Angelino Cross, Level 10 Field Agent, The Org. Reporting on Mission 01LV-IG.
The gala's holding today. A No 1 Barrett M82 has been stashed at the venue. I'm equipped with a concealed SIG Sauer M17, a flashbang, a bowie, and a taser. Just taking precautions, seeing as I'll be in full view of all the partygoers.
I'm not nervous. I wore my best suit. I was briefly glanced at on my way in, but they let me through because I look shiny and important. That's all it takes these days, huh? But, now that I'm inside, I keep getting these weird looks … like these rich people can tell I'm not one of them. Well, not yet anyway. Their eyes slide all over my skin, I can feel it like a physical touch. First thing you learn in training: be discreet. I think I'm failing at that, spectacularly.
I shiver and rub my neck, trying to get rid of the feeling. Looking down at my feet to avoid their piercing gazes, I make my way over to the refreshments table. I don't need Dutch courage to kill a man, I haven't needed it in 10 years. I do need it to face whatever kind of game these people are playing … spot the sore thumb? Jeez, it's like I'm the main attraction … though I have no idea why. But two can play that game. Or, er, one and a couple hundred. I settle myself in a corner with a tall glass of champagne and people-watch.
I scoped out the area first, of course, to get a good feel for it - a taster before the main event, you could say. The gala is run and attended by the socialites of Lost Vegas, no outsiders it seems. Everyone here was born here and either got insanely lucky with the lottery or had some kind of generational wealth which they invested in a casino, apartments etc. It's sketchy, yeah, but that's not really my job, so I don't care. They're holding this fundraiser-like thing in a theater, like the one you would go to watch an opera in, except it's been remodeled so that what used to be box seats run all the way round like a never-ending balcony, and there are no seats on the ground floor, only gleaming marble. I've counted five elaborate crystal chandeliers.
The balcony is a huge help. They didn't remove the entrances to the box seats, so they are still separated, covered by heavy red curtains with lots of handy-dandy nooks and crannies for me to prop my gun on.
Greene isn't here yet, of course. He's probably going to pull up fashionably late in a white limousine and the four horsemen of the eggpocalypse, grinning his straight veneer smile, waving.
He does show up eventually, after I've already downed my year's commissions in champagne. I don't know if it's the drink that's making me see things, but it's like everyone halts to watch him enter, their gazes locked on him (for once, not on me), revered and transfixed. I'm only looking because they are. Even the music has stopped. And I have to get a good look at the guy who's life I'll be cutting short tonight.
But by the looks of it, not too short. He's old. Older than I thought. In the photos I was provided, he looks at most, fifty. In the flesh, he's ancient. Eighty, seventy at least. He has this shiny leer and waves slowly. He looks like a reanimated corpse, with sinking yellow eyes and a waxy face. Like one of Madame Tussaud's things brought to life. The sparse hair on his head is combed over and stuck to the top of his waxy head. As promised, he's brought the Humpty Dumpties with him … but I've never really taken note of how large they actually are. They're huge. Wide, but not very tall. They make very effective human shields, with faces so still they, too, look molded from clay.
The guests clear a space for him, and he makes his slow way to the stage. Everyone is still transfixed by Greene, so I take this as my cue to get into position.
The presentation is starting. Under the harsh light from gleaming hanging crystals, he looks, I hate to say it, dead. I mean, if he was actually dead, it would help me out a lot, just saying. But, jokes aside ... he's cadaver-like. His face droops unnaturally, like he's melting. I bet he can't see out his right eye, considering half of it is covered by his placid skin.
I really shouldn't be hesitating and should just take the shot while he's clear on all sides ... but.
But.
It's like watching a puppet show. The way they move, their stiff arms; what can only be described as "canned laughter" coming from real living people.
At least I THINK they're living. Not one of them has taken a sip of their drink, shuffled in place, turned their head from the stage. They're statuesque and attentive, like an army made of plastic soldiers.
Whatever. I can't think about that. I'm taking the shot.
...
It rings out loud, though it isn't meant to. You know how it's easier to hear your voice in an empty room than a crowded one? It's easier to hear a shot get fired when all the sound is suddenly sucked out of the air, leaving a vacuum of silence. My finger hadn't even pressed down on the trigger yet before the world went dead.
My aim is perfect. In my thirteen years with you guys I've missed few shots I was lined up perfectly. Not a stray wind, no fog, nothing.
He didn't even flinch. There's a hole in his head and he's turning. He's looking at me. In my direction. He can't see me. He can't see me, right? They're all facing me now. What the hell? Damnit, what the hell?
I have to-- I'm going. I can't leave, they'll see me. I'm going.
Shit --