THE KILL SHOT - A Freelancer Short Story

Two hours on this rooftop. Wind's being a bitch. Twenty-three knots, constantly shifting.

My finger rests beside the trigger, not on it. Not yet.

Through the scope, I watch Vargas gesturing to his men. Laughing. Drinking expensive scotch in his compound. No idea I exist.

I don't know what he's done. Don't care. Not my job to judge. My job is the shot.

The fly returns to my cheek. I don't move. Breathing slow and measured. In. Out. Waiting.

Vargas paces behind his floor-to-ceiling windows. Bad operational security. Arrogance makes men careless. Makes my job easier.

The Barrett feels like part of me now. Custom-fitted stock. Personally loaded rounds. I've fired this rifle in Arctic conditions and desert heat. Never misses when I don't.

My watch shows 4:47 PM. The gardeners finish at 5:00. Guards change shifts at 5:15. My exit window opens at 5:02. Timing matters.

Vargas disappears from view again. Third time in the last hour. His security detail never leaves - six men, all armed, all ex-military from their movements. Professional, but predictable.

I adjust my scope one millimeter to account for the wind. Focus on my breathing. In. Hold. Out. My heartbeat slows on command.

Something's happening in the compound. Men moving faster. Vargas appears at the window, phone pressed to his ear. He's angry. Gesturing. Creating patterns.

Patterns create opportunity.

I track his movement across three windows. Left to right. Stopping at the same spot each time he turns. Five seconds in view, seven seconds hidden. Predictable now.

The next time he appears, I'll take the shot.

4:53 PM. Vargas emerges right on schedule. Pacing, phone still at his ear.

I exhale halfway. Finger moves to the trigger.

Crosshairs center on his head. Adjust two inches for wind drift.

He stops. Perfect position.

I squeeze.

The Barrett roars. Even with the suppressor, it's loud. The recoil is substantial, but I'm already moving, not waiting to confirm the hit. I know.

Muscle memory takes over. Rifle broken down in seventeen seconds. Components into the backpack. Shell casing in my pocket. No evidence.

4:54 PM. I hear shouts from the compound. They've found him.

No time to waste. I move to the northeast corner where I prepared my exit yesterday. Maintenance shaft down to the third floor. Security cameras on floors three through one have been on a loop for the past four hours.

The shaft is tight. Uncomfortable. Smells like mildew and rat droppings. I descend quickly, controlled. No rushing. Rushed gets caught.

Voices echo up the stairwell to my right. Security responding to the shot. Searching the wrong buildings first. By the time they think to look here, I'll be gone.

Third floor. Slip out of the shaft. Walk—don't run—to the service elevator. Maintenance uniform was stashed here this morning. I change in thirty seconds.

Now I'm just another worker. Cap pulled low. Tools in hand. Eyes down as I enter the service elevator.

First floor. Two security guards rush past me. They don't even glance at the maintenance man.

4:59 PM. Out the service entrance. Gardeners packing up their truck. I nod at them, just another employee ending his shift. One nods back.

The motorcycle is where I left it, in the parking garage across the street. Helmet on. Engine starts.

5:04 PM. I'm three blocks away when the sirens start. Police. Ambulance. Too late for Vargas.

I don't think about him as I navigate traffic. Don't think about why he was targeted. Don't think about his family. His life.

Just another job. Just another name crossed off a list.

At the predetermined point, I switch vehicles. The motorcycle goes into a delivery van. I emerge as a delivery driver. Different clothes. Different walk.

5:30 PM. I'm on the highway heading north. Police roadblocks will go up on the south roads. Predictable response.

In my rearview, I see news helicopters circling Vargas's compound. Later tonight, his name will scroll across breaking news. Politicians will condemn cartel violence. Rivals will position for power.

And I'll be on a plane, another face in the crowd. Another contract complete.

The only thing that matters is the shot. The rest is just background noise.

BUY FREELANCER - FREELANCER Thriller 1