RATING NOTE: THIS NOVEL IS RATED MA, FOR PERSUASIVE LANGUAGE, STRONG VIOLENCE, AND SOME DEPICTIONS OF SEXUALITY.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: 'HITMAN: LETTERS' IS A STORY BASED ON THE BEST SELLING VIDEO GAME: HITMAN. ONLY MINOR, AND NONRELATED MAJOR CHARACTERS ARE OF MY IDEAS/CREATION.

THANK YOU,

Aaron Morrison (Lexx Fox)

Hitman: Letters

I

Rome had become France. A horrid scene of fancy jewelry and unsuspecting consumers of the wealth; amusing to the foreign eye. I was prone, clutching my .338 Lapua Magnum, merely seventy yards away from Contrassegno, my target. I watched him, as if with pity. He sat laughing with his women, overdosing on wine and cake, whilst yelling for the waiter in a drunken manner. It was a week of never ending festival, and he had his fair share of the night life. Why did he have a hit placed upon him? Why was he closely being watched by myself, the predator, while he unknowingly took in his last breaths? Monsieur Timothy Haven, of Paris, wasn't the greatest favor of Contrassegno D'florva in his younger years. Haven was D'florva's student of medicine for five years, and he was eventually refused of further teachings. Along with Haven's apprenticeship, came an insurance from the wealthy D'florva of money and health problems, just as long as he studied from him to make better publicity for his name. Haven was eventually refused of further teachings, and forced into bankruptcy for 3 years. He continually contemplated suicide, until he could no longer take the misery. He slit his wrists on the fourth floor of the asylum he had been placed in only months before. So, still doesn't explain the reason why he was set up for death in only a few moments. What D'florva didn't know, nor cared to know, was that his former apprentice had a son shortly before he died who became big in the business of law, and became very wealthy. Since Haven died in '73, his son was now thirty-four years old, and undoubtedly prepared for his father's vengeance. The fact that he was a lawyer who was indeed hated by many, troubled his chances of killing D'florva without someone seeing and contacting the authorities. So, he took advantage of his mass wealth and placed a hit on D'florva for sixty-thousand dollars, cash. So, there I was, still prone, feeling my heart beating up to my skull, my blood ice cold, and one shot one the line. This always happened when I was completing a long-range kill. Every time, no matter if I was ten, or one hundred yards away, this would sink in. What if I miss? What if my scope had been tampered with in some way? These things, of course, were always possibilities, but they never took effect. As well as nervousness sinking in, some sort of blood-thirsty feeling would sink in. Sometimes, I would want to pull the trigger too soon, or possibly even throw the gun down, run as fast I as could at the man I was targeting and kill him with my bare hands. But, over the years, I became more aware of how important it was to sustain my cover, and I calmed down. Nervousness. That was the only factor anymore.

Previous the present night, I acquired the job. "Nice of you to accept my offer, Mr. 47, is it? Don't these agencies give you people a name any more?" He laughed. "But, really, we must make haste, for I have a later appointment which I cannot show up tardy upon." The location of the job acquirement was behind a small restaurant which had been closed down for some time.

"Your name, may I?"

"Mine? Of course, how rude of me. My name is Alexander Haven, I suppose that your agency didn't tell you."

"No, they didn't. Haven, I would like to make small talk, for I too, hate to be late for my appointments. Do you have the money, the name?"

"Yes, but how do I know that you can guarantee that this asshole gets killed?"

"The money is all I need to guarantee it. You give me that, and the hit is as good as done."

"Well, then it seems we have an agreement then, Mr. 47. Sixty grand for the murder of Contrassegno D'florva. Just out of curiosity, what instrument will you be using to kill the wretched animal?"

"I'm going to do the job with a standard sniper rifle the agency provided me with. A Fortsnaut." Haven let out a laugh, along with the two men who were in charge of his protection.

"A fucking Fortsnaut? Does not your agency find better ways to supply their people? If I may, sir, I have something that just may work a hell of a lot better than a Fortsnaut." He half-smiled as he reached into a bag that was handed to him, as if on queue, by one of his henchmen. He pulled out a long rifle that was about three and a half inches longer than a standard Fortsnaut.

"Do you like what you see, monsieur? A very nice piece of equipment, I think. Would you like to know how we managed to get our hands on this piece of art? We smuggled it!" He seemed rather enthusiastic about the idea of smuggling weapons, but nonetheless, he maintained most of his composure. "This is a .338 Lapua Magnum, one of the strongest sniper rifles of our modern time. It can penetrate someone's skull from seven hundred yards away, and can leave an armored vehicle burning from five to seven shots. I offer this gun to you, only for the joy of killing D'florva."

"I'm not one to accept weapons from the man who gave me the hit in the first place, much less a smuggler. If you want to improve the way the agency provides me with my tools, I suggest you discuss that with them. Anything else that needs to be said?" Haven eyed me almost disappointedly, but nonetheless bade me adieu and said to call his cell phone number the minute that D'florva was dead, and I was positively safe. I got into the car, also provided by the agency, and set off as fast as I possibly could to reach a late appointment. Rome was death in the night. It was freeing out, and the street proved it, for there was not a single living soul outside. I frisk searched myself to check if I had absolutely everything I needed for the kill. I had my Silenced Silverballer under my coat, fiber wire, my syringes for sedative and deadly encounters, but.. No. I braked hard and turned left, to try to turn around quickly, and my car almost flipped over. The Fortsnaut. I should have kept it in the trunk of the car, but I showed it to Haven like he hadn't seen one before, and left it sitting on the wall of the abandoned restaurant. I couldn't go back, no matter how badly I wanted to, I had no time. I would have to obtain a sniper rifle elsewhere. But where? Later. That could wait, but I needed to be there now. I stepped on the gas once more and sped down the Roman streets like a bat out of hell, my Silverballer silently waiting under my coat. I was already three minutes late, and ten minutes more, he would be long gone. I saw it coming up. On the outskirts of Rome, a small office building for technical powering of the city was fully lit up on the second floor. My target was still there. I sped into the parking lot, and parked nearest the entrance. I quickly walked up to the door, and pulled out the card which I was now named by: Mark Sean. I was posing as an American industrialist still in training and coming to Rome to seek wisdom of an older man of the job. The man who paid me to do this particular job was none other than Philippe Jean Luc, one of Alexander Haven's henchmen. Unsurprisingly, he wanted to keep the hit secret to everyone including Haven himself. I had no idea why he wanted Matthew Vorpeik dead, but the reason didn't matter to me. The payment was over double Haven's. $137,462.00 to be exact, and I wasn't going to let that payment merely slip away. I walked through the door, and told the security guard who I was and showed him my fake I.D. It looked as if he only half-way heard what I told him, but he said that Vorpeik and the other five people I was meeting with were on the second floor, as expected. I didn't hesitate to take the elevator, and I quickly made it to the second floor, and into the room Vorpeik was in. They were at a circular table, and the kindly asked me to take a seat. I obeyed, and they began their long conversation to me about the technical difficulties and problems that Rome has occurred over the past few years, and what problems the American plant I worked at had been having. I told them basically the same thing they told me, but I tried as well as possible to keep from saying a lot of words. It was almost time to do what I had been sent here to do. In five minutes, Vorpeik's colleagues would leave because of the end of the meeting, whilst I insisted that I have a few more words with Vorpeik. Then, I will quickly pull out my Silverballer and make a mess of his face with bullets. I would then walk slowly out of the room, finish Vorpeik's colleagues, take the emergency stairs, and slip out of the back of the building. All so easy.

As planned, Vorpeik's colleagues complained about the hour, but I said otherwise. They agreed to give me a few more minutes with Vorpeik before setting off, and as soon as they were out of hearing distance, I spoke. I was once again 47.

"Vorpeik, is it? Roman industrialist, brother, husband, human trafficker?" I was calmly flipping through his files which I hadn't had time to do before. "Humor me, Vorpeik. Just tell me, how many children did you put through prostitution?" The man was a broken statue, pale and dreading what he and I both knew would come.

"Who are you, why are you here?"
"Vorpeik, you know damn well what I'm here for, but you can call me 47."

"Please, I'll give you anything you want. Anything at all, just don't kill me, please I beg of you."

"They all beg Sebastian, but there's money on you, which means that you have only a few words left to say. Vorpeik opened his mouth to say something, but I was done wasting time. I wasted three bullets to his chest, and one to his head, and I then slipped out the door and took care of his colleagues. The current job was done. I made my way towards the emergency staircase.