Another repost. There has been a few requests for Collateral Damage to be reposted. Originally a drabble, I couldn't imagine dropping 93 updates back to back into people's inboxes with a repost. So, I have taken and combined the drabble chapters into 13(I think) segments to post.

If this is new to you, enjoy. If it is something you read the first go, maybe you will enjoy it again. I know I did as I re-read it for this reposting.

My iPhone ding'ed alerting me to another job…

EC –

Your next job is at echo bravo one eighty-one. Take the third to Highway H. Pick up the equipment and the additional instructions.

EMC

I jumped on my bike and followed the instructions. I knew this ride like the back of my hand, not that I knew the back of my hand all that well, but I made this trip at least once a week.

Why EMC felt to still give directions was fucking stupid, but whatever.

Within five minutes I was at the small studio apartment. After a series of knocks, special code words, and a lovely finger print scan, I was getting my mission details.

Mission sounds very Armyesque, because I definitely was not Army.

Loaded with a sweet array of guns and ammo, I headed to the van.

Yeah, we had a van and it was black and bullet proof. It was a mean fucker.

It's rare we were ever shot at, but on the rare occasion it was nice to have added armor.

I sat at a stop light reading over the details:

Male

Five foot eight

Short brown hair

Will be in green t-shirt and khakis

Always at corner of 75th and Jackson 3pm.

$10,000

I glanced at the clock.

Fuck! I had ten minutes to get across town.

I floored it, praying I would make it.

With a minute to spare, I parked the van and set up.

I pulled my black, trusty hoodie over my head.

It blocked my eyes and kept me safe.

The one time I didn't wear it, I look a stray bullet in the shoulder.

Hurt like a fucker, never again.

I saw my target walking to the corner.

I jumped into the back of the van and set my weapon up.

My Winchester model 70 Stealth was better than having a bitch underneath me.

That gun on its own could cause me to bust a nut.

I set my scope and waited for him to stop at the corner.

As long as my shot stayed clear, I would have 10k in my pocket in no time.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

I opened and looked to the sight on my weapon to make sure my shot was good.

Aimed at the chest. Straight shot to the heart.

I was twenty feet away. The shot would be good.

I cocked the weapon and pulled the trigger.

My heart raced. Blood pounded though my veins.

He dropped to the ground.

The hit was clean.

I snapped a quick picture with my iPhone and jumped back into the front of the van.

Pulling out into traffic, I messaged EMC back.

Hit done. Clean. Wire money.

See attachment.

EC

This was my job, it may not have been the noblest jobs, but it was mine.

Some may say I have issues and really, I might.

I dropped the van back at the house and picked up my bike.

As always, before heading home I took a drive back by the hit location.

The body was gone and only three cops were on scene.

I slowed my bike pulling up along the crime scene tape.

"Whoa, whoa, no crossing, sir."

"Sorry, just trying to head to a friends. What happened?"

"A legal aid attorney. Poor guy was hit by a sniper round. Some sick fucks around here."

Part of me flinched at his words. Not a big part but still a part.

What would he say if he knew I was the one he was hunting down?

Why did I always follow up on my hits?

Why did I care who they were or what they did?

They were a paycheck.

Someone was willing to pay enough to see them gone.

Morning came and I picked up the local paper.

Front page was my kill.

I added it to the collection.

I was responsible for over five hundred hits throughout the United States and another three hundred overseas. I had the paper for each and every kill.