I hear the door click and my heart jumps to my mouth. This was it I think. The door opens with an awkward sound. I curl my fingers around the handle of my gun, smooth and black and deadly. He rounds the corner, weighed down by bags of groceries and bottles of milk. He spots me in the corner; surprise coating his face.
"How did you get in here?"
The shot slams into him most satisfactorily. He is thrown back, the devastation raining down upon his floor. He lies sprawled untidily, looking up at me; something akin to fear in his eyes. I stalk towards him and angle the gun towards his head. He's still gasping; alive. I am suddenly struck by a sense of horror. He's so helpless now, reduced, how can I hate something like that? Perhaps he has a brother or a girl. I try to remind myself – he killed your friends. I try again to ready myself but the same thought flashes through my mind. He never laid a hand on them. The bomb detonated after a crash; fleeing from him but… I don't want to kill. Suddenly I don't want to cut life from his eyes. Not when he's so obviously pleading. With a final decisiveness I point the weapon again and fire.
The phone winds out in the silence. Beep…beep…beep….