my shoes in my closet. I came out with a drab shorts and t-shirt sleep outfit, and went to my bathroom.

  Now, I absolutely love my bathroom. The tub's nearly big enough to swim
in, with jets and ooh, it's amazing.

  I grinned to myself, and started the water, dropping a few rose-scented beads in, steam rising in the air.

  I stepped out of my bathroom an hour later, much warmer and a good deal happier. I was busily toweling my hair, which smelled of roses and sandalwood, dry. It hung in damp spikes around my shoulders. I yawned deeply, and wandered to my bed, sitting on the edge, and casting about for something to do. Nothing much came to mind, so I sat there for a few minutes, until there was a knock on my door. It was one of only three people.

  "Come in." I called. The door opened. "Oh, hey Dai."

  Daisuke walked in, grinning and looking around. "Hey, Grace. How did your job go?"

  "'Bout turned into a block of ice waiting for the guy to come home, but other than that, just fine. Done right the first time, one shot, one kill." I pulled my legs up under me and grinned cheerfully.

  "The usual method, of course." He raised an eyebrow at me.

  I patted the spot next to me. "Here, park it for a mo'".

  He sat next to me, and even sitting, he was much taller. Julia and I were the smaller, stealthier ones. He was the muscle man.

  "You never did like getting your hands dirty." He continued.

  "Nope, not like some people. So how are you, Bull? Haven't seen you in two weeks."

  "Yeah, I was doing a couple of jobs in Cape Hill, one took a little longer than it should have, and Kendall's not happy with me." He grimaced and crossed his arms over his chest. A couple things clanked. He must have just come in if he was still armed.

  It was sort of an unspoken trust thing that none of us carried weapons around 'the house'.

  I leaned back, resting my palms on the bed behind me. "He'll get over it. Besides, what else can he do?"

  Daisuke shrugged. "Good point."

  "So what are you up to right now?"

  "Just talking to a friend." He grinned. "I think I'm free for a while, now, too. Would you maybe want to, I dunno, get drinks somewhere? Catch up?"