Hit Man

He sat in his car and stared straight ahead. His hands gripped the steering wheel as the leather absorbed the sweat from his hands. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and met the sad, knowing eyes of his assassin. The barrel of his executioner’s pistol rested comfortably against the nape of his neck, just above his starched collar. He took a deeper breath and slowly exhaled.

“I’m glad it’s you,” he said to the man in the back of the car. “I’d much rather a professional handle this.”

“I’ll make it quick,” came the response as the trigger was pulled.