Gates polished the scope of a long-barreled Whisper sniper rifle and flicked on the CorSec radio he’d taken from the stores of the renowned security force of the Corellian Sector. They’d let him right in; a son of Corellia was never a stranger, no matter what uniform he wore. His military ID had let him straight in. He’d appropriated the radio on his way out.

He opened a walkie-talkie and flicked it on. “You jackasses had better be in position,” he said, reattaching the sniper rifle’s scope.
“The way you’re paying us, you bet we’re in position,” a smooth voice came across the handheld radio. The CorSec radio hopped across police channels and CorSec voice traffic, as well as emergencies and fires. The city was a dangerous place, what with all the fringe-types scattered all over the city. It had been a smuggler’s haven in its heyday, but still many had claimed ancestry.

A hundred feet below Gates’ isolated perch in a rented apartment sat the rest of his ‘team.’ His lip curled. A crooked doctor and an appropriated ambulance. He’d take his squad any day. After all, he didn’t have to bribe his squad to help him out with an op.
The walkie talkie squawked, spitting static and burps of interference. “Go ahead, spotter one, this is eye in the sky.”
“Boss, we gots eyes on the target,” the sentry said. “Markin’ him with the laser spotter now.”

Gates peered through his scope; far below was an uncluttered street, only a few dozen people in the area. The target was obvious now, spotted and laser-marked by the also-bribed sentry. “Good; follow him. Covertly, dammit!” Gates ordered, the latter part after the man fixated on the target. “Stay at least 30 feet back. I’ve got eyes, but you have to be the first at the scene. Got it?”

“Yea boss, I got it,” the spotter said indifferently. He was a poor crewman who was used to orders and abuse, and he often got it from his ship’s officers. Following some male escort was no problem for him.

Gates opened a small box that was a couple feet from him. He took out the first bullet; sighted down it. Perfect. He slid it into the receiver, and slid the bolt forward. Loaded.

He snuggled his face more comfortably onto the rifle, his blink rate dropping dramatically and his breathing and heart rate consciously calming, reading for the shot and kill.

Earlier surveillance had the target going through a park on his way home; the perfect opportunity; no one would see it. The target slipped into the park, his shadow slipping in a few seconds later. Gates slowly twisted a knob to increase his zoom and rested his right index finger on the trigger. The target walked slowly into a clearing, savoring the clear spring air. Gates’ finger tightened, and a super-sonic armor-piercing slug tore from the barrel.

A second later, the bullet slammed right through the man’s knee. He fell to the ground, screaming and cursing. The shadow ran up, turning the target over; a pair of lovers overlooked the scene, the woman with her hands over her mouth, the man tugging her away from the bleeding victim. Gates broke the sniper rifle into its pieces, stowing them quickly and efficiently back into a large case, as well as his ammunition and the CorSec radio and walkie-talkie. He’d keep them.

He quickly left the room, down the turbolift and checked out.  A minute’s brisk walk, and he was next to the bought doctor and his ambulance. “Climb on board, boss. We’ll have him and his stretcher in a minute.”

Gates nodded and climbed into the rear of the ambulance. The doctor climbed in next to him, and then the two other men, carrying the injured man, unconscious. The vehicle sped away. Gates gave the directions to the client’s house, his back door. They sped through the city, avoiding police and other ambulances until they got there.

Gates jumped out, followed by the two gurney lifters. Gates paid them all off, and picked the target up. For a man whose job included looking fit, he weighted very little, and was several inches shorter than Gates. My armor weighs more than this prick

He carried the damaged man and knocked. The client, a forty-something man and his wife, rich as shit, wearing nice clothing. “Happy birthday, Mr. Gonzalez,” Gates murmured, handing over the prize.

The man’s eyes hardened, but that didn’t stop him from giving Gates a ferocious, victorious grin and extending his hand to shake.
“Thank you, whoever you are. I’ll wire the funds to your employer. I hope you have good use for the money.”

Gates nodded and left.

Okay fine. I'll make a farce next time. Will it get me a bonus?