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Her Last Mission

Story ID:11087
Written by:Michael Timothy Smith (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:Fiction
Location:Caldwell Idaho USA
Year:2016
Person:Writing Contest
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OurEcho Preface This post deals with a mature theme or contains explicit language. While the post is not extremely violent or pornographic, it does contain language or explore a subject matter that may offend some readers. If you do not wish to view posts that deal with mature themes, please exit this post.
I entered the Writer's weekly 24-hour short story on the weekend.

Here is the topic I received and my entry.

Topic and word count:

Topic: Her shoes clip-clopped along the concrete like a sticky
metronome. Approaching a hot dog vendor, she said, "What
types of mustard do you have today?"

He responded, "I had a pure-breed Schnauzer but now he only
has three legs." He then handed her a sweating bottle of
water before turning away.

A few feet away, a metal newspaper dispenser reflected the
harsh sunlight. She stepped closer, blinking at the
headline...

Maximum word count: 950

Her Last Mission

Natasha sat in her expensive suite on the 15th floor of the high-end hotel on 5TH avenue in

New York City. It was provided to her by her handlers. The forty-inch television was turned
down, but her target was on the screen. His mouth moved silently – a puppet.

Her country was afraid he’d win the election. Her objective was to prevent it.

She looked out the window. 5Th Avenue traffic was at a standstill. It was rush hour.
She withheld a chuckle. Americans! Only they would call the time of slowest traffic, “Rush
Hour!”

Tomorrow the streets would be closed. Her target, a presidential candidate, would
ride down the street.

Her department made sure she was in an older, expensive hotel, one with a window
that opened just a bit. The newer hotel windows didn’t open – afraid of suicide jumpers.

Natasha ordered room service. As she ate, she stared at her target’s empty mouth
flapping on the silenced screen.

Tomorrow, the flapping would stop.

She showered the sweat from her sleek body. It was a long trip from her homeland.
Her credentials were checked several times and then the authorities allowed her into the
USA – fools.

She opened the case of her new rifle. She’d picked it up at a meeting with one of her
handlers that morning. He assured her the scope was sighted perfectly for the distance she
needed.

Natasha checked the clip, was glad to see it was full. Her lips curled into a smile.
She’d only need one.

She slept well. This was just a target, one of many she’d taken out in her deadly
career. Tomorrow, the job would be done. She’d be gone ...disappeared.

She woke early. Her breakfast of eggs and toast arrived at 8 AM. She ate, checked
the rifle again and waited.

Natasha looked out the window. 5Th avenue was lined with the candidate’s admirers.
There was no traffic. It was closed for her target’s parade …fool.

She pulled the rifle from its case, chambered a round and waited.

Her handlers were good. They chose a room where the window’s small opening
gave her the shot she needed.

Even from the 15th floor, she heard the cheer of the fans below her. The train of cars
approached. Police held the swarm to the sidewalk, as the candidate rolled down the street.

They wanted to hold his hand, speak to him …to go home and say, “I was there!”

They didn’t know.

Natasha steadied her rifle. She put one startling blue eye to the scope, steadied the
cross-hairs on his head, waited a moment and squeezed the trigger. She saw the spray of red as his
head exploded.

Her job was done.

Time to escape.

She left the room, the broken-down rifle in her case. In the mayhem, no one noticed
her toss the case into a dumpster.

Her shoes clip-clopped along the concrete like a sticky metronome. She approached
a hot dog vendor. “What types of mustard do you have today?”

He responded, “I had a pure-breed Schnauzer but now he only has three legs.”
He handed her a sweating bottle of water before turning away.”

The exchange confirmed her contact. The water bottle had a double liner.
Inside were her papers to escape.

A few feet away, the metal newspaper dispenser reflected the harsh sunlight.
She stepped closer, blinking at the headline. It was her. “Suspect in shooting of Presidential
Candidate at large.”

Natasha looked back at the hotdog vendor. He served another customer and ignored
her.

She was on her own.

She dropped under the streets, into the subway. Her picture was everywhere.
She stepped out of the subway in Brooklyn, found a room, and opened the water bottle.
Inside, she found new credentials, including a passport and a credit card, but she could not
change her looks. There was also a small packet. She slipped it into her right pocket.

Natasha used the credit card, booked a flight to Russia, dyed her hair and
hoped for the best.

The next morning, fresh off the subway, she arrived at the Newark, New Jersey airport
with a new hair color and dark glasses.

At customs, she was stopped. The agent asked, “Ma’am, what was your business
in the United States?”

“Visiting.”

“You look familiar to me …You’re the shooter!”

He drew his gun as she pulled the packet of cyanide from her pocket.

She was faster.

The agent watched her collapse to the floor.

It was her last mission.

Michael T Smith

Word Count: 749