The Perfect Killer

Summary: Troy Bolton is a well trained, successful assassin assigned to the biggest mission he's had to face: to take the life of the President's daughter, Gabriella Montez. But when it all boils down to pulling the trigger, can he do it? So much for the perfect killer, right?

Disclaimer: Don't own HSM, only the plot.

A/N: Enjoy! It's the prologue.

Prologue

Troy Bolton sat in his hotel suite, lying on the best, unable to sleep. The flashes of light from the television kept him awake. The lights were still on though. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed loudly as he reached into his bag under his bed, and pulled out a manila folder, taking out the contents and tossing both the bag and folder to the floor. He'd just received his newest targets, the result of complete his last assassination feeling more satisfied then ever. He hadn't looked at the folder when he first received it, not wanting to be obvious and out in the open. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes to look down at the papers on his lap. He wondered if this mission would be as adventurous as the last one: the assassination of the politician currently running for a seat in the Senate, Warren Redford. He closed his eyes and relished in the memory, forgetting the papers in his lap.

Troy Bolton wasn't born into a family of assassins. It wasn't his destiny to continue the legacy of being cold-blooded, cold-hearted, ruthless killers.

But it's who he was.

He killed the innocent. He killed the guilty. It didn't make a difference. As long as the job got done.

Young, old, black, white, Latino, Asian, from the country, from the city, rich, poor, married or single, none of it mattered.

Death. Such a simple word, yet such a harsh reality.

He wondered, why was everyone dying to live, when they're only living to die?

If there was a heaven,he wouldn't make it to the gates. He had the stains and stench of dried blood on his hands, the blood of his victims.

This is what he did to people. It was his life. But what for?

He does it for the rush. It's like adrenaline coursing through his veins in anticipation of his next move. It's like riding a deadly roller coaster without a seat belt. Some said he was sick and twisted.

The painful, agonizing screams, the 'pop' noise that echoed when the bullet hit the body, the thud when the body hit the ground, the smell of gunpowder, the eyes that roll to the back of the head, the bodies that lie limp and bloody in the most contorted positions and the smoke coming from the barrel.

It was euphoric to him. But there was a catch. He couldn't be caught. If he was to be caught, he'd be exposed, or dead, even. He'd be the victim screaming, pleading for mercy and on the other side of the gun staring down the dark barrel of inevitable death. They'd laugh, just like he did, as his body would twitch on the ground from the side effects of the lead.

Honestly, his soul was already dead. He sold it to the devil a long time ago. He left behind the laughter, the joy, the happiness, the cheers. He couldn't remember the last time he laughed, or so much as cracked a smile even. It had been seven years since he lost his soul. He was staring at his next target, his next victim. He watched from across the street, standing from an office building roof of the secret society of assassins he belonged to, aiming his AK-47 precisely enough to hit him right where he wanted to, just for the hell of it. It wouldn't hurt if he got a little fun out of it. It didn't matter where he was shot, as long as the deed was done. He planned on shooting right through the middle of the large window and hitting him square in the neck. He watched and removed his hands from the gun slightly as he saw the politician appearing to smile and laugh heartily, trying to win over the citizens of the town with humor. He placed his hands carefully on the gun, to not knock it out of place. He placed his finger on the trigger, he counted..

"Three...two...one."

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Four shots pierced the window, making it shatter eerily as he saw the politician stagger backwards oh so dramatically and watched the citizens, media, and dense bodyguards go into a frenzy, talking on their walkie-talkies. Troy laughed incredulously at the sight and felt proud of himself for a job well done. He blew the smoke from the gun and took it down from the tripod and walked back inside his office building and down the corridors to put the gun up.

He smiled to himself once more before coming back to Earth and opening his eyes. He took yet another deep breath before looking down at the paper before him. He skimmed over the first few papers, and soon found it to be filled with useless information. Those were just short little profiles on the soon-to-be-dead. There were 5 papers in all, but when he got to the last one, he saw a rather detailed and lengthy paper was much different than the other ones. He looked at the page to see a medium sized picture in the top right hand corner showing a girl with flawless olive skin, raven colored locks pinned up with a few strands tickling her cheeks, and her smiling profusely. He analyzed it over and over and was taken aback by her beauty. This one was much different from the people he'd killed before. The picture also profiled her in a tight, black, curve hugging red dress as she waved to the paparazzi. He couldn't comprehend the sudden beads of sweat forming, the drastic increase in heartbeat, the buckling of the knees, or why there was a tent slowly forming in his loose sweatpants. He shook his head and brushed the thoughts away and blew out a gust of air. He saw what could have been her name, printed in bold, black letters across the top. He read it aloud to himself.

"Gabriella Montez." Montez, Troy wondered. He read the 'brief description' part of the file that he wouldn't normally read. It stated that she was the daughter of the President, Gregory Montez. She had graduated magna cum laude from Stanford University. Troy wondered why he hadn't seen her before, since he attended the University of California at Berkeley, which was only 32.7 miles away from where Stanford stood. He focused back on the words in front of him. He absorbed the key concepts and knew what he had to do. He picked the folder up from the floor, put the papers back in, and put the folder back in his back. In a matter of however long it took, America's sweetheart, Gabriella Montez, along with the preceding four, would be lying dead somewhere in an alley, a dumpster, or wherever he pleased in DC.

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There's the prologue for you! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I will enjoy writing it for you! Review please!