The Professional
A street café. A laughing couple with a child. The smell of exhaust fumes as an old beaten up jalopy sputters down the street.
A man.
Nondescript, average in height, well-trimmed goatee. Up to the minute dark suit with a vibrant tie. Young, maybe twenties. Too young to be a business executive.
The only other possibility is money. A rich man, talking on a cell phone in a another language, the harsh sound of it marks it as Eastern European, perhaps Russian. Too far off to tell. Coffee sits neglected on the table, a laptop is set up next to him. No one else is around. Perfect.
The bullets fly past parked cars and into their appointed target. This should create some lovely international problems. He falls, a… static encasing his body, flickering. Within seconds a girl in a pantsuit is next to him, holding him, trying to help. But, the bullets, hit their target. His head. He is dead.
The static stops flickering, gone is the business suit and goatee. Gone is the aristocratic face and expressive hands.
In their place is a freak. Blue fur, a tail, yellow, dead eyes. Bird like feet and three-fingered hands. Others in the restaurant are emerging from their shock. Police sirens, screams.
Not a useful death after all. A diplomat really would have been so much more useful. The binoculars focus on the victim again, bringing him close. No! Not him!
I'm dead. They will never forgive this. Write a quick note of explanation. That will ease my mind.
BANG* another shot interrupts the street.
Dead.