"There are two ways to stop an opponent or target. You make him unable to continue or you make him submit," said a voice inside Venn's head. It was the doctrine that had been ingrained into his mind, his instincts - his very existence, perhaps. The problem was, he was also taught that submission wasn't an option, at least not for them; and 'unable to continue' translated roughly to 'dead as a doornail'.
A stream of garbled, shrilly-shouted and - at least to Venn - unintelligible words issued forth from the room at the end of the corridor. Venn thought it resembled Russian. "You won't get me, whoever you are!" called out the voice again, as the speaker switched abruptly to English.
The pronouncement was followed by sporadic gunfire that hit the carpeting and the wall, but was otherwise of no consequence. Venn was hiding behind a corner where the room's wall met that of the corridor's, well-shielded from gunfire.
'How many damn guards did this paranoid wacko hire?' he thought to himself. Already about a dozen or so armed men lined the corridors, side rooms and stairs. Each of these men had a gaping bullet wound on his head, some on the temple, others between the eyes, and yet others on the neck - or what little of their necks remained, anyhow.
Another spray of bullets came forth from the room at the end of the corridor. Venn wondered if the guards were starting to run out of ammo yet. He knew from the corpses of the other guards that the weapons were 9mm sub-machine guns - MP5s or something. He knew from the lack of ricocheting - something that worked in his favor - that the rounds were of the hollow-point variety. He had stuck to his training so far, and aside from a few cuts and bruises, he was relatively unscathed. He did not wish to make a mistake now. Shootouts almost never end well if one was outnumbered and outgunned, regardless of what the movies wanted one to believe.
'And speaking of ammo...' he thought to himself as he looked down on his gun, a Colt Python with a six-inch barrel. He had three rounds left in the cylinder - hollow-point 357's. He checked his pants’ front left pocket and found it empty - the rear left pocket was jingling with the shell casings he had previously fired - couldn't very well leave those behind.
He wished, as he had on so many previous instances within the last twenty or so minutes, that he could have used the M107A1 instead. The house - mansion, whatever they called it nowadays - stood atop a hill, and his target, being a much smaller man, left him without a clear shot especially since his guards stuck so close to him. He did take out some of the guards with the decidedly overpowered rifle, but the target had predictably withdrawn inside. To Venn, this meant two things: first, the target has no means of escape unless he was out of the picture; and second, he had to go into the rather veritable fortress full of armed guards. And here he was, less than half an hour later, outnumbered three to one counting the target.
Another burst of gunfire further shredded the carpeting and the fake wooden panels on the wall - it all looked like a ghastly mess now. Venn, who was concentrating on counting shots, noted that there were three less shots compared to earlier salvos.
'Out of ammo or trying to lure me in?' he wondered.
Venn checked his watch. He was not sure if his target had actually dared call the police - that entailed explaining his small private army of bodyguards. But then again, a man in panic - especially one so paranoid - was unfathomable to a fault. If the target did, his hand would be forced. Venn knew that other than his firearm, all he had were three knives. One each on knife holsters on both ankles - the way commandos wore them on TV - and a butterfly knife hidden on his left sleeve. He had no explosives, because he was too uncomfortable with them, though admittedly some would be a lot of help considering present circumstances.
"I have called for backup! Whoever you are, you'd better be prepared to die here!" called out the voice again. Venn checked his watch again. He was not sure if this last pronouncement was a bluff or not, but he figured any backup would be heading towards them with accelerators floored. It was time to move in, like it or not.
"I've got three more rounds!" Venn shouted back - it was the first time he had spoken at all since the carnage began. "Those two with you better be good at catching bullets, or I'll still have one left for you after I'm done with them!" With that implied threat - always good to have every small psychological advantage - Venn made his move.
The next few seconds were a blur.
Venn emerged from the corner he was hiding behind, gun at the ready. He knew the guards wore vests, so head shots were the way to go. The doorway of the room at the end of the corridor was empty. For a moment, he just stood there, his gaze switching back and forth from left to right. Then a small movement caught his eye on the right side of the doorway.
He shot at the right side of the doorway, and his bullet struck wood. One of the guards had swung the door slightly closed, and he had fallen for it. No sooner had the sound of the impact resounded along the corridor, than one of the guards emerged behind the door, gun at the ready. Venn realized the door was both decoy and cover. On instinct, he dropped to one knee, readjusted his aim, and blew the guard's brains out. Behind him, the walls were once again shredded as the bullets flew over his head. Venn expected the next few rounds to shred him as the guard's arm swung down. Instead, he heard the dry click of a firing pin striking nothing - the guard's gun had been almost empty, after all.
'One more round, two people left,' he had time to think. He focused again on the now partially obstructed doorway, some part of his brain shouting that the other guard would come from the left side this time. That part of his brain was wrong; it turned out, as the remaining guard also emerged behind the door. Venn had been caught unawares, but the guard stumbled slightly as his foot struck the corpse of his now-dead comrade.
Venn knew this was his only opportunity, and in life-or-death situations such an opportunity had to be taken advantage of. Seeing that the remaining guard also had his gun angled to shoot upwards - toward the head - Venn dove down, rolling slightly to his left. His left shoulder was braced for impact, while his right arm remained outstretched as he readjusted his aim to compensate for his movement. He was counting on the guard not being able to swing the gun down. Venn grunted as his shoulder hit the carpet, and his aim swung off to one side. The guard, having had to readjust to both the accidental stumble and Venn's sudden movement, started to swing his gun down.
Gunshots rang out.
...
'Empty,' reported Venn's mental ammo tracker. He had kicked the guard's arm off to one side, and all the remaining rounds in the sub-machine gun were emptied into a different direction. Meanwhile, Venn had corrected his aim and disposed of the last guard. In a flash - surely no more than forty-five seconds - the gunfight was over, two men were down, and ammo was a passing memory.
Venn stood up, re-holstered his empty revolver into a holster on his right thigh, and drew both knives from his ankles. Cautiously, he pushed the door fully open with one shoe. He had to be very careful, because while he was armed, his target - paranoid, after all - might just have a firearm.
He stepped into the room, noting that the door had swung back fully, making concealment in that area improbable. He took a quick survey of the windows - they all looked undisturbed, unlike if someone had tried to jump off one. It meant that the target was now cornered, but most probably armed.
To his left is a lit fireplace, and he edges toward it, being careful not to make any sudden movements. He continued to inch toward it, eventually leaving the door unguarded.
"Here kitty-kitty..." he said, daring the target to move into the open. A closet on the right side of the room - one partially hidden from view by the door - opened, and the target sprang out, heading out through the doorway. Venn, who had been expecting some sort of escape attempt, leaped after the target, knives swinging. He managed to slash at the back of the target's ankle. The target went down hard, screaming his head off and writhing in pain.
Venn slipped both knives back into their holsters, grabbed hold of the target's injured foot - soliciting a fresh round of agonized wails - and dragged him back into the room.
"What- what do you want? Please, spare me!" the target pleaded. "I- I'll pay you double what you're being paid. I'll pay you triple if you tell me who it is," continued the target, trying to bargain now. Venn smiled, bemused as he thought of the way people assumed all syndicate bosses, drug lords or crime kingpins were hardened goons. He had evidence to the contrary now.
Venn let go off the target's leg when they were in front of the fireplace. "I'll tell you who it is, and you won't need to pay me a cent," he told the target. "You see, your wife wasn't too happy when you tried to screw her over the divorce settlements. When you're gone, she gets everything, you see?"
"No. No way. Please, I'll pay you anything you want!"
Venn smiled at this last, desperate plea. It was very uncommon for him, who preferred long-distance hits, to be this close to a target. "Hey," he said, "you really think I'm that unprofessional?"
The man only stared at him, in shock. Obviously, he had been used to buying people out.
"Don't worry, this won't hurt," Venn tells the target. He takes a small metallic case out of his pants’ front right pocket. It contained a syringe and a small vial. "This is a sort of venom that is lethal to small animals, but it only immobilizes humans. Your wife picked it especially for you - think of it as a parting gift." He drew out exactly 10cc of the venom, made sure to get rid of any bubbles, and injected it into the target. He threw the syringe into the fire - he was wearing gloves, so if any part of it survived, he wouldn't have left fingerprints behind. He stowed the case with the vial still inside, back into his pocket.
"You! Hey! I'll live, believe me. Just you wait!" shouts the target at him. Venn just smiles at the sudden outburst of anger.
"Well, we'll see about that, shall we?" he said. Venn headed toward the nearest window, ripped the curtains off and threw them into the fireplace. Fire started to eat through the public, spreading out through the length of the curtain and to the carpet. Venn opened the window - flames needed air, after all - and stepped out of the room.
...
Venn drove away from the small cabin he rented. He had left nothing but a syringe behind. He had collected the shell casings from his rifle, had left behind no fingerprints or blood - or witnesses. Whatever evidence was left would go up in flames. Slowing down a bit, he turned his phone on, noting that he had five missed calls - the caller had left no messages behind.
The phone rings as he makes to put it down. Venn takes a glance at the number - it said 'number unidentified' - put his bluetooth earphones on and answered it.
"Three fifty-seven?" asked a deep male voice. Venn recognized the voice as that of The Shop's boss. 'Three fifty-seven' was his handle - Venn supposed the powers that be decided to do away with the cliché term 'agents', and had gone on to call them by their firearms. He wondered why his handle wasn't that of his rifle, which he used more. He supposed M107A1 was too long.
"Yes, Venn here," he answered. This was the way they all identified themselves, answering not with their handles, but their name.
"I've just watched the news. Great job."
"Thanks."
"Perhaps you would be available for another?"
Venn's eyebrows scrunched up at the question. "I'm not really in the mood to make contact with another client," he said.
"No, no, you misunderstand me. This one... is an extermination. Consider it a personal favor to me."
Venn sighed at the phrase 'extermination'. It meant a hit on one of his colleagues. And since when did the big boss need to ask for personal favors anyway? "Ok. Tell me who."
"Ah, I knew you wouldn't let me down, three fifty-seven. You'll like this one. It's forty-four. I'll send the files to your e-mail."
The irony struck Venn. Forty-four was another magnum, just as his handle was. He glanced at his watch again. "Ok, boss. I'll report back when I get those files."
"Good. I'll leave you alone now. I believe you have to drive six hours?"
"Yes. Goodbye."
The call disconnected. Venn wasn't bothered that the boss didn't bid him goodbye or wish him luck. What bothered him was this extermination job out of the blue. Shaking his head, he plugged his mp3 player into the car's stereo system and turned the volume to max. Soon, the car was enveloped in loud rock music - couldn't afford to fall asleep at sixty miles an hour, after all.
...
That was rather long...
Notes:
- Yes, the main character's name is Venn. Like the diagram.
- Yes, I'm also aware that an M107A1 is more an anti-materiel rifle than anti-personnel. Kind of overkill, but most targets are heavily protected, so...
- Also, yes, I'm aware I posted an excerpt earlier where a character gets called XY-357. They're not the same character.
I like 'em.
As you can clearly see, three fifty-seven [357] is the caliber of the ammunition, rather than the name of the firearm. Darn it! 
