Vicious

I

I'm already half and hour late.

Scott said to meet at the bar at 6:30, it's nearly 7:00. And I haven't even left yet. In all honesty, I can't. If I move I will give my position away.

I have worked long and hard to get this good of a vantage point, I'm not about to give it up just because I'm late for drinks.

I watch the man from afar as he walks down the snowy path, his winter coat unzipped to reveal his expensive suit. He is nearly bald, with uneven stubble along his jaw and neck. I can't help but pity him, only bad genes can make a man of 37 begin to bald. If I didn't know any better, I would have believed him to be in his mid-fifties.

He takes this path every evening as his daily walk, the only time of day when he does not have a horde of body guards surrounding him. Every night at 6:00, like clockwork.

But tonight he was late, nearly twenty minutes so. I had planned my night around his schedule, agreeing to meet Scott half an hour ago. This man has messed everything up.

He continues at his pace, in about thirty seconds he will be directly in front of me. He's so close. I follow him through the scope, waiting for the perfect timing. My finger tightens around the trigger, not enough to set the gun off.

Five more seconds.

Four.

Three.

I take a deep breath in, holding it as I lay in silence.

Two.

I exhale, just as he walks directly into my line of sight, his bald forehead reflecting the moonlight. I almost laugh, but I don't.

One.

I pull the trigger, the recoil creating a nice bruise in the center of my shoulder. The bullet moves so fast I can't track it as it carves a path through the cold air, heading straight for the side of his head.

I'm already disassembling my rifle before he hits the ground, taking each piece apart and putting it back into the case. I can smell his blood as it seeps into the snow, I don't need to look at him to confirm the he is dead.

By the time the alarm begins to go off, I'm already off the property and loading my gun into the trunk of the black, unmarked car I had ready to go in case I needed a fast get-away. I parked it away from the security cameras, not wanting to leave any evidence that I had been there - besides the dead body.

I get into the drivers seat and start it up, pulling away from the curb casually, just as a normal pedestrian would.

I look down at the clock, it reads 7:05. Now I'm thirty five minutes late, all because this idiot of a man couldn't keep his schedule straight.

The bar is ten minutes away, but I don't speed to get there. There is nothing more suspicious than an unmarked black car speeding away from a murder scene.

Scott is standing outside the bar as I pull up, looking grumpy.

"Sorry I'm late, traffic was bad." I make up a lame excuse as I walk up to him. He just rolls his eyes and holds the door open for me, the warm air from the bar spilling out. It feels good, especially after laying in the snow for an good hour. Despite wearing gloves, my fingers are frozen.

He doesn't know about my profession. No one does, save for my employer. And even she doesn't know my real name. She doesn't know what I look like. She only knows the sound of my voice.

But I know who she is.

Her name is Jillian Willard, a tall woman with grey-streaked blond hair and blue eyes. She is 54 - turning 55 is four months - with two kids and a recently deceased husband, Harry Willard.