Splot14:49 Feb 12 2023
Times Read: 124
Opening his car door Allen had continued muttering as he did so, since he had driven to his destination. The Boss had wanted his christian name, prior to payment for his last job, insistent that it had to be this way for now, the numbers account was being monitored.
So he had given his first name, Irwin. The cheque had been written out by a smirking fat man, who sat behind a cluttered desk.
The Boss had extended his right arm, a brown envelope in his hand.
“Your next assignment,” he had said, then coughed into a mottled hankerchief.
“Doctor's keep telling me to stop smoking, but I never listen.”
He had coughed again, expelling the results into his handkerchief, noting with a slight scowl that there were splotches of red there.
“You better be going,” he had snapped and brought the handkerchief back to his mouth, before another coughing fit had begun.
Allen had taken the folder with a determined look to his face, “Same rate?” He asked.
Between coughs the fat man had nodded and Allen left, closing the door to the small office, with a distinct thud.
As he had made his way to his car he had begun to mutter about the indignity of admiting what his full name was, recalling the sweating fat man's smirk.
Allen had worn a large dark coat over his safari camouflage-gear, although it was still quite warm for this time of evening, but it kept him disguised from the public.
The drive had not been a long one, before he turned a quick left and the underground garage, where he would park his car.
Allen made his way to the lift, ensuring his holdall felt comfortable on his right shoulder...
He smiled to himself, noting that there was no-one else in the lift.
'Perfect,' he mused, pressing the button for the top, holding his finger in place.
He wanted no company.
As the lift neared the top Allen calmed his breathing, prior to opening the doors.
Then placing the holdall down, Allen opened it and donned his balaklava and shades, so that his face would not show.
Then he began to walk up the short stairwell to the roof. He opened the door at the top, outward onto a scarlet sky and another warm evening.
Allen knelt and set the overall down, to remove his kit.
The balaklava. shades and camo-gear would hide him from anyone looking upward, or from any of the taller buildings surrounding this one.
And, he had to breathe slower, Allen knew that.
But, the thing about his name had irked him, goodstyle.
He set his tarp down over the gravel aand sat lotus-fashion, hands entwined in his lap. The rest could wait five minutes he mused, I have to calm down.
Thus it was Allen sat for a full five minutes, breathing slowly.
Finally he sat upright and stretched, looking at his watch.
Still plenty of time, he mused.
Turning, he unpacked the suitcase and lay the tarp down over the gravel and put the pieces out, to be assembled.
The barrel fit tightly into the stock and he set the scope into place, finally he fitted the 'silencer', which he considered more a sound suppressant, as there was still sound, just not a bang, more a 'splot'.
Allen lay prone on the tarp and held his weapon carefully, aware of the weight of the silencer, which he compensated for the addedd weight, eyeing through the scope; looking to his target, eating Italian, as he did every Tuesday at this time. The contract had been a simple one, remove the bad guy, so Allen did.
He pulled the trigger slowly, aware that his target was laughing as he did so.
Glass broke and the victim fell forward, into his soup.
Allen smiled, then frowned as a bullet tore into his skull with a loud 'splot'.
Across from where he had was, another sniper lay, dressed in a similar manner.
He picked up his phone, “It's over boss, Allen's gone.”
Simkins grinned at the prospect of The Boss smiling at what he had done.
Then, a bullet tore into his forehad and, he dropped the phone.
And across the miles, The Boss smiled with satisfaction, the evening was good,
he mused while he finished his whiskey; as a bullet shattered his window and tore apart his skull.
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