Last Resort

 "Cut my life into pieces, this is my last resort. Suffocation, no breathing, don't give a fuck if I cut my arm, bleeding." The opening lines of "Last Resort" by Papa Roach blared in her earbuds. She found that the song helped her to focus in these kinds of situations. She didn't know why it was that particular song, as it was far from her favorite. Hell, it was the only song by Papa Roach that she actually liked. But in the kinds of scenarios she got into, it kept her calm. Kept her focused. She took a deep breath, then ever-so-gently squeezed the trigger.

Her target fell over, blood pouring out of the sniper bullet sized hole in the side of his head. The crowd in front of him gasped, and she assumed anyone watching the broadcast did, too.

"Cut my life into pieces. I reach my last resort, suffocation, no breathing. Don't give a fuck if I cut my arm, bleeding. Do you even care if I die, bleeding?" Whenever killing politicians, do it front of a crowd. The bigger, the better. That was her first rule. It sends a message: don't fuck with the wrong people. And this particular politician (she never paid any attention to the names, just the faces) just so happened to be broadcasting his message to millions of people, via internet and television. Gotta love a live feed.

"'Cause I'm losing my sight, losing my mind, wish somebody would tell me I'm fine." Security guards rushed over to the politician's limp corpse. They made an attempt to stop the bleeding, but she just smirked. They couldn't save him. He was dead. Once the buffoons realized this little tidbit, they scanned the area, before calling backup. She didn't worry. Her second rule: no one ever looks up. And those who do are too scared to do anything about what they see.

"Nothing's alright. Nothing is fine. I'm running and I'm-" she reached for the button on her earbuds to turn the music off. She didn't need it anymore. She pulled them out of her ears and tucked them into her bra. Her third rule: bras hold more than just boobs. Most girls already knew this, and utilized it on a daily basis. But most didn't store things like poison, extra ammo, and collapsible spoons in theirs. Well, maybe some girls carried the last item. She didn't really know. Fourth rule: no friends. Ever. You never know who you have to kill.

Which brings us to rule number five: no job is too large, no job is too small, no payment is too large, but too small of payments were a definite thing. Doesn't matter who the person is, just so long as the the wad of cash keeps the rent paid. Among other things.

She pushed her sniper rifle up into the ventilation duct she was hanging from, before squirming inside it, herself. She shimmied her way all the way through the vents, dragging her rifle as she went. She reached a grate above her head and pushed lightly. It gave way fairly easily, especially considering she had unattached it a few hours ago. She climbed up through and onto the roof of the convention center. Nothing like a day on the job.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket to call her client. He picked up after one ring. "Hello?" He asked. He didn't know it was her. Her number was always blocked, her phone always off the grid. Makes it harder for anyone to track you down.

"Hey, DeMarco, how ya been bud? You get my fruit basket?"

"Uh, no?"

She sighed. "I was being sarcastic. The job is done. Now uphold your end of the deal."

"Of course," he answered. She heard him type something into a keyboard. "There. That's all of it. Now we both uphold the last part of the deal."

"Right, right, I don't contact you, you don't contact me. I got that right?"

"You don't seem to be one to get things wrong."

"You're right, I'm not. Talk to you never." With that, she hung up. She input another number into her phone.