I

I

I've gone by many names. So many names, it's almost a challenge to remember my real one. Such is the habit of many hitmen. But what sets me apart from them is the fact that I'm better. No hitman could ever match me. Mostly because they have not yet learned to let go of anything that can get in their way. Friends... family... sympathy... personal matters. In all of history, there has not been one hired killer that hasn't allowed himself to become a victim to those... human flaws. Even I have been victim to it. But once, and only once, during the death of my pet rabbit as a child. Alas, that is a story for another day. Mine is a much more recent one. Full of bigger problems than the death of a pet.

It was a dark Saturday night when I had accepted my last job. I sat on the foot of an uncomfortable bed in my shoddy hotel room. The place was a sheer disappointment, but I was used to them. Afterall, I couldn't expect much for thirty-six dollars. The room was very small. Only one window, and outside of it was a fire escape. A small bathroom with a tub and sink to my right. A broken, rusted radiator sat beside it, to the right of the entrance. The aforementioned bed, the foot of which was pointed directly towards the front door. To the the door's immediate left, there had been a table containing a small lamp with an ugly, green shade. My SilverBaller pistol lay atop it, on its side, suppressor attached and barrel facing away from me. Aside from my instincts, it had been the only thing I could bring myself to trust. A light, blue glow reflected against it, its origin being the small, open laptop sitting beside the gun. On its screen, my new briefing had been displayed as so:

'Hello, 47.

This is Clera. It's been awhile, but I trust your skills haven't waned. Of course, they never do. I do hope you'll excuse Diana's current absence. She's been quite ill, so I've taken over the task of your controller. Now, onto the mission.

Your target is a man named John Bristow.'

As I read, a picture had been displayed right next to the mark's name. It was of an old man. His hair was white, and clearly thinning. A wide, black moustache had rested under his plump, red nose. Wrinkles were all over his face. Burning the image into my memory, I continued reading the briefing.

'For the past few years, Bristow has been the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. As of late, he's been treating the ICA with considerable ignorance, pushing our assistance away. Here at Agency, we take this as not only an insult, but also as a sign that he's planning to sever our alliance with the American government's defense agencies. We all but know why he's taken this course of action.

Intel suggests that Bristow will be on vacation for the next four days. We've tracked his credit card payments and have managed to find out that he's staying at the Universal Studios Resort in Orlando, Florida. That is your opportunity to strike. As this is a high-profile target, my handlers have given me the authority to pay well above your fee. For a completion of this mission, you will be rewarded 1,000,000 U.S. dollars, all of which (after any necessary deductions, of course) will be sent to your usual account. And don't worry about having to buy your plane tickets. They're under the mattress of your bed. A map of the area has been included with this message for your reference. Good luck.

Merces Letifer,
Clera.'

--

The day was hot as hell here in Florida. Even being a southern native, I couldn't tolerate it. The resort was fucking huge. Probably hundreds of acres of land that had been covered with buildings and crowds of people. Plenty were walking on sidewalks, plenty into restaurants in the area, plenty over to the water parks, and plenty over to the many rollercoaster rides the park had advertised through TV and the newspaper. I watched them from about a half mile away on the balcony in my hotel room until shift change. I didn't want to be here. Not on security detail guarding some old loser while he took his time off. I bet that for Bristow, the stay was enjoyable. Next door, in the first room the intersecting hallway met, he was in there, watching a loud movie. He was probably getting room service and stuffing his quickly aging face with hoagies and gourmet food, while he enjoyed a back massage from a curvy masseuse. I drew a picture of it in my head as the thought had crossed my mind. But was that my fate, too? No. Why? Along with the three agents I had been partnered with, there was nothing I could do and nowhere I could go. I couldn't just walk out of this building to head off to the water parks or have fun on a rollercoaster or anything like that. Porter, the agent at the hotel's front door, would stop me if I tried. And if I went to the back, Williams, the agent at that door would stop me. To make matters worse, the air conditioning in my room was broken, with several hotel managers coming in to check on it periodically. If not a manager, then a technician. It didn't matter which, because I hated either. They were distractions, all of them. I was supposed to be using this time to rest, after all. Can't do that when someone is knocking your fucking door down.
I walked back through the balcony's window door into the room, over to my bed, dragging my feet across the carpet. I took the USP-45 Compact out of the hip holster on my belt and tossed it to the bed's pillow. Then I simply twisted around and collapsed onto the mattress' body, atop my suit jacket, all in one motion. The light film of sweat covering my body had made the long-sleeved dress shirt stick to my back as I landed. The earpiece I was wearing nearly popped out. Some of my hair got into my face, too. I didn't care. I just let my mind just lapse into darkness. My eyes stared straight up at the ceiling through my jet-black shades, never changing direction. Took a deep breath, then exhaled a sigh. I wanted to do something other than just sit here waiting for Reynolds, the rookie bitch next door standing in front of Bristow's room, to just come by and knock on the door and yell: 'shift change, Wolfram.' Soon, I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

A banging knock on my door, accompanied by a loud, indistinct yell, woke me up.
"Yeah," I called, getting up and putting on my suit jacket. "Shift change, I know."
The knocking had continued long after I got my gun and reached the door. It slowly became fainter and fainter as I unlocked it with my free left hand. Then I pulled it open. I expected to see the rookie standing before me, her face red with anger and her mouth shouting at me to get to Bristow's door. I didn't see that. I was looking at the beige wall of the hallway. But when I looked down, I did see the rookie. And I didn't like the position I saw her in. She was bleeding her heart out onto the beige carpet, staining it a brilliant red. Her eyes were open and her back was full of red bullet wounds. My eyes went wide as I poked my head out of the door. There was a tall, bald white man in a bellboy's uniform walking to Bristow's door, about three yards away. A shiny gun was in his right hand, which was behind his back. I could tell what gun it was. Long years of being a gun collector told me that. It was a silver-plated AMT HardBaller pistol. A black suppressor was attached to its barrel. His left hand was reaching for the knob on Bristow's room door.
"Freeze!" I yelled, stepping halfway out of the door and aiming my USP at him.
Before I even got the word out of my mouth, his gun was aimed right at me. I jumped back into the room before he could fire. Splinters of wood from the doorjamb started fragmenting and flew towards me as I heard the quiet blasts of his gun. I looked at the corpse before the doorway and looked at the bulletholes in the doorjamb. Four holes in the corpse. Four more in the wood. I jumped out of the room and saw him walk right into Bristow's room. I ran the distance between the two doors and aimed through the doorway. Bristow was in sight. So was my perp. The only problem was, Bristow was right in my perp's hands, sagging, and the perp wasn't holding his customized HardBaller anymore. He was holding a knife, which he chucked straight at me. I dodged out of the way before it could hit me and shot back into place before its heavy thud with the floor reached my ears. He'd let the boss go and ran for the balcony out of the window, opposite the door. It had already been open. I fired at him twice, aiming right for the barcode tattooed on the back of his skull. Both shots missed. He dodged out of the way of the rounds and vaulted over the balcony railing. The fucker's speed was amazing. Faster than anything I'd ever seen. I ran over to Bristow to check on him. There was a growing puddle of blood, pooling out from under his back. I got up and pressed my earpiece, running over to the balcony. Looking down, I saw the man hoisting himself up over the balcony below the one I was on. The asshole had dropped a full fucking floor! I wasn't believing what I was seeing.

"Porter! Williams!" I yelled into my earpiece as I ran out of the door into the hallway. "Bristow is hit, Reynolds is down! A bellboy caught us both by surprise! Suspect is tall, bald and white! A bellboy with a barcode on his head!"
I burst through the door to the fire stairs and ran down them as fast as I could to the next floor.
"I say again, suspect is a bellboy! Bald, tall, and has a barcode on the back of his head! Guard all possible exits and entrances, and lock the building down!"
"Copy that," my earpiece crackled. Williams' voice.
When I got to the next floor, I ran through the hallways, looking for the room that was directly under Bristow's room. His room number was 713. The one I reached was 613. Getting my gun up, kicked the door right open. The place was empty. Quickly and cautiously, I traversed through the room, to the bathroom. It was also empty. Nothing but a tub and a sink, plus the orange glow that illuminated everything. Then I backed out of the bathroom and went over to the balcony. He wasn't there, either. He'd gotten away.

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