What makes a man a killer?
Eric Shepard wasn't sure he could properly answer that question, mainly because he didn't quite consider himself a killer. Of course, the fact that at this very moment he was going to end the lives of two people was besides the point.
Turning away from the window, Eric flipped open the catches on the large black case lying on the bed. Lifting the lid, he paused a moment to admire the sleek lines of the WA2200 nestled snugly in the foam packing. In Eric's opinion, the WA2200 was a work of art, firing a .300 caseless Magnum round at well over 2200 fps. More than enough to punch through windows, doors, body armor and even walls.
Pulling the stock free from the tight grasp of the packing, Eric brushed his hands across the action, wiping away nonexistent specks of dust. He was a stickler about keeping his tools clean, whether it be a rifle, a pistol, or the knife he kept tucked in his boot. Shifting the stock over, he then pulled the barrel free, sliding it home and screwing it tight.
Twelve years ago he could have only dreamed about owning such a weapon. But, then, twelve years ago he still didn't have a clue as to what he wanted to do with his life. He has some small talent with firearms, true, and he'd even won a few shooting competitions. He also had gotten himself involved in martial arts, finding something relaxing in learning how to reduce your opponent to a lump on the mat in as few moves a possible.
The bipod was next, snapped into a slot under the barrel
He had considered the military, but the idea of having to take orders, and shave and cut his hair, really didn't appeal to him. The same with being a police officer. It was a nice idea on the surface, but there would be too many rules and regulation to cramp his desire for freedom of expression. Private detective? Too boring. Vid detectives might get involved in blazing gunfights, high-speed chases and beautiful babes, but he knew better. Insurance scams and divorce cases were more likely his lot.
Now, the scope. Mounted over the barrel, it would allow him to virtually stand in his target's hip pocket, not to mention put a bullet behind his ear.
He'd ended up a repo-man for a short while. That had been exciting, jacking cars, trucks, speeders and whatnot. Hell, they'd even snagged a starship once. His skill with the gun had paid off in that mess, skill which had indirectly resulted in his new profession. Bounty hunting.
Now, the magazine. Eight rounds, slid in right behind the pistol grip. Caseless, thus no empty shell casings to worry about.
Bounty hunting had finally been the niche Eric was looking for. It offered everything, travel, excitement, danger, gunplay. He spent a few years moving his way around New Eden and beyond, snagging bail jumpers for a tidy profit. And then, it had happened. His client didn't want him to to return with this skip-trace, he wanted the matter resolved in a more permanent fashion. He wanted Eric to kill a man.
Suppressor. Slid over the end of the barrel and screwed into place, it would eliminate almost all of the muzzle flash and report. It would also slow down the round slightly, but that was why he had a scope.
So, Eric had gone out, found his target and put a bullet though his head. It hadn't been hard, although Eric had felt a touch disturbed at the lack of emotion he'd experienced. He'd taken a closer look at philosophy at that point, examining some of the ideas behind Zen and the emptiness of one's mind. His martial training had helped as well, since it had stressed adaption and evolution as the basis for success and perfection
Settling the bipod on the sill, Eric made himself comfortable. He had a few minutes before his target would arrive and he would need to be in the proper frame of mind.
And so it went. He brought most of his targets back, but occasionally, he would be asked to return alone. He had thought about this for a bit. Most people he chased after were pretty much the bottom of the barrel, the dregs of society. Getting rid of them was probably a benefit to everyone else. It certainly would be saving the taxpayers some money. So he did it. Oh, there were requests he turned down, Eric had decided early on that he would have to decide if the target really deserved it before saying 'yes'.
A car pulled up outside, disgorging several men in suits. Eric shifted the rifle slightly, waiting, his breathing slow and regular.
Was he any better than his targets? Eric didn't know. He thought about the question from time to time, and usually settled the matter by tending to the gravel bed of his rock garden until his mind was clear. It was amazing how arranging pebbles with a wooden rake could ease the soul.
Ah... there they were. Earlier, Eric had received a good 10,000 for bringing in the pair. But their high-priced lawyers had made a mockery out of the trial, and now, here they were, free again. Eric had felt more than a bit disgusted by that. So, when Arthur Duran had offered him 20,00 each for a successful 'retirement', he'd jumped at the chance.
Raising his gun, Eric adjusted the scope. A man filled the crosshairs, so close that Eric felt he could reach out and touch him.
So he did.
20,000.
"Goodbye, Mr. Barrow", he whispered as he twisted slightly, bringing the second figure into view.
Ms. Parker stood frozen, still not realizing that her lover and partner in crime was falling to the ground
Eric gently squeezed the trigger.
40,000.
Return to the Fiction Page