Early to work

I'd been waiting here, waiting for him, for nearly three days, since before the security sweeps started. Laying on the hillside, motionless, on the edge of the treeline, about five hundred yards from the back door of my rendezvous' hideaway, my ghillie suit is perfect; they would practically have to step on me to discover my presence. They almost did.

I don't know his name. I never know their names, and I don't care, either. All I know is that someone's willing to pay a half million for me to deliver something special. Half deposited in my account in advance, half upon 'delivery.'

If my clients simply wanted the guy dead, they could pay someone else a whole lot less to stop his heart. That's easy – you send a dope with a gun – but it only sends the simple message that they can hit you. But I have a particular reputation. I make my own bullets. You can't just buy hollow sniper rounds that are sealed with a drop of mercury in the cavity. What makes them special is that when they hit, the mercury vaporizes, causing the projectile to explode. Very low tech, but very effective. They don't pay me to kill someone – they pay me to blow their heads off. Literally. That's a very different message to send your foes.

It works out just fine for me, as it'll take them hours, if they're lucky, to collect enough pieces of his skull in order to figure out the general direction of my fire. By then, I'll be long gone.

At about 5 AM, a train of headlights wind up the deserted dirt road. It's too dark to tell for sure, but the smart money is on black Escalades. Five of them. Plenty of security, plus what's already here. Impressive. Futile.

One of them parked close to the front door, too close for me to see anyone exit, but it was probably my guy. The other cars circled close, and a small army materialized, looking impressive as they took up defensive positions. I chuckled. Tomorrow, every one of them would be pariahs, not merely unemployed, but unemployable. Ronin – men sworn to protect their employer to the death, but who survived his assassination.

I know his personal routine. Right about now he should be finishing his breakfast, and soon, as the sun comes up, he'll step out to enjoy a cigar. The sun will come up behind me. Even without a flash suppressor, he and his bodyguards would never see it coming.

A dozen burly men poured out the back door and formed a semi-circle, firearms drawn. One of them made a gesture, and a woman emerged, followed by my man. He puffed on his stogie and smiled, squinting as the morning rays shown directly in his eyes. He turned to face the woman. They smiled at each other. She embraced the man, then curled a hand behind his head.

I couldn't believe my luck! At five hundred yards range, I only needed him to not move for a half second. Serious kisses take longer than that.

They locked lips. Man, that looked good. I gave him one last kiss and squeezed my trigger. Death entered his ear at three thousand feet per second.

I could hear the scream as I covered the scope. Too bad for the girl. It must have been a shock to be kissing someone one second, and then painted in blood and bone and brains the next. I started the slow crawl backwards to the tree line.

Six hours later, relaxing at home on my island near St. Kitts, I saw the other quarter million post in my account. I closed the laptop, and ran out onto the pure, white beach, and into the crystal clear Caribbean for a vigorous swim.

Life is good.