Full Circle
folder
M through R › Professional/Leon
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
4,817
Reviews:
5
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
M through R › Professional/Leon
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
4,817
Reviews:
5
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own The Professional, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Full Circle 2
TITLE: Full Circle 2
AUTHOR: ShyBob
SUMMARY: (The Professional) Seven years after the events in the movie Mathilda is Cleaning. Her first job.
WARNING: graphic violence and profanity.
RATING: R for this part.
DISCLAIMER: The Professional and all associated characters are property of Columbia Pictures, Gaumont/Les Films du Dauphin, and Luc Besson. wor work is not for profit, and no ownership of aforementioned copyted ted material implied, nor any infringement intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm attempting to avoid rehashing La Femme Nikita, but it's difficult.
* * *
So I'm sitting back from the edge of the roof a little. Waiting for my mark to show. The sun beats down on top of the decrepit old apartment building where I'm positioned. I can see a long way down the street in either direction. I wait. I'm good at being patient.
I didn't forget Leon when I was in the emy,emy, didn't forget the things he taught me. Even after Fat Tony sent me off to school, I tried to keep my hand in as much as possible. I read up on things even though I didn't really think I'd ever get to Clean. Books on anatomy, target shooting, booby-traps. Lots of information out there if you just look for it. Had to hide most of the books. Not proper reading material for troubled young ladies trying to become functional members of society. And now I'm glad I did.
I read to improve on the things Leon taught me, and picked up a few he never got time to show me. And I've spent the last couple weeks practicing, getting in shape for my new career as a Cleaner.
* * *
EARLIER:
The package from Tony sits in front of where I'm seated at my kitchen table. Two knives: a switchblade and a big fighting knife. More ammo for my guns, including armor-piercing for the big single-shot .44 and Leon's rifle. Supplies I need to train, to work. Muffled metallic sounds come from underneath the table where my hands disassemble and reassemble the .45 auto. The .22, much harder, will be next.
Two weeks later, I'm sitting across from Tony in the restaurant. He's doing his thing where he tries to establish he's in control. The 'I'm your friend but I'm the boss' kind of thing, with posture and facial expression, and tone of voice. I don't even know if he realizes it.
"Are you sure you're ready for this, Mathilda?"
My glass of milk is so cold that condensation drips off it, down onto the table. An old man, a Cleaner who actually got to retire, sits quietly a few tables down. A dead cockroach that Gino missed is under the table next to me. I am aware of these things, while my eyes never leave Tony's. "Yes, Tony."
He clasps his hands, pauses. "You have any trouble, I don't wanna know. But it better not come back on my family, okay?"
"Yes, Tony."
"Okay, go on. I don't want to see you 'til it's done."
"Yes, Tony."
* * *
NOW:
The mark gets out of his limousine. The hired muscle are already out, on the sidewalk, scanning for trouble. But not high enough up, and not far enough out. I breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe half way out and hold it. Focus on the crosshairs, not the mark. Slow, steady press on the trigger. It's a surprise when it goes off, just like it's supposed to be. Last thing I see of the mark is a red spray coming out the far side of his head. Screams from the women that get splattered with blood and skull fragments.
Feels like slow motion. By the time the muscle have expanded their visual search to the rooftop of this building, Leon's rifle is in its case and the rooftop door had already shut behind me.
I'm down the stairs (avoid elevators whenever possible) and out the rear of the building before I hear sirens. I walk out of the alley and come face to face with a cop who's hustling to the scene. Our eyes meet. He's seen me. A young woman, dark hair, sunglasses and black coat, with a browiefciefcase only a block and a half from the homicide. Shit, shit, shit!
"Excuse me." He moves around me and hurries on down the sidewalk. As soon as he's past me I turn and draw the silenced .22 from under my coat. I aim at the back of his head. Pause for a second. I should put a bullet in him right now. Two seconds. But he hasn't done anything. Three seconds. I reholster the pistol and move on.
No women, no kids. And now, no innocent bystanders. Like I need more rules to complicate my life even further.
AUTHOR: ShyBob
SUMMARY: (The Professional) Seven years after the events in the movie Mathilda is Cleaning. Her first job.
WARNING: graphic violence and profanity.
RATING: R for this part.
DISCLAIMER: The Professional and all associated characters are property of Columbia Pictures, Gaumont/Les Films du Dauphin, and Luc Besson. wor work is not for profit, and no ownership of aforementioned copyted ted material implied, nor any infringement intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm attempting to avoid rehashing La Femme Nikita, but it's difficult.
* * *
So I'm sitting back from the edge of the roof a little. Waiting for my mark to show. The sun beats down on top of the decrepit old apartment building where I'm positioned. I can see a long way down the street in either direction. I wait. I'm good at being patient.
I didn't forget Leon when I was in the emy,emy, didn't forget the things he taught me. Even after Fat Tony sent me off to school, I tried to keep my hand in as much as possible. I read up on things even though I didn't really think I'd ever get to Clean. Books on anatomy, target shooting, booby-traps. Lots of information out there if you just look for it. Had to hide most of the books. Not proper reading material for troubled young ladies trying to become functional members of society. And now I'm glad I did.
I read to improve on the things Leon taught me, and picked up a few he never got time to show me. And I've spent the last couple weeks practicing, getting in shape for my new career as a Cleaner.
* * *
EARLIER:
The package from Tony sits in front of where I'm seated at my kitchen table. Two knives: a switchblade and a big fighting knife. More ammo for my guns, including armor-piercing for the big single-shot .44 and Leon's rifle. Supplies I need to train, to work. Muffled metallic sounds come from underneath the table where my hands disassemble and reassemble the .45 auto. The .22, much harder, will be next.
Two weeks later, I'm sitting across from Tony in the restaurant. He's doing his thing where he tries to establish he's in control. The 'I'm your friend but I'm the boss' kind of thing, with posture and facial expression, and tone of voice. I don't even know if he realizes it.
"Are you sure you're ready for this, Mathilda?"
My glass of milk is so cold that condensation drips off it, down onto the table. An old man, a Cleaner who actually got to retire, sits quietly a few tables down. A dead cockroach that Gino missed is under the table next to me. I am aware of these things, while my eyes never leave Tony's. "Yes, Tony."
He clasps his hands, pauses. "You have any trouble, I don't wanna know. But it better not come back on my family, okay?"
"Yes, Tony."
"Okay, go on. I don't want to see you 'til it's done."
"Yes, Tony."
* * *
NOW:
The mark gets out of his limousine. The hired muscle are already out, on the sidewalk, scanning for trouble. But not high enough up, and not far enough out. I breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe half way out and hold it. Focus on the crosshairs, not the mark. Slow, steady press on the trigger. It's a surprise when it goes off, just like it's supposed to be. Last thing I see of the mark is a red spray coming out the far side of his head. Screams from the women that get splattered with blood and skull fragments.
Feels like slow motion. By the time the muscle have expanded their visual search to the rooftop of this building, Leon's rifle is in its case and the rooftop door had already shut behind me.
I'm down the stairs (avoid elevators whenever possible) and out the rear of the building before I hear sirens. I walk out of the alley and come face to face with a cop who's hustling to the scene. Our eyes meet. He's seen me. A young woman, dark hair, sunglasses and black coat, with a browiefciefcase only a block and a half from the homicide. Shit, shit, shit!
"Excuse me." He moves around me and hurries on down the sidewalk. As soon as he's past me I turn and draw the silenced .22 from under my coat. I aim at the back of his head. Pause for a second. I should put a bullet in him right now. Two seconds. But he hasn't done anything. Three seconds. I reholster the pistol and move on.
No women, no kids. And now, no innocent bystanders. Like I need more rules to complicate my life even further.