87's PoV. Something more about 87 and the target and a little bit of action.
210122RMAY17
87 was ready. The target had been sleeping for almost an hour. The partner for longer: they had watched TV after dinner and in a few minutes the man had fallen asleep on the sofa, snoring loudly. In the meantime, she had done the dishes, put the food she'd cooked in a lunch box and, when cold, in the fridge, hung the washing out and prepared the running gear for the next day. At 2347 hours she had woken up her partner who, half asleep, had tottered to the bedroom and taken up snoring the second he touched the bed. She had read a few pages from one of the two books she had on her bedside table, Bone China by Roma Tearne, and then turned the light off. It took a while before her breath became regular, signalling that she had fallen asleep.
In those few hours of observation he had already started making up his mind on the target. She was a hyper-active kind of woman. She was methodical and organized and, even though she was exhausted, she did not give up her daily routine. And she liked reading romances, possibly to compensate a frigid love life. Perhaps nothing of this represented a really useful piece of intelligence for him…
But you never know…
Observing targets was a very intimate activity: you had to get familiar with their daily routines, their habits, their idiosyncrasies, intruding their lives up to their most private thoughts and physiological needs. You had to know them better than they knew themselves so you could predict their every move. One might think that, after days of such a close acquaintance, it was inevitable to develop some sort of attachment to them. But, no, not at all. The instant he pulled the trigger was actually a liberation. He was finally free of them, he could get rid of all the information he had had to memorize about their petty lives and he could move on to the next mission. And this time, more than ever, he was looking forward to that moment.
Time to get going.
He took the bag with his equipment and left the studio. He entered their house silently, moving stealthily through the living room and entering the bedroom. He released the gas, waited for a few seconds and then took their smartphones. He had also seen two laptops in the living room. Hacking the four devices took him 32 minutes. He put them back in place and left the house in 35 minutes.
Satisfactory.
His life was devoid of emotions, it had been designed like that, but he took pride in his job. He was one of the best.
The best?
He knew that, and everybody else did too: the Agency had always been more than satisfied with his performance and clients from every part of the world specifically requested his name and were willing to pay an extra for his services – accidents, in particular. Of course, it was never good enough, not for him, and that was probably what made him better than the others. Killing wasn't just killing for him. It was a dance, a choreography, a symphony. All elements were harmonized, no details neglected. It was all about that: accuracy, precision, order, optimization. No collaterals when possible, and not because he did not want to kill innocent people
Who cares about that?
But because they disturbed the harmony of the act. Not a bullet had to be wasted. Not an unnecessary noise had to be emitted. Not a movement should be recorded by cameras. Like the wind, death came and went unnoticed.