Frank Castiglione (pennyand) wrote in repose, @ 2016-12-18 14:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, frank castiglione, patrick gunster |
log: patrick/frank - the capital, a meetup
Who: Frank and Patrick
What: Patrick is in the wrong place at the right time.
Where: The Capital
Warnings/Rating: Violence likely
Winter in the Capital was brighter than summer, as dingy piles of whitish snow reflected light onto the squat buildings by the river. A few industrial buildings towered above the rest, and the high-rises a few blocks over did a good job blocking out the moonlight, but the streetlights took care of illuminating the scene, turning the snow a dull orange, exposing cracked sidewalks and empty, slush-choked alleys.
Under the sussurus of cars slashing through icy puddles on the next street, Frank listened to the quiet, satisfying clicking of a well-cared for rifle coming together. He was sitting, cross-legged, on a rooftop opposite a warehouse, set in an open lot between two factories. The warehouse was separated by chain link fencing from the houses on one side and the river on the other, and both ends of the stubby, grass covered expanse around it opened into factory grounds. The dark brownstones that faced this dismal view were shut up at this hour, light showing through their closed curtains.
No one saw Frank cut through an alley and climb to the roof, and it wouldn't have mattered too much if they had. In this part of town, you kept your business inside your four walls. Someone might come poking around once shots were fired, but there was no better vantage point in any direction.
The rifle came together in a series of satisfying clicks. It had a better scope than his last one, necessity and luck, plucked off a corpse halfway across town. The magnification was high enough to cut the distance from the roof to the warehouse to almost nothing.
Ships occasionally drifted by on the river, mournfully firing off a few blasts of the horn as they moved away from shore. The homeless were at better gathering points along the river. It was a deserted place, strangely quiet, framed by factories belching smoke. Perfect for an impromptu meetup.
And there were the cars. "Right on schedule." He had given in to the freezing cold, shrouded in a black coat, but wore no gloves. He didn't want distance, even a millimeter, between finger and trigger when the time came. Call it superstition - there was no one to account for any mistakes but him.
The cars veered off the main road and into the warehouse lot from each end, driving through gateways left conveniently open for the evening. Men at each end got out of the cars, opening the doors on either side, and the cars slid slowly in to meet each other.
Thankfully, the long warehouse windows offered a hell of a view.
Frank checked the scope. Each side had left a man on the door at each end, north and south. One was lighting a cigarette, while the other was apparently checking to see how far he could spit. His sights drifted toward the warehouse windows. There were the targets - the man and woman in charge, each sliding out of their sleek black cars, ready to discuss terms in the cold. The shots would be clean in a minute, when they got a little more comfortable, came a little nearer to each other.
He was low on the roof, in line with the rifle, and he couldn't feel his own pulse. Not against the concrete, not in the tips of his fingers, not in the hollow of his neck. He was inside the scope, neat as if he fit in it. He was at the scene, as if he was standing in the warehouse with them.
Maybe it was instinct that broke his concentration, or maybe it was the faraway sound of footfalls on slick, snow-covered pavement, but he lifted his eye from the scope. It was rare that anything could get between him and his object, especially a distraction. Instinct said it was a bad sign. He looked directly down, to the road.
"Ah, shit."