The Assassin

He parked his car with the window wound down. Clouds of smoke slowly parted to reveal a handsome middle-aged man smoking a cigar. His Rolex watch gleamed in the light from a dim street lamp. He shivered slightly as he quietly stepped out of the car. He was wearing a smart, expensive looking suit and holding a briefcase.1

“Right then.” He said to himself. He took his keys and locked the car. Then he slowly began to make his way up the deserted road towards the house.2

He looked about him, his face expressionless. He exhaled circles of smoke, his manicured hands held the cigar. He found a suitable clump of bushes with a clear patch in the middle. He lay down, keeping still like a lion waiting for his prey. The grass was wet. He put on a pair of leather gloves and also a cap to cover his head. He checked the view of the house – perfect. His heart almost stopped as the sound of a car engine roared in the distance and grew louder as it approached him. He held his breath and kept still as the car drove past, speeding down the main road. He opened his briefcase and carefully removed a small rifle. He checked that his view of the front door was accurate and clenched his fingers as he adjusted his gun.3

The house was big. Almost haunting in its appearance. The old grey stone crumbled in places and the front door was in desperate need of a new coat of paint. The garden was overgrown and the trees groaned to each other in their sign of age. There was already a slight drizzle of rain. There was a sudden roll of thunder and the chaotic sky cracked with lightning as the rain came down harder. The bushes rustled and rattled as big drops of water hit them.4

He turned as a cars headlights shone towards him.  The gravel crunched as the car pulled into the drive. And stopped just metres away from him. The old red car was scratched and battered, filthy and covered in layers of mud. Causing streaks as the rain hammered down on it. The driver’s door hurriedly opened and the porch light snapped on. He could clearly see the young girl. She was short and slim. Her dark hair was tied back. Her jeans were far too long for her and had become ripped and torn at the bottom. She was wearing a thin over-sized raincoat which gave little protection in this weather and she swore as she got soaked through. She swung a rucksack over her shoulder and slammed the car door, locking it behind her. Then quickly she ran to the porch, the mud squelching beneath her feet. She fumbled in her rucksack for a minute or so, looking around her nervously although she had no reason to expect anyone there.5

He got ready. She threw her bag to the ground and crouched down beside it, obviously searching for her keys. He cursed to himself as she lowered her body, making the target more difficult. He readjusted his rifle and she fell as the crack of gunfire echoed. She winced with pain. Her eyes were wide with shock. She hit the ground with a thud. Her limbs collapsed, contorted like a newborn foal. Blood streaked down the old paintwork leaving it crimson. It seeped into the mud, her life along with it.6

The killer packed away his gun meticulously. He checked his surroundings for any cigar ends or litter that may give him away. He brushed himself off then calmly removed his gloves a finger at a time, slipping them into his pocket. He picked up his briefcase then hurriedly moved away from the deathly scene, looking back with pride at his finished job.7