My cello case knocked against the steel frame of the roof access door, and the sound echoed down the stairwell behind me. It was a treated black leather case, five feet in length—give or take a few inches—and it was as unruly as you'd expect it to be. It was a chore rucking it up the six floors' worth of stairs, but taking the elevator would've been too conspicuous.
An exhausted sigh fell from my lips as I dove behind an AC unit and almost threw the cello case off my back and onto the loose gravel of the rooftop. The evening chill ripped through my jacket as I made my way to the parapet and inspected the view.
The Docks. It was a shitty place; there were no arguments there, but it had its charm if you liked cheap whores, petty crime, and druggies. All things considered? I'd seen worse.
I didn't want to get any closer to that shithole than I had to, but I needed to make sure the target was where I'd been told he'd be. I fetched a compact monocular from my jeans's front pocket and gave the Docks a once-over. It took a second, but a huddle of some guys caught my eye. A lit cigarette illuminated their faces, but I was too far away to make out their features, but I could tell their affiliation by the colors they wore. ABB. Good.
I tucked the monocular back into my pocket and spun on my heel back towards the AC unit and my cello case. The locks clicked open, and the hinges whined as I opened the case. The ancient light fixture on the bulkhead behind me cast a grim light on the gun inside. A modified Boys anti-tank rifle—scope mounted and chambered in .50 BMG. Normally, this'd be overkill, but, honestly, I was concerned it wouldn't be enough firepower for this hit.
I hefted the heavy motherfucker out of the case, lugged it to the parapet, and mounted the bipod. I rolled my shoulders and knelt, notched the stock snuggly in my shoulder, and looked down the scope. I found the ABB huddle again, this time with a bigger shirtless guy in it. He had some impressive ink and an even more impressive build; his mask may have hidden his face, but I knew well enough who it was. Lung. Good thing, too; I'd hate to break it to my employer that his information was wrong.
A shaky sigh escaped me as I lined up for the shot. My trigger finger tapped restlessly against the receiver as I focused on steadying my breathing. This was it. My big break. I'd killed Capes before, but no one like Lung; he was a big name—big-ish, at least. If I could put him down here, it could put me on the radar—make "Hitman" a household name.
"Christ." I whisper. I check and double check the scope; it's zeroed. When I look down the scope again, Lung and his goons are floundering, flailing their arms like they're fighting ghosts. There's some fire, and I can see the light reflecting in the metal plates gradually covering Lung's body.
"Fuck." I curse as I watch for an opportunity—any opportunity—to put a bullet in his head. Lady Luck must be on my side since Lung turns his back to me and cranes his neck to glare up at the building behind him. He digs his claws into the brick and mortar, lifting himself onto the wall. I take the shot, and the recoil tears through my shoulder, almost knocking me on my ass. I lost the scope when the recoil hit me, so I hurriedly moved to confirm the shot. I look through the scope and find Lung. He's on the ground; he must've fallen from the wall onto his back. He's still for a moment, and I think that for that precious second, I actually killed him. I almost want to celebrate there and then, but that brief wave of joy is swiftly crushed when I pick up on the big bastard squirming on the concrete. Horrified, I watch him drag himself up from the concrete and onto his trembling legs.
"Fuck!" I yell into the frigid evening air. Lung was disoriented, probably concussed, but he wasn't dead. I dragged the rifle to its case, threw it over my shoulder, and did my best to run to the ground floor without falling down the stairs—swearing beneath my breath the whole while.