Kill Shot

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William Sloane was a killer. And he liked it.

He stepped off his private jet into the hot African desert, adjusted his wide-brimmed hat, and curled his lip in disgust at the sight before him. Dust swirled in devilish whirls, and the fine grains lodged themselves in places not meant for sand. His eyes watered, and though his mouth stayed closed, the gritty particles crunched like bits of broken shell between his molars.

Ramshackle huts sat in drunken rows, pieced together with worn cloth and brittle wood. Crude chairs were scattered around the remains of long-cold fires, and a thick iron stew pot lay haphazardly on its side, thickly crusted with old food.

God, how did people live in such filth?

The horrendous conditions weren’t likely to bother the people of this tiny village anymore. The body count was just shy of a hundred—a paltry sum in comparison to some of the other sites—but every death brought him closer to finding the original components of the formula.

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