The Hitman

It was a frosty English morning; the sky was scarred with black clouds, still, almost whipped into the sky permanently, the grass was crisp and crunchy as If frozen and dried; the eternal silence was occasionally tweaked by cars driving near and early morning birds singing and screaming through the cold air. Street lights vomited a yellow glow which stained every corner of the street.

Small figures could be seen leaving doors and hovering down long streets.

Atop a hill, approximately 800 metres from the rochas council estate, a lone man is present, he leaft the small vehicle and strolled to the front of the car, glancing at the number plate, he pulls out a roll of tape and simultaneously removes a bold board marker from his pocket, the jacket is lined with an old stale cardboard scent and has the appearance of an old door mat.

After removing the stiff lid of the new board Marker, he kneels down in front of the car; he curses roughly, almost as if in pain, and begins to cover the roll of tape with the black ink with careful precision.

Once the tape is fully covered, he cuts it sharply and firmly with his jagged teeth. He places the tape over the number plate at the front and back of the car, then he takes a deep breath and sighs, the job is incoming and no amount of experience or practice can kill the nerves that thrive before and after the job.

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The man stands straight and progresses through the preparation of the hit, he shifts his greasy hair from the front of his face and buttons up his top, his patchy skin begins losing its colour as the blood rushes to the extremities of his body, subject to adrenaline and the extremely intense tension included with the job,

His thin eyes begin blinking slower, his heart beats faster, his fingers and toes tingle along with the back of his neck, his body was preparing for the second biggest trip through the kill, and he now must remove the gun from the vehicle and use it.

The boot clicks and unwinds the cordial lock, a faint whine streams out of the suspension pipes as the boot rises, revealing a black case, around 1.8 metres in size.

The man lifts the case and gently places it on the ground, making sure the density of the soil below is within the requirements.

He pulls the lock bolt on the case and now has taken the big step, the step which could be what breaks his life and job in two.

He removes the main body of the sniper rifle and attaches the rear sight scope to the body lock, the carbonised scope rings are placed onto the scope one by one, one two three four,…four, his favourite number, its square and simple, yet its safe and reliable, this made sense in his head.

He did not feel a need to place the detachable carry handle on the rifle, for it seems only to be a waste of time, time which could be the difference between success and failure.

The M1913 Rail Sniper Rifle was almost fully constructed, The only remaining part was the detachable muzzle break, this was a necessity because it kept the shot quiet, and a quiet kill is a good kill, it means that if ever the murder is discovered, its discovered late, and therefore the murderer has time to escape and prepare a cover up if any is needed.

The Rifle is fully constructed now and lies ahead of him on the frosted grass, he lays down and curses, similar to that of before which sounds almost painful,

He wishes for time to calm his nerves but is in a dangerous place, no cover, no dark, no safety, every second is time for him to be caught and that could not happen, he cannot fail.

The gun bolt is firmly pulled back and the man chants a silent prayer of forgiveness.

The barrel is loaded and with the pin drop of the sustainer bolt, the bullet is fired, it tears through the air towards the rochas council estate, 3200 feet per second is an average velocity for a sniper rifle of this size and that’s fast enough to kill within a blink of an eye, and that’s exactly how long it took, glass cracks and screams blast through the air, birds flew, rodents scattered, people ran. All of a sudden the peace had been broken and the blood was rushing, all across the wall of the room blood can be seen it slowly oozes down the wall, forming bubbles of hissing death, glass drops down from the top story window down onto the grass, harming those who walk below, small children can be heard screaming and gurgling with pain and shock.

The job is done and the car is waiting.

The man pulls the emergency gun sack over the rifle and swings it into the boot of the car.

He slams the boot and rapidly scrambles into the front seat of the small car, its black, a good colour for something that must mould into the crowd, it must remain silent.

The ignition fired up and the car throttled down the hill onto the road, around corners and corners until the victim is miles and miles away, the sweaty palms of the man grip the wheel which secures his success. Now he must remain silent, the man is successful, Kane Thelonius is successful.

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