The Assassin
He eagerly checked his watch as he hastily paced through the moist grass, the sun was just rising and a sea of fog made it almost impossible to see what lay ahead. As nearby birds chirped he realised he was close, he sat on a nearby log and got out his water bottle, he took a large swig and a deep breath; this break desperately needed. Glancing at his watch he worked out he was early, although this was not surprising as his timing was always impeccable. His eyes were leafy green, his hair chestnut blonde and his clearly unshaven face looked a mess as he hadn’t been near a razor for weeks. He was wearing his uniform, a camouflage shirt and matching trousers; stained with blood and mud, black leather boots going up to his knees, a backpack with his sleeping bag and a later useful devastating weapon, and his beloved C7A1; a mean, unforgiving beast with an all-powerful grenade launcher. The gun never left his site, as he felt safe with it by his side, he firmly gripped it even whilst he slept. He was always ready. Attached to his belt was a aviator knife with a jagged blade, a compass and his pouch with his personal belongings inside it, a photo of his wife and three kids, every postcard he has received from them while he was away and a photo of house he’d promised to take his wife to when he got back; a small blue beach house on the Suffolk coast. Acknowledging he had to move on, he put away his water bottle checked he was headed the right way and moved swiftly on.
