While crouching, he rapidly pulled out his silencer and leaped out abruptly firing two bullets to the head. The lifeless guard fell heavily to the floor with his collection of keys; which clattered like an old man’s false teeth on the polished wooden flooring.
Stepping over the bloody body, he proceeded to the thought to be vacant room. The killer was fully aware that there was a staircase in the next room which would lead to the rooftop of the museum. He returned his stance. He vigilantly moved forward but the unforeseen ringing of the phone startled him, so he lunged into the room to find an undersized, dark man stunned, with his right hand hovering above the phone.
Staring at the vibrating phone, the small man went as white as snow. The murderer once again held up a deadly weapon and pointed it at him. ‘Get down on the floor!’ yelled the assassin. The man’s lips began to quiver as he said, ‘Please, my wife has had a baby, please! ‘.
‘No!’ roared the slaughterer as the sound of gunshots echoed through the deserted museum.
Taking two steps at a time, the lethal man staggered up the marble staircase as he had little time spare. He needed to be swift. When he reached the top of the stairs, he barged his way through the roof door which was as tough as old leather and the cold breeze smacked his face as he stood, staring at the stars which hung in the sky. He cautiously examined the area for any sign of danger. Nothing. Nothing but the wind whistling through his bloodshed fingers.
His stance was now practically on the floor as he dragged himself across the rooftop. As he reached the end of the roof, he placed his rifle on a ledge, prepared to assassinate his target.
The luminous glow of a hundred lights before his eyes took his breathe away; but he had to fulfil mission.
The ninja placed his chin on the rifle and fixed his eye through the scope. The rifle lens swayed through the city looking for its target. The man jerked as he placed his prey in a tall, glowing building, standing up with a suit and a briefcase in his hand.
The red dot on the rifle’s lens was directed at the head of the anonymous victim…
…the assassin smirked when he saw the spurts of blood and bits of brains sliding of the window in the victim’s room. One of the greatest presidents flopped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
The assignment was not yet accomplished. He darted down the stairs swinging his rifle over his shoulder; he dashed across the blood-spattered rooms and leaped through the gaping back door, disappearing down New York Street in the shadowy blackness of the night.
Result: 19/27 B
