Chapter Two

First Blood

Ever since the Covert War in 2109, where many hit men sacrificed their lives in hope of not being alienated anymore, the government has allowed all hit men to obtain a 'License To Kill'. Showing this card to law enforcement would allow you to kill anyone, if you get paid. The downside is that 50% of your pay goes to the government. It was a small price to be able to kill.

The night was cold, as was usual on the colony. My hand rested on my pistol, the only known thing in this alien environment. The weather sucked, but the pay was great; one hundred thousand credits PLUS ten thousand for each of his bodyguards. It seemed like a simple mission. I glanced at my watch. 11:59.32 pm. Only 28 more seconds till Operation Unreal kicked in. I took a moment, as I always did, to close my eyes and focus. I thought of all I had accomplished, all I have met, and all I have killed. The kills were sometimes gratifying, such as the extortionist who sold people to be used for spare body parts, other times, they weren't. I didn't have time to think about those, however. I began feeling warmer; an obscure type of meditation I discovered at the age of eleven. I drew energy from the surrounding land and turned it into my own. My watch vibrated. It was go time.

I pushed the glass door open and walked inside the bank. My trained eyes spotted a single guard and multiple cameras. I didn't care about the cameras, however. My main concern was a male, 34 years old, jet-black hair, five-eleven, wearing a red suit with a black hat. Mr. Olnbaid was his name. His office was on the third level. It would be one hell of a time getting up there. One hell of a time getting down, too. I smiled at the secretary. "Is Mr. Olnbaid in?" I asked.

"That depends." Came her reply. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Mr. William W. Webster." Was my response. "I believe it's a midnight appointment."

"Yes, Mr. Webster. The first set of stairs on the right will lead you to his office."

"Thank you." I said.

I began walking towards the staircase when I heard the distinct sound of a gun being cocked. A Colt .45, a very rare type made in the pre-war era. One of those bullets could nail an elephant to a steel beam. I walked a little faster and exclaimed, "Wow, it's hot in here! Maybe a horse could stand up to the heat, but I can't!" My message was relayed to my entire team, who were already in position. I didn't really need my team's help. Then again, I didn't really need my cover blown. I felt it before I heard it; someone was attempting to hold up the bank. "Great," I thought to myself. "Just fucking great."

A piece of tile, about two inches away from my left arm, was shattered into thousands of pieces. I dove to the right. The resounding -boom- from the gun was all the information I needed to confirm my Colt .45 theory. Alarms, which should have ringed, didn't. These guys were good; their only problem was that they pissed me off. Coming out of my dive, I flipped backwards and got shot at again, this time with a Glock. Were these the guys who just robbed the antique weapons shop a few blocks away? "Tangos in the bank, tangos in the bank!" yelled one of the security guards, but to no avail. He and I were the only armed ones in the building that didn't intend on stealing money.

"Everybody get the fuck down NOW!" ordered one of the robbers, a short, stocky male. Leveling his Colt at me, he smirked and cocked it a third time. A small chuckle escaped my lips. "What the fuck is so goddamn funny?" he inquired.

"You missed me the first time." I calmly stated. This time, it was his turn to laugh.

"I missed you on purpose, you dumb shit. If you want to tempt luck again, asshole," he said, moving his sights on the Colt up to my head, "try me."

At that moment, the glass doors opened, turning the short guy's attention away from me. A man in his early twenties, clad in a black cloak, walked up to the short robber, apparently unaware of the gun in his hand. The short guy's lit up as he spoke. "This is what happens when I don't miss." He turned the gun to the newcomer. "Tonight, your luck sucks."

"Fuck you." was the cloaked man's reply. In one fluid motion, the cloak dropped from his shoulders and the cold metal of two Ingram Mac-10's pressed against the short guy's forehead. Dream Destroyer smirked as he squeezed both triggers. In an instant, the short guy's soft pink brains splattered against the wall about thirty feet away. Crimson blood, mixed with pearl-white bone, stained the multiple-colored carpeting. Sixty rounds of Jacketed Hollow Point ammunition later, the blood-soaked submachine guns fell silent. The short guy's head was ripped from his shoulders just after the initial shots were fired, spraying the surrounding area in chunks of bloodstained bone, tissue, and muscle. Before the dislocated head hit the floor, I was on my way up the first set of stairs on the right. I had a job to do.



deadly_sIn

deadlysin@blazemail.com

http://www.crosswinds.net/~deadlysin21

Representing Clan |{TZsK}|

Death, Destruction, Mayhem!

Last Updated:

December 5th, 2001

Author's Notes:

The UT wing of |{TZsK}| needs members! E-mail me to join!

On the topic of clans, Clan -=IFH=- was my old TFC clan, which I lead to an 11-0 record. We broke up when we realized that each of us had our own personal goals to achieve. iNSaNe and I are the ex-members of -=IFH=- that created |{TZsK}|. Dream Destroyer and Nocturnal Badger are the only other two ex-IFHers to serve in |{TZsK}|.