Jack had been hiding in the wardrobe long enough for his bladder to get heavy. Not much longer to wait before his target returned, and Jack could make his move.
The target had an unusually high kill rating of eight. The rating went up every time a hit failed. That meant eight seasoned pros before Jack had gotten lazy. Unless the target really was the best.
The boys at the club had joked that the target wasn’t even a pro, just a dumb schmuck amateur with incredible luck. But nobody that lucky would be living in a tiny bedsit barely bigger than the wardrobe Jack was in. Only a true pro would maintain such a grotty façade.
Jack heard the click of the lock, and the target entered the room. Gun cocked and ready to rock, Jack had the element of surprise, but still had to be fast. He took a silent deep breath and burst out the closet.
The target shrieked and fell to the ground. His flailing legs tripped Jack as he ran forward, sending him flying the few feet across the length of the room. Jack’s first and only shot exploded the sofabed pillow. Then his head shattered the window, and he sailed straight out the bedsit, plummeting six storeys down.
As he fell headfirst to make a watermelon on the concrete, Jack remembered the target’s craven look of fear. He realised some schmucks really could be that lucky, and the kill rating had risen to nine.
Hove Press 