Broken
All right then. You open your car door, turn outside and light on fire the paper with the information. The short notice means you won't have time to make any plans. No habit learning or area research. You'll just have to dive in and improvise. Also, if you want the extra cash, you'll have to find out where that briefcase is.
You stomp out what's left of the paper, making sure it's unrecognizable. You take a good look at the mug shot, memorizing your targets looks, then dispose of it and the other photos too. You put your lighter in your breast pocket and turn inside, slam the door shut, start the car engine and drive off to the harbour, to one of your equipment storages.
When you first started you learned quickly that equipment is half the job. The other half is precision, determination and planning, or in a word: professionalism. Back in the day, when you were still new to the job, it would happen that your employers would give you weapons already used for crimes just to get rid of them. You would also get guns in poor condition, worn bullet proof vests ruined by gunfire or low quality, unreliable ammunition that could blow on your face at any given time. Now you get all your gear from reliable sources and stash it into several, safe locations around the city. Currently you have equipment stored in four different spots. This way, if one or two are somehow discovered, which is highly unlikely, you won't be in trouble.
You arrive at the harbour and drive to the gates. There is a security booth nearby with a moustached guard inside. He notices you from behind his newspaper, which seems to be bigger than him. You greet him with your hand and wave your pass card in front of the yellow reader aside your car. The machine lets out a beep and the gate barriers start to rise. You nod and smile at the guard as you pass by, but he's disappeared somewhere behind his paper again. Watch out, contract killer coming trough. Security measures always manage to amuse you with their cosmetic and more symbolic than practical nature. People like security. Who wouldn't? This is a need for security too, hiding stuff around harbours like a paranoid hoarder. The difference, however, exists in that people believe they are safe when they're told they are. You, in the other hand, make sure you are. Independence. You arrive at the storage area and park up.
The ISO container walls rise high above, creating a strange and colourful, almost surreal, landscape around you.
You stomp out what's left of the paper, making sure it's unrecognizable. You take a good look at the mug shot, memorizing your targets looks, then dispose of it and the other photos too. You put your lighter in your breast pocket and turn inside, slam the door shut, start the car engine and drive off to the harbour, to one of your equipment storages.
When you first started you learned quickly that equipment is half the job. The other half is precision, determination and planning, or in a word: professionalism. Back in the day, when you were still new to the job, it would happen that your employers would give you weapons already used for crimes just to get rid of them. You would also get guns in poor condition, worn bullet proof vests ruined by gunfire or low quality, unreliable ammunition that could blow on your face at any given time. Now you get all your gear from reliable sources and stash it into several, safe locations around the city. Currently you have equipment stored in four different spots. This way, if one or two are somehow discovered, which is highly unlikely, you won't be in trouble.
You arrive at the harbour and drive to the gates. There is a security booth nearby with a moustached guard inside. He notices you from behind his newspaper, which seems to be bigger than him. You greet him with your hand and wave your pass card in front of the yellow reader aside your car. The machine lets out a beep and the gate barriers start to rise. You nod and smile at the guard as you pass by, but he's disappeared somewhere behind his paper again. Watch out, contract killer coming trough. Security measures always manage to amuse you with their cosmetic and more symbolic than practical nature. People like security. Who wouldn't? This is a need for security too, hiding stuff around harbours like a paranoid hoarder. The difference, however, exists in that people believe they are safe when they're told they are. You, in the other hand, make sure you are. Independence. You arrive at the storage area and park up.
The ISO container walls rise high above, creating a strange and colourful, almost surreal, landscape around you.