The air felt thick as the hunter looked down from the hotel rooftop.
Absolute bedlam.
Good.
That should simplify things. It would certainly delay any organised reaction to the job at hand, making it easier for her to vacate the scene afterward.
The funfair in the street below was in full swing. The crush of colour and noise was overwhelming as the normally reserved and well-respected city played annual host to two days of strobe-lit, late night chaos. Revellers weaved their way between the attractions, awed and excited by the transformation which surrounded them. No alcohol was being served at the packed stalls, but the surrounding pubs, bars and cafes made this unnecessary. And who cared? Drunk people spent more money while paying less attention.
Even at this height, the smell that drifted up between the buildings was a cloying cocktail of stale hotdogs, overheated electrics and old mechanical lubricant. Pounding music filled any gaps between. She recognised Bananarama’s cover of Venus rattling speaker casings that adorned every striped awning. This was suitable enough for its use as a soundtrack to pulsating rides, but belied the age of either the Carnival Master who’d chosen it, or the box of CDs that travelled with the fair from town to town. The song vied for attention with the intermittent squealing of questionably maintained machines, and the heightened shrieks of the youngsters crammed into them. The song was winning, but only by virtue of being the one whose volume was controlled by a slider.
She'd opted for the crossbow to minimise the risk of being detected by the noise a rifle would make, but now realised that other would probably have been covered just as well, certainly at street level. The auditory payoff was the crossbow's slight drop in accuracy of course, but from this distance that would be negligible. All she had to do now was find the needle in this haystack that was her target and wait for him to pass beneath. Her gaze kept a roving eye on the main thoroughfare as it cycled between the three burger vans in attendance. He'd be drawn to one of those like a fly to shit.
There wasn't long to wait. Rick Astley was in his second verse of earnestly assuring that he was never going to give you up when the target shambled his way to the filthy fast food outlet in the centre of the fair, apparently alone and barging blithely to the front of the short queue and slapping his fat wallet down onto the stainless steel counter that folded out from the side of the van. A baggy, cream-coloured linen suit hung badly from a frame which was as wide as it was tall, topped by unkempt black hair and a scowling, pockmarked face. Dressed as a bad comic book villain, just like the photos she'd been shown, except she suddenly disliked him even more.
Now, it didn't do to be curious in this line of work. If you want to get to know strangers, train to become a psychiatrist. The why of each task here was rarely as important as the how. With a more high-profile assignment the reasons for termination may already be known, and on occasion the one holding the money actively wanted to explain their motivations, justifying the job to themselves as much as the contractor. But as a rule, finding out more about a previously 'blank' target could only complicate matters. The client for this particular case had been professional enough only to offer a price, and all the details necessary for earning that. Precisely how it should be.
It was overhearing a conversation in a grimy bar the next day (in all actuality, performing reconnaissance work for another job) that the reason for this hit became apparent. The target was in possession of a book. That simple fact in itself was enough to warrant, on this occasion, his death. Not her place to judge, this made little difference. She'd certainly killed people for far less. The item in question was a very old, very expensive, and by all accounts very sacred - even powerful - book. But the job was not to locate, acquire or retrieve the tome, it was only to take out the target. Precisely how it should be.
What complicated matters right how was that she'd be willing to bet half of her fee that she was looking at the same book. The target had flopped it down onto the greasy counter next to his wallet as he reached for the salt in anticipation of the order he was greedily barking at the vendor. Not quite as impressive as the gossip had made it out to be, the book was around six inches by eight, an inch and a half thick, and with antique leather wraparound reinforcements over a mottled, damp, pale cover. It looked like it should be sympathetically lit on a velvet cushion in a museum, although she suspected that until recently it probably had been. But the brazen, haphazard way the target treated this priceless artefact, laying it carelessly aside - along with his own wallet, no less - suggested that this slob was either incredibly stupid, or incredibly powerful. Odd that she didn't already know him by reputation. He was almost taunting someone, anyone, to steal what he professed not to care about. But it wasn't the items on the ketchup-stained counter which were about to be taken from him.
And that was the real problem. She had a clear shot, and the target seemed in no hurry to leave. But if she acted now, the book would be left exposed on the burger van's counter, and could easily disappear in the ensuing chaos. But so what? The hunter had absolutely no intention of moving down to the scene of her sanctioned murder to retrieve this curio. Since she didn't officially know of its existence or significance, she could hardly present it to the client as a clumsy hint for bonus payment. And keeping the book as a memento would certainly be idiocy, given what was about to happen to its current custodian. No, she had the matchbook from the hotel reception for that. But by the same token, if the book were to be removed from the scene by someone else, would this anger the client? Ultimately, she'd be responsible in that chain of events. No one was looking to lift the item at present, but that was because the target was still breathing (albeit raspingly, his posture really was appalling). Once he went down, all bets were almost certainly off.
But then, perhaps this was the client's plan? Maybe the client knew that this oaf would never let the book out of his sight, and the best way to recover it was to have him taken out in a public space while other operatives hovered at ground-level, ready to opportunistically swoop in and complete the job? As long as no one else takes the guy's wallet, nothing should look too amiss when the authorities arrive. Well, no more amiss than a public assassination usually would. She had no doubt the police would instantly know the target's identity. But organising a hit-and-run would have been easier, surely? Although that ran the risk of damaging the book, of course. And in that case, she wouldn't be being paid to be a part of the plan.
The job wasn't supposed to be this convoluted. Fuck it. She wasn't paid to worry about the book. Hell, she wasn't paid to know about the book. She took a long blink, exhaled and squeezed the trigger. Just over a second later, the target jolted silently forward and smashed into the open side of the van, a spray of blood erupting from his chest and catching the glistening white polystyrene carton being handed to him. Shock was instant, the queue gasped and distanced themselves from the event. People surrounding noticed the reaction of the onlookers before the one person who had caused it. The target bounced back dully and collapsed on his back, twitching. She re-aimed and placed another shot, at his head this time. One second and the job was done. Dead, and covered in chips. Precisely how it should be.
Simply Red were explaining how they love the thought of coming home to you, although they were losing that battle against the rising screams now.
She drew back slightly on the rangefinder and refocused. The book was already gone.
In its place was a framed photograph. She zoomed in, refocused.
It was a framed photograph of her.
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
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