We have been trudging through the dense jungle for a week. Hot, sickly steam strangles any creature that dares enter this green, bug infested stir-fry.
“I found him,” he whispers excitedly, taking his eye off of the rifle scope. “I can't wait to blow the fat bastard’s guts out.” The stench of his breath cuts through the humid air. I recoil slightly, and think of a tease for my partners' oral hygiene, but realize that I haven’t brushed my teeth for the last seven days either.
“Woah there buddy,” I caution him. “That’s some strong language to use in the deadliest shooter country. Now let the pro take care of this.” I grip the tarnished Winchester in my partner’s arms and attempt to pry it from his grasp. He puts up a fight at first, almost getting up from his prone position, but quickly lets go.
“You said you were gonna let me shoot if I carried the tent,” the youth says, baffled. After hesitating for a second, she moves in to take the rifle back, but I dodge him in time.
“I told you I’d be fine with you carrying half the tent,” I smirk. “You carried the whole thing. Goody-two shoes get on my nerves.” He frowns. Through the scope, I scan the muddy trail below the cliff where our camouflaged nest resides. Sure enough, there’s a short, round pasty, blonde tub of lard waddling along the trail, with most of his form obscured by a cadre of men with muscles so obscenely large, their veins can be seen pulsating through their black suits.
“These guys were literally in clear sight of us for a while now. What took you so long to find them?” I moan emphatically. “This is embarrassing, even for a Loader.” I take my face off the rifle to see his reaction. His frown darkens even further. “Don’t worry about shooting the gun. We both get 50% no matter what job we do,” I smirk again, quickly turning back to my rifle. “Alright pal, give me two explosive rounds,” I say while squinting through my scope. “Don’t want these roid monsters on our tail once we get rid of the big man himself. Or rather, the little man himself.” I chuckle at my own joke, and reach behind my back, expecting two cold cylinders to be dropped into my palm. Three seconds pass.
“You mind hurrying? I know you lowborn are stupid but not handicapped.” Another three seconds pass. I whip away from scope.
“What the heck’s taking so-” A splintered, long object collides with my face, instantly obliterating my left cheekbone. I barely manage not to scream in pain, letting out a controlled groan instead. I cannot see anything through my left eye at all, while everything seen through my right eye is blurred terribly.
“Give me the gun or I’ll hit you again.” His voice sounds older, resolute for once, noticeable even through the sharp ringing in my ears.
“Listen buddy,” I rasp. “If we’re to complete-” My partner jabs me in the stomach. I feel something squelch, along with the wind being knocked out of me.
“The boss told me about the share. The shooter always gets 90%,” he says coolly. “You lied to me. So give me the damn gun and you live.” I curl into a ball and hold the unloaded gun tightly to my chest.
“Look, I… I… I’m only doing this because I care about you!” I lie, coating it with a semi-genuine whimper. My partner stops moving, considering. I let a moment linger, trying to look as vulnerable as possible to further persuade the kid that he is the master of the situation. Then, before he even notices my body, my ex-business partner is kicking and thrashing under me, screams muffled under my muddy glove. I smile as I watch his large, dark brown eyes roll back into his head. I shiver with euphoria. “You half-wits are so easy to upset,” I stare at the corpse, chuckling softly. “I always have an excuse for the boss whenever I have to put down her precious, precious lowborn.”
“And now I have an excuse to put you down.” A low voice doused with a thick Swedish accent emanates from the jungle behind me. I turn around instantly and see the short, rotund blonde man with piercing blue eyes staring right at mine. He’s followed by a group of distractingly large bodyguards, all with guns trained at my head.
“How’d you-”
“It’s called sneaking. Me and my friends here were tracking you for the last couple of days. All of us were Swedish special ops, before our dabbling in the drug trade. Except for Olaf here -” the target points a stubby finger at an especially tall, red-haired member of his retinue, “-who almost gave us away.” Olaf scowls shamefully, but the small man flashes him a genuine smile, clarifying that there were no hard feelings, and the bodyguard quickly refocuses on me.
“Sir, let me explain,” I stutter, clasping my cheek. “My, uh, friend, here-”
“Look, son, I understand the struggle to make cash in this world,” the Swede says, pacing. “I’m a criminal myself, for god’s sake! I probably even would’ve let you off the hook if you missed your shot.” He chuckles and winks at me. “Just kidding.”
“Do you mind if I -”
“Do you mind if I pontificate for a bit longer?” Traces of gravity start to show on the man’s otherwise jovial expression. “As a relatively successful businessman,” the drug lord says, attempting to discreetly draw attention to his now mud-coated, custom-made suit, “I’ve seen fellows with far more, uh…” the man pauses, gesticulating, “ inhumane vocations than a simple hitman like you. Many of which I’ve hired myself, for my own interests.”
The stump of a human clears his throat. “But what I can’t stand are men who bully and disrespect their subordinates - even lowborn ones.” The man’s disposition instantly becomes serious. “You clearly are an insane sadist, but if you hadn’t murdered this poor boy, I probably wouldn’t make the same effort to get rid of you.” He smiles sardonically. “Too bad I have to do this to the deadliest shooter currently alive. About to lose that title in about 10…”
“Listen, I’ll do anything.” I say carefully. “I’ll-”
“9… You know what, we're running late. Just shoot him.”
“Please-”