Heavy rain surrounded the lone, sleek figure on the rooftop. Thousands after thousands of droplets accelerated towards the ground from the blanket of pitch dark clouds above just to shatter into various surfaces, creating an ever changing symphony. If there was anything that devastating dirty bomb attacks on London a few years back hadn’t had an effect, it was the weather. By the looks of it, that’ll need a lot more than terrorist attacks and nuclear fallout, unlike world politics, economy, public movement and entire country that surely did change irreversibly.
The figure stood up after crouching over a soaked bag. She did not care for the scars of a nation, nor its people when aching wounds in her own heart cried for vengeance, when her own pride longed for a payback for what had been lost. The rain had eased ever so slightly that soft footsteps could just be heard in the midst of still roaring plunge of water from the skies. Hooded, blazingly redheaded woman probably on her late 20’s or early 30’s held semi-automatic rifle with a firm grip and started approaching the edge of the flat, battered concrete roof. Electric distributor box was humming nearby endlessly, as if it was attempting to out-voice the thundering rain.
A fist-sized floating device resembling an eye flew out of her hand. She lay prone on top of a small waterproof mat, positioned gun to aim at the alley that opened out in front of her and took a shooting stance. Magazine locked into the rifle’s chamber with an ominous clank. Faint, feigning out buzzing came in the wake of the little robot that was quickly gaining distance from the rooftop.
“And now ve wait, mon ami…”
Mere twelve months had passed, time that now felt like a millennia for this sharpshooter codenamed Aimee. Back then she was fuelled by responsibility, worry and joy rather than retribution, calculations and anger that were dominating her state of mind presently. She had been bitterly reminded how on her profession, feelings towards a client were never bound to end well for anyone involved. The mental image of Max Bashki’s skull being shattered by a 7.62 caliber bullet right in front of her was something Aimee had seen night terrors ever since the event. Evening in Paris back then had been equally rainy as in London today, resulting in her scouting device SNITCH having decisive error while chasing down the culprit. Upgrades she had done made sure such wouldn’t happen again.
Greasy smoke coming out the car wreckage target had used to escape, mixing with the refreshing taste of the air humidity, accompanied by sharp sparks originating from the vehicle’s destroyed battery were still vivid in her memories. Business card and now almost worthless British pounds were the only clues she could find from the spot, yet those laid hope first hope for her rage and agony to get revenge.
Aimee was not sure how long she had been wading in memories while monitoring at the alley before her. Rain was anymore a mere ghost of its former torrent, leaving just eery fog float with some droplets refusing to stop dripping against asphalt, brick and concrete around. Cutting sound from her earpiece woke her up; SNITCH had detected movement on the opposite end of narrow passage.
“Thought you could outsmart me?” she whispered, transmitting the sound to be played back from the device stuck behind short, slender figure walking in the alley. A woman with a proximity mine hanging from her belt looked around, trying to locate the origin of the sound.
“I’ve seen his name on your file…” she continued, crescendoing her voice as she observed every move of the slender figure in her sights.
A distant clang from swinging infantry mine on Proxy’s belt reached her ear ever so slightly later than she saw the young woman turn around, attempting to make a quick run for it. Even faster had her finger tightened around the trigger sending a metallic projectile towards the girl’s shoulder, meeting its goal in a blink of an eye. The air was filled with smell of gunpowder and shot echoed against the hard surfaces. The sound of footsteps ceased as culprit fell sitting on the road, leaning against cold, damp window frame.
Short heels uniformly lightly grazing the soaked ground, creating quiet wet splatters with each step, Aimee grabbed her scouting tool from the wall. She started approaching her prey and pointed it towards the sitting mercenary. She continued with her French accent as if any kind of shooting had never happened, but Proxy had just conveniently dropped on the road before her.
“My friend here could blind you this close. Tell me who hired you.” Barely noticeable shaking could be heard from her voice as the locked her eyes on Proxy. Only wind quietly whistling over the rooftops was audible during the short pause before young Londoner responded.
“He would’ve paid me enough to retire…”
“Who?” Aimee asked sharply.
This time, the silence was long and tension as palpable as the small droplets falling on both women, until welding mask slowly rose as Proxy lifted her head, staring eye-to-eye to her hunter.
“Max Bashki. For killing you.”
Short, blunt statement woman before her said sent Aimee’s emotions racing. She had to visibly shake her head to silence the roaring orchestra of thoughts passing through it. She lifted SNITCH to face Proxy’s left eye.
“Liar.”
About simultaneously a noxiously bright flash illuminated the entire alley, stage of their confrontation. Agonized scream escaped field engineer’s painted lips.
“It’s all true!” she nearly screamed, holding hand in front of her damaged eye.
“The geezer said you’d been snooping at his finances. Said you knew too much… He told me to fire at 8pm, said you’d be lit with a candle.” Proxy inhaled slightly quivering in pain.
“As soon as I pulled the trigger, I knew I’d cocked up.”
Silent, damp sheet of fog embraced them. All sound, but water dripping was absent. While crumpling onto her knees against the cobblestoned road, Aimee’s mind was racing, trying to process what it had just heard. She remembered it. She had refused to accept it. While scanning through MercServ archives back then, still scouting for the real culprit from amongst the suspected mercenaries, what had caught her attention first hand was not the operation “Max Bashki’s” name. It was the operations client, also Max Bashki. It was clear but she didn’t… no, couldn’t admit it. Max’s career in fashion scene had been downwards spiralling slowly but steadily over the years, with no signs of recovery. Assassination simply hadn’t made sense from the beginning, despite him having enemies, as his businesses weren’t considered a threat by other fashion moguls.
Swallowing her sorrow and tears, as she stood up, she responded with a faint, shaking voice, emphasizing every word:
“You ruined my life.”
“I saved your life, love!” wounded said back with a slight sarcasm in her voice, shortly continuing with a more lenient tone, practically talking to sharpshooter’s back as she walked further away.
“I’m a shit sniper. Call MercServ. Not glamorous work, but pays the bills!”
Aimee came to a brief halt. Mild gust bumped the surrounding mist into a dance, leaving thickening wall between her and the injured. Then she carried on, replying with a faint voice that seemed like more directed to herself than anyone else.
“I’ll think about it…”
