Of course it was a high-rise. What fucking trash. It didn’t look cheap either — not with that exterior — which meant cost wasn’t the swaying factor, so what the hell was it? What possessed people to willingly live like ants? Disdain stole heavy across lips and, almost as if in denial, the man simply dressed in black reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out a sharp looking piece of card stock, around the size of a business card. On it, scrawled in a dark crimson ink, was two things. A name and an address.
Leif Halpain
200 West Sahara Avenue, Unit 508
Thaed stared at the card he’d found this morning in his dead drop, and then up at the building, and then back down at the card. Yup. This was the place. Great, guess it’s time to bypass another top notch security feature— azure stare stuck on the rather accessible balconies and it hit him: Room 508, that was only what? The fifth floor, tops? Lips twist into a smile. Oh yeah. Totally doable. Way more fucking fun too.
( Remember kiddos, it’s important to have fun. )
In fact, fun is the third and final pillar of his belief system (following a loaded gun and Hannah). After about the 100th kill, it starts to sink in just how quickly life can be taken away, and how important it is to cherish every last second, even the gruesome ones. That’s a lot of heads to watch blow up like fireworks and fruit. Having decided on the fun route, the hit-man redirects saying fuck you to the front door and leaps up off the ground, fingers threading onto a ledge, heaving himself up with an over-dramatic ump. Okay. Maybe it was time to lay off donuts for breakfast.
With precision and finesse (accuracy not limited to bulls-eyes) the thirty-six year old gets up on the rail, balanced on the arches of feet before taking a running leap at the wall, feet carousing vertically before catching the next ledge. Pulling himself up and over requires twice as much gasping as the first time, but he kept his momentum and made it up to the fourth floor. One more to go, better get the gun out.
Yet no sooner than he had the metal in hand, he came upon a window and in it, the ghost of a pale face. He nearly motherfucking fell, but a black gloved hand caught the window sill in time. His other (gun and all) trying to push the glass outta the friggen way. Oh hell no. He was not falling to his death, not today. Thaed clapped the metal of his glock against the glass, mouthing open it to his would be victim.
