Mockingbird - Rite of Passage (One Shot)

It was a bitter cold Wednesday afternoon when I stepped into the streets of Moscow that January. The thick, ashy sky layered the ground with its white as the weather made the icicles of the tip of the roofs glossy. The forest green coat that was supposed to cover me seemed to have the effects of a jacket in a winter storm, making me regret the decision of even buying it for this ocassion in the first place, let alone put it on. Nevertheless, I tried to make haste as my gloved hands flickered around with the cigarette I always kept in my civilian clothes pockets. It was the remaining cigarette from the last cheap box I smoked almost a decade ago. I always keep it on me when the nerves take control and the battle of the urge begins to menace me. Rubbing its filtered tip always took me back to a temporary state of calm even I never really understood. I could call it a lucky charm or call it a hazardous health amulet. All the same it was a necesity for these types of timed missions. But nerves or none, no one would notice how I stood out in this quaint little city because of how the cold overruled the area. You could see how the city's residents hastened about trying to reach their destinations or complete their daily tasks before they froze to death. I'm sure the word warmth swarmed all over their minds as they scurried about. My own destination, an old alcohol factory turned whorehouse called 'повышенно-радостное настроени' (Euphoria), was paved just a few seconds in front of me. I quickly made my way to get out of the damning cold when a slight movement caught my eye. I turned to see an elderly woman tossing and turning in the near, poor lit alleyway behind some trash cans. She had herself cover with enough pages to make her own newspaper, some torn and dirty towels and half of a discolored yellow and white striped scarf. She seemed to be struggling to find a warm spot. If this job taught me anything, its to aim your own anger, bitterness and indifference toward the ones who deserve it. I quickly shifted the cig from my coat pocket to my side jean pocket and unbuckled my coat. Spreading its hood and sides I wrapped it around the woman who was seemingly startled by my touch. Realizing my intentions, she thanked me in russian and muttered something I could barely make out do to the heavy tremble in her voice. That extra layer would probably do her more good than it was doing me at the moment. I simply nodded and gave her a warm smile as I walked away.

I quickly yanked the doorhandle and slid inside the old rundown building shutting out the chill that tried to factor its way into the room. The winter chill slowly silenced behind me but no sooner came a racket I could easily identify as the buildings heater. It seemed to be more noise than use since making my way to the hallway I felt the need of at least the blanket. But shrugging off the annoying chill, I made my way up the dampened staircase toward my own destination: Room 302. The floor wobbled beneath me as I made my way toward the end of the hall and ignored the pleasuring and arousing sounds coming from each room I passed. Some which I couldn't tell between cries of pleasure or pain. Some I knew were of pain. Others were both. But 'Bobbi Morse' was not who I was to be today. I let her out earlier, briefly, and that was it. Today I was the Mockingbird. As I opened 302, I saw my post neatly set up: a stand, positioning a Cheytac .408 Sniper Rifle with a rose with a small card attached to it and a can of Cactus Cooler. I touched the can with my gloved tips, noticing it lukewarm and unattached the card. Its contents were coordinates and below, a cursive worded sentence: "one shot, one kill." I flung the card on the bed and positioned the scope of the rifle to the instructed coordinates. I fixed slowly the scope closing at the location, an illegal underground Hydra sub trade group posing as ministers at a humbling appeareanced church. I shifted my sight left and right until I found the car containing my target. I knew the license plate number by heart. He saluted the members with a seemingly firm handshake while hugged others. He stretched out his arms and began to, what appeared to be, give a speech. I took the moment to position my rifle to the top of the stairway of the church, close enough to the entryway and silently waited for Baron Von Strucker to hit his mark...