The sun rose softly, slowly over the horizon. Colleen a petite arctic fox awakens in her pent house in down town Miami. With a groan she arches her back and stretches her arms above her head.
“Well…time to get ready for work.” She speaks out to herself not really sure why. She stands and makes her way to the rest room, where she looks herself over in the mirror. Her breast are small yet firm, a comfortable B cup, even though she secretly wishes they where bigger. She giggled a little as she looked at her reflection. No one, could ever suspect that she did what she did for a living. After all who would suspect this 5′ 3” tall petite girl to be a professional sniper for hire.

Her shower was quick, and efficient, just they way she preferred to keep her life. While showering she thought about her mission this night. Her target was going to be difficult. She had spent weeks picking the perfect location to take her shot, but that still did not make it any easier. To shoot a target while he stands upon a moving boat is almost impossible for even the most highly trained professionals. Sighing she turned the hot water off, stepped out, and began the process of drying her fur. It takes her quite sometime, as it does with most others. Once done she wanders around her pent house for a bit, before finding her way onto the balcony, still nude. Up here though she didn’t really worry about anyone seeing her like this. The sun felt wonderful on her fur, and she liked the way it made her almost seem to glow. She wished she could spend all of her time like this, but this was a day time pleasure. Night, night on the other hand brought with them the darkness of the world. She loved both halve of the day though. She loved the hunt, though she felt lusted for it would be a better word. Finding her target, picking the spot to take her shot from, the feel of the heavy rifle pressed into her shoulder, the sound, the smell of the gun being fired. All of it excited her to an almost unhealthy level.

With the people she was taking out though it was a well deserved joy. After all, what could be better than taking out those that had forced you into sexual slavery before she had even had her first cycle. She licked her lips as she wandered over to the chair on the patio and laid out. Her thoughts turned to two weeks ago, her last mission, her last target. She reminisced about the job longingly.

It was a dark muggy night in late June, her location New Mexico. The target, Salvio O’Mally, a tough looking orange haired cat. She remembered him all to well. “The Trainer” the slavers called him, due to his particular skill at breaking the more rebellious spirits within the ranks of the recently captured children. She herself spent many an days in his “care”. She fought, and fought against the slavers, and often it ended with a call to him. She had picked a spot, deep within the desert, and lain herself out under and overhang of rock a few dozen feet from the bottom of a cliff face. As she had learned in her weeks of following the old cat, he enjoyed taking a dune buggy out into the desert as often as his “work” would allow him to. This particular day though he was in for a surprise. In her arms she held her favorite rifle. An XS-1, which fired the .338 Lapua Magnum round. Her bullets however carried and extra something special in them this day. Each round she carried held an explosive core, wrapped in tungsten steel. As she looked over her equipment one last time she saw the dust cloud that was Salvio riding around in the dirt. Another thing she loved about the XS-1 was the scope it came with. It tracked wind speed and direction, altitude, humidity, distance, all the things she needed to know to calculate her shot. Made her job that much easier, but then again what else did she expect from a $20,000 weapon system. She watched him for a bit. Letting him enjoy his last few moment alive. Then as he started to head closer to her location she attached her silencer, just in case he had his goons out with him, and began to line up her shot. She took a deep breath, held and right as she released she squeezed the hair trigger on the rifle. A soft, psst came from the barrel as the bullet raced out of the barrel at 3,000 feet per second. A moment later a small “clack” was heard as the bullet made contact with the engine of the buggy, stopping it dead in its tracks.

She had to fight not to laugh as the old cat coasted to a stop, just 300 yards form her position. His face clearly visible in her scope. He looked around, pissed that the engine on his machine dared to leave him stranded in the woods. He then got out of the vehicle and began to inspect it. He found the cause soon enough, a small hole in the engine block. Confused now he began to look around. Colleen though was already lining up her shot, but waited to pull the trigger. He pulled out his phone, and began to dial. Once it began to ring he placed the phone against his ear. No doubt he was calling for someone on his team to come get him, it was in this moment that Colleen took her shot. Another soft psst, came from the gun, and an instant later, the back of Salivo’s head erupted into a fine red mist. His body went limp and he dropped to the ground dead. Colleen remained silent however, as she slowly began to pack away her gear. Once tucked away she carefully began to free climb her way back down the cliff face, her claws were not made for climbing, but did make the task a bit easier. Once she reached the bottom she found her way to the small recess where she stashed the dirt bike she used to get out here. She packed her gear, placed her helmet on and speed away, taking the little extra time, to create some confusion in her tracks, in case his goons where smart enough to search the area, and start following tracks. Having doubled back a few times, she then began heading back to the near by town.

She awoke form her day dream around noon. Three hours had passed since she came out onto the balcony. She knew under her fur she was going to be at least a little sun burnt, but nothing she couldn’t handle. With a sigh she made her way back into the pent house, and tried to contemplate what to do with her remaining six hours of free time. With a long sigh she flops down on the couch in her living room. It had been quiet some time since she had “her” time as she called it. Flipping through the channels she looked for something that would stir her arousal. She finally stopped on a channel where a beautiful black panther was servicing two rather large looking through-breeds. She took her time, and slowly worked herself up into a rolling heat of lustful desire as she watches the panther work the two horses over. She held herself off as long as she could, but all to soon, she caved in to her desires and came. In this way she passed two hours, and spent the next hour cleaning up the “mess” she had made on her hard wood floor. Next she made her way to the wash room, not quiet in need of another shower she did take the time to wash herself up. She then turned the television to a more “appropriate” channel, and began running on the tread mill. Not enough to overly exert herself, but just fast enough to make it a long distance challenge. About an hour later she stopped, took an drink of water, and retrieved her rifle. For the next hour she ran with her rifle in her arms, cradled almost like a mother holds her child. After that hour passed she decided she had killed enough time, collapsed her rifle, packed her gear and headed out. A little extra time sitting at her perch wasn’t going to do her any harm. She figured as she headed out the door. She made her way down to the garage and tossed her bag into the passenger side of her 1967 Chevy Impala. Not the most inconspicuous vehicle, but in this part of Miami the “typical” car would stand out more than her classic. She stopped to look her vehicle over. She loved the contrast between its dark purple paint, and the chrome accents. She shakes herself out a bit and glides into the driver’s seat. She sticks the key in the ignition and turns, the engine of the car roars to life, and after closing the door and buckling herself in, she slams it into reverse, peeling the tires as she backs up, and then slams it into first gear. She rips out of the garage, and into the proper lane, keeping the engine revved as much as possible as she made her way through downtown Miami.

With traffic it took her roughly an hour to reach her destination. A run down old boat house, long since abandoned by tourist and owners alike. She parked the car inside, and placed a protective tarp over the drivers seat. She would need it later. The one downside, she decided, to being an Arctic Fox was that her fur was almost completely white. With a heavy sigh she made her way through the boat house. A few minutes later she sat at a table, her rifle assembled and a 50 gallon drum of oil sitting beside the table. She carefully went to work, painting her fur with the oil to create an urban camouflage pattern on her fur. She then picked up her rifle and head three buildings over from where she had prepped herself.

Her goal, a large 5 story building that had been halted mid construction. Carefully she made her way up to the very top, and having scouted the area the previous week, she set her rifle up roughly five feet out and fifteen feet back from the top left corner of the building relative to the sea. Her silencer already attached she took a few practice shot to make sure she was zeroed in. True to its reputation the rifle remained accurate even after being assembled and disassembled so many times, and with an air of confidence she made herself as comfortable as possible. Her target would be passing by on a yacht in roughly 2 hours.

The first hour was slow to pass, but the time came closer things seemed to pick up with an almost alarming rate of speed. Her targets boat was already coming into view, and would be within firing distance in fifteen minutes. At the thirty minute mark she began to searching for her target. A woman only known to her as Ida. Ida as Colleen recalled was an unseemly bull dog, who was well into her older years by this point. Her key identifying mark was a jagged scar the cut over her left eye, over her muzzle and ended at her right jaw. She never could forget that one haunting white eye, she herself having been partially responsible for the scar. She began to look back upon that series of events, but stopped herself. Now was the time for her to focus. She would probably never have this chance again, as Ida was quickly approaching her death bed. Colleen however, would not allow her to quietly pass into the void beyond. She was going to be the one that ended the bull dogs life. She was determined to be the angel of death for the slavers, and those that supported their movement.

It took her fifteen minutes more to find her target. Luckily she had anticipated this problem. She found Ida sitting on the back of the yacht, her wheelchair locked into place by several strong looking bindings. Unfortunately for her. She would have loved to have fired off a few shots, cut the bindings, and watched as Ida rolled off the back of the ship, to slip into the waters below and drown. However, fate just wasn’t quiet that willing to work with her one this one. She would have to settle with putting a bullet in the woman who had been the cause of many a waking nightmare.

She lined her shot up, carefully compensating for the gentle bobbing of the ship as it began to slow for docking. She began her breathing regiment as she placed her cross hairs on Ida’s chest. She counted down from five to herself, waiting until just before the rocking of the ship put Ida’s heart in her cross hairs, and then fired. The familiar sound of the rifle was all she heard as her bullet raced forward and struck her targets heart. A standard round would have been more than enough, but she wanted to send them a message so today she was using a fragmentation round. The bullet as it passed through its target shredded into hundreds possible thousands of small pieces, each barreling its way through soft tissue and then out the back of her wheelchair. No one noticed at first the Ida had died then and there, and in the gap of time Colleen took her chance and slide backwards slowly, before making her way down the building. She then made her way quickly to where she had left her car. Without a second thought she started the engine and drove away, careful not to drive away to quickly, or to slowly.

Forty five minutes later she found herself back at the pent house. She quickly gathered what few precious belongings she had into her suitcase. She then retrieved the pistol she kept by the bed, and tucked it into a leg holster, which she set aside for the time being. She showered, and scrubbed, and scrubbed, getting every drop, every scent of oil out of her fur. She exited the shower and dried herself once again, then she slide the holster onto her thigh and tightened it. Satisfied that it wouldn’t move she then slide on her favorite dress. A long red piece with a slit up the side that stopped just an inch away from the bottom of holster. She then set about putting on her corset. A matching red to the dress with just a hint of a shine to it, and covered in black lace. Years of practice had taught her how to put it on by herself. Next came her shoes. A modest pair of four inch heels in the same color as the dress. She always wore this outfit after a target went down. Secretly she found it befitting, to be dressed in red, the color of blood, on the nights when she herself had spilled the blood of another. Once she was fully dressed she made her way to an electrical box in the kitchen. She removed the screws with a screw driver located in one of the near by draws and set to work stripping the positive and negative wires. She dialed the fire department from the land line and made the report of a fire. She then hung up and used the wires to light a jar of grease on fire. She poured this over the counter, and it took with a furry that can only be known by a fire. Silently she made her way towards the front door. She grabbed her suite case, and the case that contained her rifle and made her way once again to her car.

She was on the highway in less than ten minutes and as she drove away she watched the fire consume the pent house. Every trace of her that was there was now gone. Consumed by the fire, or washed away by the fire departments houses. She had used this method many times before. The fire department would investigate, and conclude that a shorting in the wiring had caused the grease to heat, and then catch fire. She felt bad for the owners, but knew they would be fine. Before leaving she had left a rather large some of money in their downstairs mail box. More than enough to replace the pent house that they only used during the winter months. She looked back, one last time and then set her sights on her next destination. Where that was she didn’t know yet. But those who where financing her mission would soon let her know, and when they did she would receive her next target. The process would repeat, and repeat, and repeat until all of those who had stolen her childhood, disrupted her quiet life in the north with her tribe, and used her body for every sick and twisted desire they could thing of where dead. She had become their angel of death, and she would not stop until they where all gone, and those they had enslaved where free once more.

Well, that’s the end of Part 1 of Colleen’s story. Let me know what you guys think.