I don't own the rights to Hitman or any of the Hitman characters. Just a big fan. I've written some short stories about 47 before, but this one I'm going to write an actual "story" story. I plan to keep writing this, but I have no idea where it's going.
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The music in the club loudly thumped against the dark walls. Strobe lights flashed across the dance floor, turning the moving mass of people into a slow motion frenzy. The entire club was hazed in a fog of smoke and sweat. A DJ stood on the stage flipping between records, jumping from turntable to turntable, keeping the energy of the crowd up. Barely clothed girls hung from the ceiling in cages, dancing to the rhythm of the music. Curtained booths lined the back wall of the club, keeping VIPs secure from the masses of clubbers.
Bobby Cortolino sat in the center booth, his arms up behind him on the backrest. Gorgeous women sat on either side of him; lines of small white powder were in front. Other men and women sat at the table with him, talking, drinking, laughing. In front of the table, four large men stood, their blacks suit's a stark contrast to the colorful outfits all around them. They stood scanning the crowd, unmoving, unblinking. The bulges under their jackets obviously covering weapons. Bobby looked around at the crowd dancing in front of him.
"We got us some party going tonight, huh?"
The people around the table all nodded in agreement. Bobby leaned over to the girl on his left, whispering in her ear. With a grin, she slowly slid down, disappearing under the table. The other girl slowly smiled and soon made her way under as well. Bobby bent down, snorting a long line of the cocaine, then leaned back against the booth, a smile on his face.
"Damn, it feels good to be me."
Outside the club a car slowly came to a stop, parking in an open spot. The man behind the wheel turned the ignition off and sat, observing the club entrance. A long line of party wishers stood at a velvet rope, each vying for the chance to enter. Three bouncers stood in front, one waving a wand over anyone entering searching for weapons. The figure in the car reached into his jacket, removing a small black box. Flipping it open, revealing it to be a small computer, he clicked a series of keys and the screen buzzed to life, it's glow slowly illuminating the interior of the car. The figure looked around searching for anybody who might notice. Seeing no one, he turned back to the computer. Typing a password in, the computer screen faded into a program. Attaching an earpiece to the computer he slowly slid it over his ear. A female voice with a distinct European accent began speaking.
"Good evening, 47."
47 stared as the computer began displaying images, still pictures of a young man, early twenties.
"Your target is Bobby Cortolino, known drug dealer and heir-apart to the Cortolino crime family. Our employers wish for him to be eliminated. He is heavily guarded, with a team of at least four bodyguards with him at all times. He spends most of his nights at his nightclub, The White Pony, always occupying the center booth at the rear of the club."
The screen switch to a design layout of the club, a red dot flashing at the rear of the club.
"The night club, itself, is well patrolled and guarded. The best entry into the club is most probably through the rear alley. Security cameras are dotted throughout the club so entry without being spotted will be difficult. Good luck, 47."
47 cycled through the layout of the club, memorizing key details, then turned the computer off, opened the glove compartment and placing it inside. Reaching to the backseat, 47 pulled a briefcase forward, laying it down on the passenger's seat. Opening it, he removed a pack of cigarettes and slid them into his jacket, then pulled his red tie loose, sliding it from around his neck.
Gregory Tilio leaned against the brick wall in the alley behind the club. He heard the music inside, but didn't really care. He liked working out back of the club. He hated club music, enjoying rock music far more than any techno. Usually having a partner out here with him, Franco had called in sick, leaving Tilio out here alone for the night. He glanced down at his watch, knowing he still had at least four hours left on his shift. The chatter on his earpiece started to annoy him, so he pulled it from his ear and slowly cycled through a list of mental songs he kept stored in his head, then began listening to one in his head. He started to tap his foot to he beat and stared blankly at the wall across from him. A sudden crash jarred him out of his trance. Spinning around, he pulled his 9mm from his jacket, aiming it at the entrance to the alley. Another crash sounded as a man came stumbling around the corner into the alley. Tilio stared as the man stumbled his way down the alley, leaning heavily against the wall.
Just another fucking drunk coming to take a piss.
It happened all the time working in the alley. It always surprised Tilio when a drunk or drug head didn't stumble into the alley at some point during the night. The man crashed into another trashcan, sending its contents spilling to the ground. The man laughed as he slid against the wall, glancing up and finally noticing Tilio. Tilio clicked the safety of his gun back on, sliding it back in his jacket.
"It's cool man, just take it easy on whatever you're on."
The bald man grinned and talked back it what sounded like Russian. Tilio just shook his head and leaned back against the wall. The man reached into his jacket and Tilio instinctively had his hand on his gun in a flash. He relaxed as the man produced a pack of cigarettes, sliding one out and putting it loosely in his mouth. Turning the man held the pack out to Tilio, mumbling something in Russian. Tilio just stared at him. Shaking the pack, the man grumbled a little louder. Finally Tilio sighed and took a cigarette, figuring it would get rid of the man faster. Putting the cigarette in his mouth, the man produced a lighter and clicked it on. Tilio lit his cigarette and took a puff from the cigarette. It actually was pretty good, the nicotine loosening him up a little bit. The man talked some more in Russian as he horribly tried to light the cigarette dangling from his mouth, dropping it over and over to the ground. Tilio just shook his head and let out a small laugh. He was really starting to loosen up. His head started to feel light and his vision blurred a little. Apparently it had been a little longer than he thought since the last time he had a cigarette. He grinned and shook his head, trying to clear it up, but it only made it worse. He looked across the alley at the Russian who was suddenly standing straight up, staring at him. Suddenly, his knees gave out and Tilio fell back against the wall, glancing down at the cigarette.
"Moooottheeeeeerrrrr…….fuuu--"
The Russian step forward and grabbed him before he fell to the ground, slumping unconscious in his arms.
47 dragged the guard behind a dumpster and checked his pulse. Looking up, 47 double-checked that the last few moments had taken place out of sight of the camera that was attached to the wall in the alley, it's lens focused on the entrance to the alley. He had been able to move along the wall under the camera keeping his face low enough so that even if he camera had caught sight of him, no detailed features of his face would show up on the tape of the camera when it was inevitably played back after tonight was over.
Pulling off the black jacket and tie the guard was wearing, 47 put the items on quickly. Quickly frisking the man, he also pulled the man's 9mm, wallet, and radio, putting the earpiece into his ear. He listened as the other guards in the club checked in occasionally, reporting that they caught a glimpse of something or other. 47 removed a pair of sunglasses from the guard's pocket and slid them on, disguising himself a little more. Standing up, 47 reached down and easily lifted the unconscious guard up onto his shoulder, then turned and heaved him into the dumpster, closing the lid shut after. 47 straightened out the sleeves of the jacket and walked to the back door of the club.
Opening the wallet, 47 quickly found the electronic keycard and slid it into the door lock. The light blinked green as the click signaled the door opening. 47 cracked the door open and glanced inside. Waiters jogged back and forth, empty and full trays exchanging. A hung from the ceiling in one corner of the room, scanning from the back door to the entrance into the kitchen. He stood, not pushing the door in more than just the crack and timed the camera as it panned back and forth. Moving quickly, he stepped in through the door and walked into the kitchen, moving against the wall the camera was mounted on. No one noticed him as he walked through the busy kitchen, the waiters and chefs far to busy to look at another faceless guard walking through. 47 briskly walked through the kitchen, stopping momentarily as the camera paused on the entrance into the kitchen, then began turning its way back towards the back door. Walking out of the view of the electronic eye, 47 walked out of the kitchen and into the club. Stepping to the side, 47 stood behind a pillar and took in his surroundings. People were dancing all around, a steady stream of waiters walked from the kitchen to a staircase to 47's left. He turned his attention upward and looked for any surveillance devices. He saw them, but they were too far away to be able to distinguish him from any other guard that patrolled through the club. 47 turned and walked up the staircase to the second story of the club. Arriving to the second floor, he looked around.
A few similarly dressed guards made their way around the tables where some people ate hastily prepared food, some smoked cigarettes, some smoked something other than cigarettes. The haze of smoke was thick. 47 walked to one wall of the floor made entirely of glass. The second floor was, in fact, a balcony that looked out over the club. Walking to the plexi-glass, he scanned over the dance floor. He spotted the guards at the back wall in front of Cortolino's booth. He saw Cortolino behind them leaning back against the booth, people sitting all around him. Turning, he walked to the East side of he club, keeping well out of range of any cameras hanging down from the ceiling, to a door that was colored like the wall around it so that if you didn't know it was there, you'd never see it. Pulling the guard's keycard again, he swiped it over the hidden security pad. The door slid open and he disappeared inside, sliding it back closed quickly behind him.
The room wasn't much bigger than a closet. A toolbox sat on the ground and a ladder rose to the ceiling. Quickly going up the ladder, 47 pulled himself up onto the catwalk and slowly walked out over the club. The catwalks were built so that maintenance workers could get to any of the dozens of lights, smoke machines, or security cameras that crisscrossed over the whole club. 47 quickly moved across the maze of catwalks until he reached the line of walkway that stretched across the entire back wall of the club. A fuse box was attached to the wall in front of him. Interested, 47 pulled his lock pick out and hastily opened the box. A list was posted on the door of the fuse box listing which of the corresponding fuse matched the number with it. Scanning through the list he came across three different breakers, each labeled security. 47 considered this option, running through possible scenarios. Pulling the Silverballer from his jacket, he made sure the silencer was tightly screwed onto the barrel, and then slowly moved until he stood looking over the railing of the catwalk.
Cortolino bent down and took a snort of another line of cocaine, then leaned back against the booth again. These two girls were good as he felt himself getting close. He leaned his head back with his eyes closed, resting it against the soft cushion. He slowly smiled and opened his eyes. He raised an eyebrow when his eyes focused on what was above him, but before he could do anything, the bullet impacted into his forehead.
47 stared down at the now dead Cortolino, whose dead eyes continued to stare back up at him. The silencer worked as it should, with no one at the table none the wiser that one of the people sitting at the table was now very much dead. The sheer fact that the two bobbing heads in Cortolino's lap didn't even slow down almost amused 47 as he slid the gun back into his jacket. Taking his leave, 47 walked back past the fuse box, reaching out his gloved hand, clicking the three fuses reading security. Sliding back down the ladder from the catwalk, he retraced his steps and left through the same backdoor he entered from, ignoring the now unmoving cameras. 47 walked out of the alley and back up the street to his car, disappearing back into the night. But, what he did not realize was that this hit, while completed, was due to get much more complicated.