A dry, sharp wind tore through untamed blue hair. It was the only thing uncontrolled about the man lying on the stony bed of crushed limestone on the rooftop in downtown New York City. His close fitting coat, his carefully placed tools, the well-organized case at the ready—everything was pre-planned and carefully prepared. Everything was ordered.
This man only survived with order.
His square shoulders rolled forward. His eye pressed tighter to the scope where it was focussed. His hands tightened over the long riffle in his hand, his index finger taking position over the trigger.
Five hundred and seventy three meters away, through a three and a half inch thick plate glass window, an ageing, overweight, Japanese man sipped a dark drink from a tall glass. A silver watch reflected the cold white light above his table. A candle flickered as a useless decoration on the long birds-eye maple table. A woman half his age in a sleek, low cut red dress laughed before him.
The wind slowed. The shooter pulled away from the gun for just a second to check the knots on a small device mounted at the edge of the building.
A sharp blue eye pressed back into the scope. He took a long slow breath and focussed on the grey tint of hair above the target's ear.
He inhaled. His finger drew the trigger back as far as it would go without firing.
The target tilted his glass back, finishing his drink.
One long breath escaped into the wind, and with it, a short, sharp burst of sound no one but the shooter on the rooftop would hear.
The speeding bullet passed through the pane without shattering it, without even a sound. It slipped through air and glass as easily as it slipped into the soft tissue of the target's temple, through a fragment of bone and into the nerve center of his being.
His glass slammed back against the table. His eyes bulged wide and breath of air departed his lungs for the last time.
Before his escort ever screamed—before anyone even thought to dial nine-one-one, the high powered sniper rifle was disassembled, the case in which it was stored was shut tight, and the man who'd fired the shot was sweeping back his messy hair and shutting the door to the rooftop behind him.
Forty nine minutes later, when the police were still setting up their yellow tape and sobbing spectators tried to give their statements, the man took his seat on a Boeing 747 preparing for takeoff.
And well before any laser beam traced the angle of the shot and the path of the bullet to the building seven hundred and seventy three meters away, the man who'd fired the shot was across the Atlantic and sipping back a pure shot as he the pilot announced they'd be making their final descent in the next thirty minutes.
He was Grimmjow Jaggerjaques. And he was that good.
The door shut quietly on the single bedroom apartment. Grimmjow set the thread back on the side table where he also placed his keys. If it hadn't been where he'd left it, perched on the top of his door, he would have remained vigilant. As it was, he quickly scanned the rest of his apartment for telltale signs of an intruder and let himself relax. He would know if anyone had been here, or was still here—his instincts were too sharp for him not to know.
So he dropped his duffle on the floor and sank into leather cushions, never even turning on a light. His hand closed over the barrel of the semi-automatic beneath the cushion behind his head and he shut his eyes, falling asleep almost instantly.
Two hours later he sat up from the spot, stretched out stiff muscles and undressed. His shower cleansed him of the plane ride, the powdered lime that had gathered on his hands and midriff during the job and the sleep that still called him. But he didn't have time right now, so he left the shower, clean shaven and refreshed, and dressed in a black button up and dark jeans. He tucked a long silver knife into the top of one boot, another down the side of his pants, and finally a gun in the waistband of his boxers in the back of his pants. It was less than his usual equipment for a meet, but he knew this dealer was skiddish. He'd take his chances for a good pay day.
Two subway trips later he was in the heart of Tokyo, stepping off the streets into a high rise building. He noted the exit signs and the service stairwell before stepping into the elevator. Security let him pass when he reached the top floor. He passed glass walled rooms and dozens of men and women in sharp, clean suits. The office at the end, however, was his destination. He carefully tracked the movements of the three security guards with him, noting their height, weight and proportions. He saw the way they held themselves, figured out the positions of their guns, and willingly gave up his own gun before entering the office. He knew there was no point arguing.
"It's done," he announced as soon as the door was shut on the spacious office. Two walls were thick glass overlooking the sweeping landscape of buildings and streets and cars. Plants twisted and climbed here and there decoratively. Grimmjow only bothered to note that there was only one way in and out of this room.
"I can see that." The slender man behind the desk rose and stuck out a hand. A name plate on his desk read Shawlong Kufang.
Grimmjow crossed the room and grasped his hand. They shook firmly before separating and Kufang indicated Grimmjow sit.
"I can't believe it. I only hired you two days ago. How did you manage it? Getting half way around the world and back again? I mean—"
"Doesn't matter," Grimmjow interrupted. He didn't discuss the details of any op, even if this man had paid him to do it. "I just want my other half."
"Of course." The man turned back to a painting behind his desk. He slid it back to reveal a safety deposit box. Grimmjow watched his fingers dance over the keys. Even though Kufang tried to block his view of the code, he easily picked out the placement of his fingers and filed the number away, just in case it might be useful someday.
"He was trafficking young Asian women into America, you know," he spoke as he withdrew wads of cash. "You did a great service to—"
"I don't care," Grimmjow cut him off quickly. He knew everything he needed to know about the man he'd killed. He never killed without research and he'd read an extensive file on his flight to America. He also didn't need justification for doing what he did—just a payoff, which the man now handed to him.
"I see. You're discreet. I'm glad. I wouldn't like it if you were too chatty."
The implication was clear. Grimmjow pocketed the cash and stood. "Of course I won't be saying anything about our transaction."
"Good. Then our business is complete, for now."
"It is." Grimmjow turned back to the door. "If you ever need my services again, you know where to get a hold of me."
"Indeed." The thin man took the door from him. Grimmjow nodded and left. He was given back his gun. This was good. Having trustworthy clients made things so much easier for him. Kufang hadn't tried to withhold cash, or make things complicated by getting squeamish. He hadn't even tried to kill him. If all business deals could go down that smoothly, Grimmjow would lead a very quiet life.
But quiet was not the word to describe the way he'd lived for the past six years, nor the years previous to that when he'd been a respectable member of the JSDF Special Forces.
He walked half way home. He picked up fresh food to restock his fridge. He returned to his apartment in an upscale building in the south end of town, surrounded by popular restaurants and nightclubs he never visited. Once home, he eased back into his chair and took a drink.
His eyes settled on the single photo framed on the far wall. After just a second, he pulled his eyes away. He didn't need the photograph to see her face, or remind him of the past. He didn't need anything but his own, unerring memory for any of that.
His head sank back. He shut his eyes. He didn't have room for that memory, or the feelings that went with it. It was emotions like that, that could get someone like him killed.
This was a request from Romao. I decided to write the beginning to get a feel for whether or not its something I would continue writing. I kind of like it, so I may continue, but not for a while since I have quite a bit on the go at the moment!