In Too Deep(156)

Checking the cabinet, I pulled out the heavy caliber AR and attached the scope. Bringing it up to my cheek, I sighted down the dimly lit basement, impressed. The scope wasn't super powerful, only magnifying things by a factor of seven, but it was enough. I could easily see the writing on the paper down at the end of the basement which was taped to the wall.

"Remember, find the cold place," I repeated to myself before smirking and pulling the rifle away. It was one of the lessons Mark had taught me, and perhaps the hardest for me to internalize. Watching Mark, even when we were sparring in martial arts or working out, it was easy to see when he went to his cold place. There was something in his eyes, something in the way he held his jaw that told me the warm-hearted man that I knew had dropped away, and I was looking at another side of Mark, the survivalist side that would have no problems slaying a thousand men if it meant they were in his way. I once told him that if there ever was a zombie apocalypse, that was the side of him that would make sure the two of us survived.

For me though, finding the cold place when it came to violence was more difficult. Sure, I could do it, I had done it when the Russians had attacked us, but it was much easier when I was saving lives rather than taking them. The most recent time I could think of was when I had stitched up Mark after the Russians had shot him, and I had to not only stabilize him but dispose of the bodies and evidence. Once I'd treated Mark, staying in my cold place was easy. Getting there however was difficult.

Still, I thought I could do what needed to be done. In a lot of ways, Mark had given me the easier of the two hits. Illyusas Petrokias was the biggest controller of the sex trade in the city. Whether it was men, women, old, young, or even more "exotic" if you wanted it, chances were you'd find it under Petrokias' control. He was of course also heavily involved in the sex slave trade, trafficking girls and young boys both in and out of the city. When the newspapers came out with a story of a young undocumented immigrant found dead, if they carried it at all, nine out of ten times they were a worker for Petrokias who had outlived their usefulness.

So it was very, very easy to want to put a bullet in the man's head. I say head because I doubted he had an actual heart with the disgusting things I read he was involved in. There was still a challenge however in setting aside my disgust to complete the shot.

I triple checked the rifle, then checked that the sound baffles were still good in the basement. While I was sure the scope was good, my training taught me to always confirm the zero on any attachment to a rifle, especially if I was taking a shot over two hundred meters. Since our plan called for me to make a shot that was close to three hundred, I retreated to the far end of the basement, where a small pile of sandbags waited. Setting the rifle down, I then went to the other end of the building. The building was only a little over forty meters long, and the padding and absorbing material at the far end meant I could only make a thirty meter shot, but that was enough. Taking out a small paper target, I pinned it to the foam, which could absorb anything short of a fifty caliber shot or an elephant gun. I went back to the rifle, and put in a twenty round magazine. I wouldn't need all twenty rounds, I was hoping to need no more than two, but still, better to be prepared than to be sorry.

Getting down on the floor, I got into the prone position, the most stable position I could get. I looked through my scope, centering on the small X in the middle of the target. I chambered a round, took the rifle off of safe, and reacquired my target. The trigger was touchy, barely taking more than a caress of my finger to fire the rifle. The target blurred in my vision as the recoil shifted the rifle, but I quickly found the spot again, with a neat little hole just a shade over the X. Considering I was firing a hot round that was going to fly high at only twenty five meters, I knew I was ready. Even if I aimed at the head, I'd only miss low, dropping one right into Petrokias' torso.

Who knew? If I aimed for his chest, I might just blow off his balls.

The thought, while a little sick, comforted me as I removed the magazine and cleared the rifle, making sure I was ready to go. Concealing the rifle and my backup weapon, a Glock 19 pistol, in a electric keyboard case, I shouldered the heavy bag along with a small bag of other supplies and checked the way I looked in the mirror. My purple hair was concealed under a black wig and baseball cap, while my pants and outfit made me look like any of the other thousand struggling musicians in the city. As opposed to Mark, I couldn't use any sort of makeup, I was going to be sweating too much, but my skin tone was nondescript anyway.

Leaving the strike base, I hiked the near mile over to my shooting position, a cheap hotel that was often used by Petrokias' lower priced whores who would bring their johns over for the cheap hourly rates. I rented a room for five hours, laying down an additional fifty bucks to ensure the clerk at the desk wouldn't bother me.

"What's in the case?" the clerk asked as I scribbled an illegible muck of a name in the register.

"Piano and a CD player," I said, tugging at the thin leather gloves I had been wearing since unlocking the strike base. It was another one of Mark's rules, and one I had learned to work with. "I have an audition next week. Need to practice."

"Here?" the clerk asked. "Why in the hell would you want to practice at this dump?"

I shrugged. "It's better and quieter than where I live," I said. "Music is okay, right?"

The clerk shrugged. "As long as you don't mind a thumping headboard back beat, I don't care," he said, handing me the key. "Here you are, room five fifteen, just like you asked. Has a western view so you can get your sunset and everything. Hope you're inspired."