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3.09.2004


 
ZEPHYR



Guns are sexy. Sexy as fuck. You never handled one, you got no idea what I'm saying, I know.

Some IS never carry a gun. You hardly have to; we got a million different ways to kill somebody, in the unlikely event it came down to having to do it. I once killed a guy with my shoe.

There's something about a gun, there's something about the slick feel of it in your hands, the weight, yeah, I like it well enough to carry. Most of the time, even when I'm not on contract.

You're thinking something about dick envy right about now, and how Girl Asia got her a nice hard shiny lethal penis replacement.

OK. Sure. Me and every Joe who ever picked up a sidearm.

But here's where you make your mistake: you think the power's in firing. You think the power's when someone's head turns inside out onto the wall behind him, or when the building blows up and all your targets fall down.

But you're wrong, to think it's all about shooting. Because once you've fired, you've blown your wad. You've made your decision and the choice is over, forever for fucking good.

Power is in an unfired weapon, loaded and leveled.

And if you ever been the guy looking down the barrel, you know exactly what I mean.


*


When Moira tapped me I was on the balcony of a hotel in Accra. Boots on rail, crosshairs on Mister We Don't Quite Trust You Today. Big guy sitting all uncomfortable in a chair too small for him, down on the patio below. Every now and then he'd shift his ass. Wiggle. Wiggle, scrunch. Scrunch, wiggle.

"That's the funniest thing I've ever seen." Moira's accent clippy north London, maybe a little Cambridge. Smart, maybe hot, who knows, I've never had my hands on her. I'm thinking I'd like to. On her, in her, all that kind of thing.

"What's funny?" No sound, just the lips move and the tongue hits the roof of my mouth. She would hear it as my voice, wired back somewhere else in the world.

"A blind sniper."

"You tap me while I'm working for that shit?"

"Admit it. It's funny."

"It's funny and I'm fucking working." Wiggle, scrunch. Scrunch. He'd been down there for two hours, sitting listening to my client drone on and on and on and on. Maybe I had a little sympathy; my skinny ass was starting to fall asleep too. "What you got?"

"Regarding your acquaintance, Vaughn."

There's a real fine line between beta and gossip. Usually it breaks down to this: beta's what you use on the job. Gossip's just interesting. But of course you pay for both, so very very much for the good stuff, too. "Tell me."

Around three thousand fifty bounced from my account to hers. No pause from her, she knew I'd pay it, fucking twat watching me from satellite knowing I'm stuck here and bored out of my fucking mind.

"He forfeited contract in Kazakhstan last night and caught the first direct flight to Virginia."

"Bullshit." Stupid, like I can't believe what I just paid for. But no one forfeits. None of us, ever, and most of all not that uptight, elitist prick.

"Any idea why?" Smooth and indifferent, like it never mattered.

Fucking shit, could make that three thousand fifty back in a heartbeat if I could tell her. And maybe one call to Vaughn would do it, if I were willing to sell him out or the beta wasn't damaging.

"No." Mister We Don't Quite was standing up now, and I got a click from Rico, down on the patio, asking for cover while they were on the move.

"Let me know." Then she was gone, mostly because she can't tap me again if I get fired or killed.

The pings go out, the waves bounce back, the beta comes in. Just like a bat on a moth and a mosquito I follow Mister We Don't Quite and my client down the walkway, rifle trained on something I'll never see. Rico and I have worked enough that he doesn't second-guess me, lets me do my job, but if my client knew he'd shit.

Makes me laugh, makes the paycheck that much sweeter.

*

You're still wondering how I killed that guy with my shoe, aren't you?


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