Nice Shot
London
Staring down the scope of her Steyr SSG-69 bolt-action rifle, Eve keeps the young woman on the roof-top across from her between the crosshairs. Blonde, with an angular face and sharp cheek bones; she knows this has to be her target. It's instinctual; she has no doubt. The woman is of medium height and has an athletic build, which can be seen even through her camouflaged clothing in the late evening light. Eve ticks over the scope to get a closer look, as close as is possible; this is the face behind the mask of execution that she has been investigating for what feels like a lifetime. Eve slides the barrel of the rifle to the left until the other occupant of the roof enters her view. Dark haired and bearded, there was nothing exceptional about this man. Eve does not know him; does not know of his capability like she knows of her target. Nonetheless, he stands across from the young woman, gun in hand and aimed at her head. How the fuck has this happened, Eve wonders. How has someone caught this woman, this evasive, psychopathic killing machine that has so successfully evaded Eve for years.
The thought makes her blood hot and she squeezes her index finger over the trigger. No - she cannot interrupt this. Removing her eye from the scope, she stares at the scene from afar. Atop a roof of St Paul's Cathedral, their stand-off is barely visible over the high brick wall. The sunset on the distant horizon encapsulates the scene, giving the brick a warm, orange tint. Eve appreciates the irony of the picture, thinking it would fit well within the gallery below - light, life, death. Looking through the scope once more, Eve brings her focus back the her target. The irony doesn't mute her annoyance. She has lost targets before, but Eve has spent years chasing this ghost and when she finally confirms that this cold, anonymous killer is not a figment of her over-active imagination, the moment is ruined by one bearded prick. Months of meticulous planning to predict the next victim and, more importantly, location (international business trips can only last so long), and it's all for naught; the stakeout in the Amsterdam brothel, freezing her ass off in Ukraine, not to mention endless train journeys across Europe from one country to the next. Sighing, Eve focuses her attention back to the scene in-front of her.
Her target is engaged in conversation with the man; her mouth tight-lipped and her eyes narrowed. Glancing around the rooftop Eve wonders if there is any means of escape. There's no exit route in sight - nothing but a sheer 300 foot drop to the public gardens below. Suddenly, the man switches his stance. Eve rounds the barrel of the rifle onto him. Fuck. He shouts something, inaudible from this distance, and cocks his M9. Fuck. Fuck! Before Eve can make a decision, the deafening sound of a .308 caliber bullet tearing through air explodes around her. The bullet continues on its path, tearing through bone and brain in a millisecond, and the bearded man falls out of view behind the brick wall. Fuck.
Eve quickly locates her target who is looking towards the rooftops, searching for the source of the bullet that just saved her life. Eve ducks down and expertly starts to break apart the rifle; in seconds it is loaded into the gun case. She can almost hear the bellow of her Sergeant's voice: 'Again!'. Picking up the case and crouching below the brick-line, Eve hurries towards the stairway without a second glance.
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Villanelle turns her gaze from the rooftops towards the sky and lets out a bellowing laugh. You've got to laugh. For a moment, she felt alive. The barrel aimed at her face, death just a fraction of a second away and she felt alive. Nothing creeping over the corners of her eyes and suddenly, blindingly, everything. Was it adrenaline coursing through her veins? Not even a kill feels this tangible. Perhaps this is how people feel on a roller-coaster or whilst skydiving? Maybe she should try jumping out of a plane.
Looking at the mess in front her, blood and matter decorating the brick-work, Villanelle realises this would have been her, albeit she would look more attractive even with a hole in her head. No sense of style, she thinks, looking at his poor choice of suit. Not even tailored and this was going to be the end of her, ugh. Examining the bullet hole; on the right of the temple, and the directionality of the spray; diagonally away from the body, Villanelle easily locates the rooftop which must have housed the shooter. It is the nearest point which could have produced that an accurate a shot, but still easily 1000m away from her position. Well, that rules out Konstantin.
Decision time - finish the job and her target, or locate the mystery shooter?
Without hesitation, Villanelle leaps over the brick wall, finds her footing, and begins the decent down the face of St Paul's Cathedral.