Recruit - Start

His breath came out reminiscent of a cloud of steam from a freshly poured cup of coffee. He savoured the thought before ruefully letting it go; coffee would have to wait. There were more important things to deal with. Troy almost found himself exhaling again, but stopped himself as a guard trailed slowly past his position. Small mental calculations were made as he worked out exactly where beind him the guard and his vicious canine friend were walking, hoping that they wouldn't catch his scent. Yet beyond belief, their footsteps faded off into the distance, the sound of snow compacting slowly dissapeared, easing Troy's mind. A small exhale was all that Troy gave away as he felt a small barrel against the bridge of his neck. 1

“One your feet.” The mans thick Russian accent cut through the words, making a mockery of the pronunciation that should have been there. “Slowly now or I'll shoot.” And then the smell hit him. Impossible to miss or mistake, Troy found himself thankful that the Russian had done what they do best, and downed what smelt like several bottles of Vodka. In any other situation, Troy would of congratulated the man on his amazing effort. 2

It was only a small movement before he had moved his hand from his belt to the holster underneath his right arm, and slid his fingers around the handle of the supressed 9mm Beretta that hung there. Another small movement faced the pistol towards the man, and his finger instinctively squeezed twice. The Russian's body swung backward as the small rounds barreled through his chest, spraying the snow in a mist of blood as he fell to the ground in an untidy heap. Troy swung his hand to the right and put on into the dog as well. He hated killing animals, even ones that were trained killers, but once again there were more important things to deal with, and if this was the price, then he would gladly pay it.3

'Enough somberness,' Troy thought as he put another bullet into the Russian, ensuring the kill. Time to do what he came here to do. Dropping to his knees, he checked the surrounding areas one more time, making sure no one had noticed the encounter, and pulled out the rifle from underneath it's case. Via the American Army Troy had been supplied by Nor-Cal with one of their newest rifles, the Precision Nighthawk Tactical. Thanks to the tactical venting system, flash hider and custom supressor, the enemy would be hard-pressed to find the shooter.4

He gripped the rifle a little tighter as he zeroed the scope and began searching for the last two targets before the big kill. This small, remedial task took only seconds. Troy pulled back the bolt-action, lightly stuck from hours in the snow, and pushed in four rounds. One for each man in the guard tower, and one for the drug-carting, slave-trading bastard that would leave the safe house and approach the helicopter in exactly 31 seconds. Make that two for the drug-carting, slave-trading bastard that would leave the safe house and approach the helicopter in exactly 31 seconds, just in case he missed. It had never happened before, but it was better to be precautious than cocky.5

Troy closed the bolt-action into the barrel and focused on the first target. The training that had been drilled into him since day one at Kapooka Base kicked in and he found himself barely even thinking. Breathe in, breath out. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breath out. Breathe in, hold and squeeze. The recoil from the rifle was virtually non-existent as the first bullet engaged in brain surgery. The second kill wasn't much different. Lots of blood, not much noise. Troy worked the bolt-action again as he crawled into position. Time seemed to slow down as he waited for the target. Eighteen seconds. Fifteen seconds. Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. He allowed himself one more major breath as time ran out.6

Zero.7

And there he was. Troy found himself trying to summon some sympathy for the man he was about to kill, but found he could not. This man deserved to die. He bounced along in his thick coats, surrounded by body guards, yet all of them counted for nothing, hired guns and paid street-thugs for the most part. If he had had any more free time on his hands, he would of taken care of them too, but there were more important things to deal with. Troy didn't have to think. He simply followed the routine. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, hold and squeeze. Wind, elevation, drag, all had been accounted for as the hollow point round exploded out the end and began it's journey. Down it went, tearing through the frosty air and snow on the way to it's target.8

It could not have been timed more perfectly. The bullet seemed to practically curve in between the two guards as it took off the majority of Sasha Korvictov's head. The area around him was sprayed a brilliant red, just for a second, before the mist dissipated, and then the group below were sprayed with skull fragments and brain matter, all seeming to bear a large resemblance to vegetable soup. The body seemed almost intent on living, continuing to pump blood to the head as Sasha's body fell limply to the ground, still carried lightly forward by momentum.9

The contrast of his blood on the brilliant white snow was trapped in Troy's mind as he shouldered his rifle and moved quietly uphill. And too right it was. There was no middle ground in this business; no grey. Only black and white.10