<br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: verdana;"><strong>Emily</strong></span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: verdana;"><strong>Her apartment</strong></span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: verdana;"><strong>With her job-incoming text</strong></span><br/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: verdana;">"Ready" she replied.  That would be enough.</span><br/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: verdana;">Alright.  A job.  Well OK, jobs had to be done.  </span><br/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: verdana;">Some people just shouldn't have been born in the first place, like some Pitbulls.  Being corrupt and stopping the Family getting things done.   Hers wasn't a job anyone would actually like doing, but somebody had to do it, and it had been said to her over and over (and over) again that her ability to hit the right spot - mostly the medulla at the base of the brain - and shred it with a high velocity 5.56 round meant that there was less suffering - none - than if anyone else did it.</span><br/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: verdana;">It was true, she supposed, that having her sense of balance and fine muscle control - or something - did make her more accurate than others with a gun.  Her trainer weirdos had had plenty to say about it, as well as about her ability to focus and select targets slowly even in stressful situations.  It was amazing how with a handgun people could blaze away from even really short range and miss a barn door; a phenomenon that had saved her life the last time she'd had to deal with a whole room.  God, when that guy had started shooting back!   She hated it when someone else had a gun too; she shit herself completely.  But she'd put her aim on him, two-handed, and hit him through the face as her training had taught her...</span><br/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: verdana;">Anyway.  No time for daydreaming.  She called the car rental company and a cab.  Half an hour later she was back, an anonymous compact in the basement parking.  She checked her rifle...all ready.  Just an M164A in a case, with a fresh 20" barrel, a suppressor, scope and brass collector.   A new small pistol with its suppressor.  </span><br/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: verdana;">Her disguise wardrobe; she checked her rota: bright blue contacts this time with blonde wig; padding for her tits, middle and butt; flat running shoes; lightweight baggy pants, and a long-sleeved floppy top patterened to disguise her shoulders a little.  If she had to do anything at short range - which she really hoped she wouldn't - people would see a tubby little blue-eye blonde.  With a shoulder bag, probably.  Or just a purse, depending.</span><br/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: verdana;">She watched a wildlife programme over breakfast - wildebeeste being taken by crocodiles, yet again; sad in a way, but so much more natural than homo sapiens shooting animals for fun wasn't it?  Or shooting each other for this or that.</span><br/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: verdana;">Guns.  She just didn't like them.  What people did with them.  It was funny really, her role in the Family being what it was.  </span><br/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: verdana;">But some jobs had to be done, and the Family was her family, even if she couldn't be with them all the time.  And the best thing about a job was that afterwards they all met up, and her Family were round her again.</span><br/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: verdana;">When would he call?  After an hour it seemed it wasn't going to be urgent, so she went in to the architects, hoping she'd be able to concentrate on her legal occupation.   </span>