[b]San Francisco, CA[/b]

When he didn’t get any answer the second time he knocked, Bullseye kicked the door in.

He came in gun first through the tiny studio apartment. It took Bullseye all of thirty seconds to clear the place of any human life. He slid his supressor-equipped piece back in its shoulder holster and did a quick inventory of the surroundings. Bare walls and cracked wallpaper greeted him. A scuffed hardwood floor was obscured by stacks of garbage and filth. The place stunk to high heaven and Bullseye had to hold his nose as he went into the little bathroom nook.

From the window he looked out across the city. San Francisco's lights were ablaze in the early darkness of dusk. A movement below him caught his eye and he looked down. A fat man in a ill-fitting suit was running down the fire escape for dear life. Bullseye yanked the window opened and raced down the rickety, rusty stairs after him.

The fat man was off the stairs and running down the alley by the time Bullseye got to the bottom of them. He leapt the five feet down to the pavement and pulled his gun from its holster. The fat man was at least forty yards away when Bullseye drew a bead on him with the gun's iron sight. The gun jerked just once and the fat man crumpled to the ground. 

Bullseye kicked the fat man over and made sure he was dead. A neat little hole in the back of his head wasn't nearly as neat when it exited just under his left eye and took out what little brains he had with it. A quick search revealed a wallet, a cellphone, and a half brick of heroin tucked in the man's suit jacket. 

The wallet had a driver's license made out to one Henry Carter with matching debit and credit cards. Bullseye pocketed the wallet and dope into his own jacket and held on to the phone as he walked out the alley towards his car. The rental was parked down the black from the flophouse he'd just went in on. This part of town was filled with rundown apartments and no-tell motels so he knew he'd be able to leave the area at his own pace before anyone found the body.

He drove to a parking lot three blocks away and let the engine idle while he inspected Henry Carter's phone. The man didn't make many phone calls -- but who did in the age of texting --  Most of the calls were either from contacts listed a HOME or SARAH. The texts revealed Sarah to be Carter's wife or girlfriend or something. Bullseye didn't remember seeing a wedding ring on Carter's pudgy hand. Most of the text were mundane stuff from Sarah and friends, but one number jumped out at Bullseye.

Briz -- number 415-202-6005 -- never called Carter nor did Carter ever call him. But they texted. Every two weeks, Briz would text Carter the word 'Package' and Two weeks later, Carter would text '$' The last such text was a package one from Briz a week ago. Bullseye pocketed the phone and started the car. He pulled out into the street with a few ideas on how to proceed next.



[b]48 Hours Earlier
Las Vegas, NV[/b]


"What do you know about dope?"

Don Carlo Gallo looked at Bullseye from across the patio. The old man had a cigar in one hand and a bourbon in the other. He was dressed only in swimming trunks while Bullseye wore a dark suit.

"It gets you high," Bullseye said with a shrug.

"It does and you can make a lot of money at it, if you do it right." Gallo took a long puff on his cigar before exhaling a cloud of smoke above the patio. "Someone ain't playing by the rules. Some sons of bitches in San Fran are cutting into our action out here on the coast."

Bullseye could feel the sweat pooling under his shirt. He hated the heat, even more than he hated the old man's drawn out little speeches. Maybe it was because he was a contract killer, but he always like to cut to the chase. "How many people do I need to kill?"

"As many as it takes," said Gallo. "I don't care if you gotta waste the fucking 49ers to find the people importing and selling that dope, but find out who it is and make it so they can't fucking do it again."

"Twenty grand a murder."

"Fair enough," Gallo said after a long sip of his drink. "But you better not fucking pad it, killing motherfuckers just to get paid."

"As many as it takes, right?"


[b]San Francisco, CA
Now[/b]


"Yo, what the fuck--"

"Briz," Bullseye said in his most panicked voice. "I-I-I-It's me!"

"Yo, we don't talk on the fucking phone, yo--"

"We need to meet! Something's gone wrong, shit has gone wrong. I don't know what to do!"

"Chill the fuck out," Briz said with some force behind his voice. "And stop talking over the phone about this shit, alright?"

"What do I do?"

"Meet me at that parking garage over on 20th street, alright?"

"Okay. I'll be there in twenty minutes!"

Bullseye hung up and put the phone back into his jacket pocket. With the car still running, he got out and walked to the back. He popped the trunk and looked down at the shotgun resting inside. He picked it up and racked a shell into the breech.