Better Off Dead

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Today was all about waiting. Some things could not be rushed. Patience and preparation were necessary for the successful completion of even the most routine of professional killings. Such jobs could only be considered routine because of the preparation that went into them and the patience displayed in their execution. If corners were cut in the lead-up to the job — should any contingency not be considered and planned for — mistakes would surely follow. Mistakes would also occur if the job was undertaken with anything less than the requisite calm and diligence. In this instance, considering the target, adherence to these two protocols was not only necessary but imperative.

He was a man somewhere in his mid-thirties, but maybe older, maybe younger. It was hard to be sure because almost all of the intel on him was unverified. It was either speculation or hearsay, rumour or guesswork. He had no name. He had no residence. No friends nor family. His background was non-existent. He was not a politician or drugs baron or war criminal. He was not military or intelligence — at least actively serving — but he could not be called a civilian either. The only thing that was known with any certainty was his profession. He was a killer. The client had referred to him as the killer, warning that he had recently dispatched another team sent after him. If a book had been written on the art of professional assassination, he had authored it. No such book existed, of course. If it had, the team getting ready to murder him would have memorised every word.

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