A gray and white speckled pigeon flutters off the window ledge as I swing open the old glass pane. The window is caked with grime from years of abandonment. The rest of this warehouse is the same. It smells of dank rain and bird drek. I brush some white crust off of the ledge in front of me. I rest my briefcase on the floor and pull a pair of poles and a piece of nylon from under my coat. In a few seconds I assemble the makeshift chair. I dust off the seat, remove my coat and sit down. I stretch a bit and an audible crink comes from my neck. I click back my crew cut a bit and stretch my fingers in the leather gloves. A routine that I follow every time. I look around my new "office" and shake my head.
"Old boy, you do choose the greatest places to work don't you?"
I ponder this thought as I open my briefcase. Inside is my office utensil and my money making machine. A special, custom built Ares 9-11 Sniper Rifle. I assemble the weapon in less than 20 seconds.
"Boy you are good."
I smile to myself. I remove a single bullet from my case and look at it.
"Odd that such a small piece of metal and gunpowder could make someone so rich and some one else...well no time to think about that right now."
I blow on the point of the bullet and insert it into the firing chamber. I lay the rifle across my lap and pick up a small vid-notebook. I cycle through to the next open page. I enter the date, time, weather, air temp and the subject's name. "July 14th, 2:18, partly cloudy, 83 and Eric Weslyn." I pause as I look at the name. I flip to the job description section on my target. It reads: "Eric Weslyn, age 28, 5'6" tall, blonde hair, green eyes, fair complexion, elf. Married, two children. Head development coordinator of the 'Draken' Project for the Gamatech Corporation. Subject is to be eliminated in full sight of the public and other co-workers in order to delay the project and reduce company morale. There is to be one shot and one shot only. Payment will be 250,000 nuyen up front and the other 750,000 nuyen upon confirmation of kill. Payment will be made to the account you have given us."
"Just like every time."
I clip off the notebook.
"Just another day at the office."
I lean back in my chair and stare out the window at the office across the street.
"He's in there. Mr. Eric Weslyn. He has a meeting that will be getting out in about fifteen to twenty minutes. And once he steps outside, I will shoot him in the head and kill him with one little motion of my finger. Odd to think about it really. In less than half an hour this man's wife will be a widow and his company will be shaken to the core. A whole project will fall apart because of my actions. People would wonder how I could do such a thing, and I once had an employer ask me how I did it. I told him it was 'just business.' Which in fact it was. There was, and is, nothing personal about this job. I go to work and I'm paid to get a job done. To me it is a job and nothing else. For others in my profession, they write it off as 'art.' That's ridiculous if you ask me and a bit sick. Art is something that involves creation not destruction, but as I see it, 'to each his own.'"
I sit up as the front door opens. I peer through my scope. "Not him." I sit back in my chair again.
"I remember being approached on a train one day by an overly talkative and friendly gentleman. He introduced himself and asked me what I did for a living. My usual cover is an antique salesman, which for some part is true. I own a small shop on the outskirts of town. I have numerous antiques that I pick up at pawnshops sometimes or have people come in. It's a good cover and allows me to have an alibi when needed as well as a legitimate bank account in Seattle. To the world, I'm William H. Melville. To my employers, I'm Loki. Melville, what a wonderful alias. I can't kill people all the time and everyone needs to relax and do something they truly love to do. Killing isn't a passion that gives me pleasure, it simply pays the bills. Reading. That's what gives me pleasure. The old classics. Mark Twain, Herman Melville and Ernest Hemingway. These were true artists. I can sit and read their masterpieces time and again and each time I'm blown away. Ahab and his whale. When I read Moby Dick, I can smell the salt in the air and feel the boat sway beneath me. His imagery is intense and only bested by his characters."
A pigeon takes me back to the scene at hand. I look down at my watch. "Any minute now." I rest the weapon on the windowsill. I look outside at the clouds starting to clear and the sun beginning to shine through. "Well Mr. Weslyn, it would appear that you have chosen a fine day to meet your god. Or is it me that has made this choice for you. Then that would mean that I was in fact in control of your destiny. I could decide to not kill you and just walk away. Of course then I would have to leave and there would be others right after me and they may be much crueler. They might be artists and desire only to see you suffer. In that sense I may be doing you a favor. An obscure notion, even as it rests in my mind, but it will do as justification. Besides, people ruin other people's lives every day; they just call it 'lay-offs' and 'down-sizing.' Mine is a simpler and more concise version of those."
I check the description again. "Married. Two children. I bet he loves them very much. Unfortunate as it may be. I never understood that notion of love. I was raised in the streets. Well maybe I understood it, I definitely saw it around me, but I doubt I was ever loved. However, there was Shauna. She was perky and full of life. She came into the store about a year ago. She needed a job and though I never wanted anyone to get too close, I felt drawn to her in a way and I gave her the job. A shame, I should have known better than to let her get too close. But I did what was needed of me and she is in a better place now. It was 'just business.' No time to dwell on the past, I must focus on Mr. Weslyn. His meeting will be ending soon."
I sit up and get comfortable in my chair. I bring the scope to my eye and focus the lens on the front steps of the office. There is a small group of people exiting now. In the middle of the pack is a man in a white suit and black shirt.
"How ironic. It would appear, Mr. Weslyn, that you have met your Ahab this day."
The group exits the building. I line up my scope. The same images flash through my mind, as they do every time. I see Weslyn and his children. I see his parents. I see his past and his future. I see Shauna. He pauses on the steps of the building. My chance is now. "From hell's heart I stab at thee." I hold my breath as I do every time.
