Playing God
He closes his eyes.
The gun is neither too hot nor too cold. It fits perfectly into his hand – after all, it is designed for his grip, to gain maximum accuracy. He doesn't need to open his eyes to see the smooth, shiny silver barrel, nor does he need to shoot it to feel the lethality of the weapon. It's there, a whisper of a thought inside the gleaming mechanisms and it tells him, without speaking at all, that this gun allows him to play God. With his small gun, he can choose who will die that day.
But, in this business, people do not have names, they do not have families. They are targets, chosen for a reason, and it is his job to eradicate them. To humanise a target and still be able to shoot requires something truly heartless from a man, something that cannot be bought by any amount of money.
His eyes open, searching for his target. Of course, he knows his target's name and appearance but that is all he knows – all he needs to know. Scopria provide transport, send him towards his next kill and in perhaps a few hours, another will be dead by his hand (figuratively speaking; his gun does all the work, really). Money will be sent, he will be richer and the world will go on.
Thus is the life of an assassin.
When he walks, his footsteps are silent. His target is ahead, unaware of his fate as he heads towards a restaurant on the other side of the plaza, with his large hands in his trouser pockets. The style of walking reminds the assassin of a moody teenager but the man is far too old, with greying hair and a large, circular beer belly. Weathered skin, wrinkled and old, wraps around his body, covered by a pressed suit. It's designer, befitting perhaps a film star more than this man.
Regardless, it is not a bad outfit to die in. In fact, the assassin is curious if the red shirt will be the same colour as the man's blood.
The target does not know he will never reach the restaurant. Even if he does – he won't – there is no one there to meet him. His guest, one Julia Rothman, was never going to show. This has been planned for weeks. Indeed, the assassin smirks at mere idea that Mrs Rothman would meet with a lowly criminal such as his target.
His hand does not shake as he covertly positions the gun. His timing must be perfect, when no one is looking. The man cannot be allowed near the restaurant.
It is somewhat disappointing to the assassin that human life is so easily taken away. It is so easy – too easy – to kill. In three seconds his target is dead, already falling to the floor and a woman, clothed in a hideous black dress, begins screaming.
The assassin ignores all of this.
His job is done. He has played God for the day, condemned a man for money and he does not feel a thing.
Thus is the way of an assassin.
Finis.
