Coco Vargas (Dark Alley)
"No, you dumb fuck, this gun is way cheaper than that. Who are you trying to scam, huh?" I growled at the very annoying arms dealer standing in front of me with his two cronies.
"Listen, babe, you've got no clue who you're talking to, so ge—" He started his predictable ego-fueled rant.
"Gerrard De Luca," I cut in, voice sharp. "Social security number: 683-40-5451. Thirty-four years old. Single dad. Also an arms dealer, no siblings, and a fucking moron." I smirked at the way his face paled. "You listen to me. I did my research, and I know you have what I want. Sell it to me now, or I'll send pictures of you and your boyfriend to those misogynistic Serbian assholes you call suppliers. Wonder how they'll react to learning you like dick?"
The man's expression shifted from anger to abject terror in seconds. Seriously, it looked like he was about to shit himself, and, believe me, I did not want to smell that.
For the record, I'm not a homophobe—I hate everyone equally—but this idiot's attitude left me with no choice. Also, it's five in the morning. I'm in no mood for chitchat.
I needed the gear. Desperately. The job tonight wasn't just any job—it was a mission. And Gerrard here was the only guy in this entire city who could supply what I required.
Kill some men, set a fire, cause a big boom—easy, right? Just a fun evening.
The marks tonight were at some shady warehouse on the outskirts of Queens, gathering for a board meeting. But here's the kicker: the entire board was corrupt. They had siphoned millions of dollars earmarked for inspections and safety repairs, leading to hundreds of deaths and massive environmental damage from a collapsed drilling rig. All for money.
And tonight? They die.
A quick execution would have sufficed, sure, but I had better ideas. Like a full-on explosion courtesy of the conveniently placed gas tank at the warehouse. All I had to do was rig the tank with a cable, trigger a short circuit, and—boom.
That's why I needed gear—a machine gun and some other "toys" I Googled earlier.
Back to Gerrard. He wanted $8,000 for the gun. Typical street price, sure, but it wasn't worth that much. Too lightweight, prone to locking. I wasn't about to let this fool scam me, even if it was my friend Martin's stolen money.
When Martin found out I'd hacked his account and siphoned off a million bucks, he just laughed and told me not to blow it all on strippers. Such a nice guy. Still, no way was I wasting good stolen cash on junk.
"Alright," Gerrard grumbled, clearly beaten. "Name your price."
"Six," I said flatly.
"Wow, you're really cheap," he sneered. "Okay. Done."
And that's how you close a deal, bitches.
Seven Hours Later
Three guards at the back. Two looked somewhat competent: one well-built and alert—probably the head of security. Another guard seemed like a bored ex-cop, standing by the main exit. Not a real threat. Then there was one by the back exit—recently ex-military, judging by his posture and stance. He'd be my first target.
Recon took hours. I'd been there since seven in the morning, and honestly? It sucked. Recon is vital but painfully dull, especially for someone new to "real-world" jobs like this.
Still, patience has its rewards.
Six Hours Later
Finally, the main players arrived. Late as hell, but hey, at least the guards had now moved inside. Time to get to work.
I circled to the back exit, where the military guy stood. Quietly, I crept behind him. The syringe in my hand gleamed under the dim light. One swift motion: headlock, injection. The sedative took effect almost immediately, and he collapsed into my arms.
Heavy bastard.
Grumbling, I dragged his limp body inside, careful not to leave him out in plain view. After all, sloppy assassins don't live long.
I swiped the guard's keycard and entered the basement. It was mostly empty except for the massive gas tank I'd seen during my earlier recon.
Time to play.
Pulling out my supplies, I carefully wired the tank for ignition. It was a meticulous process. Every connection, every placement had to be perfect. One mistake, and I'd end up as charred debris.
Finally, I ran the detonation wire up the stairs, positioning myself at a safe distance. Lighting the fuse, I bolted. I knew I had around 30 seconds before things went nuclear, so I sprinted for my life, the cold air burning my lungs.
Then came the explosion.
The deafening sound reverberated through the night as flames engulfed the building. The force of the blast knocked me to the ground, but luckily, no serious injuries. Dusting myself off, I hurried to a nearby hill where I'd stashed my getaway car. A stolen one, naturally.
The police arrived in minutes. From a safe distance, I tuned into my stolen police radio and listened. All ten targets were confirmed dead—five guards and five board members. A job well done.
Ditching the car was next. After wiping down every surface, I planted some TNT in the vehicle, set the charge, and walked away as it erupted into flames behind me.
You know, assassin life might be lonely, but damn, it's satisfying.
Sticking out my thumb, I hitched a ride along the main road. A hippie-looking woman picked me up, her messy curls and cheerful demeanor radiating harmless energy.
"Where to, girl?" she asked.
"Fifth Avenue. The Vargas Corporation building," I replied.
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AventuraA girl born into a life of calculated vengeance is set on a path where every step is a carefully crafted piece of her plan. For her, nothing matters more than executing her mission and protecting her family. But the deeper she dives into the labyrin...
