You're just starting your early-morning jog around the park when I arrive. I settle on a shaded bench, knowing from prior observations that you do multiple laps, and take a magazine from a coat pocket. I'm pretending to read as you pass, my eyes briefly flicking up. You're clad in a sports bra and tight leggings, exposed skin glistening with a layer of sweat, and your hair is bound into a ponytail, looking like a fine example of toned womanhood. I wait until you're out of view, hidden by some trees, before retrieving a pistol and silencer attachment, hiding both under the magazine and then screwing the silencer onto the pistol's barrel.
By the time you've come back round I'm just waiting for the right opportunity, watching from the corner of my eye. I consider my targets as you approach, carefully evaluating the difficulty of each possible shot. There's a determination on your face as you jog, I imagine you throw yourself into everything you do with a single-minded focus. It's that determination though that signed your death warrant. If only you hadn't started poking into the mayor's affairs.
I finally choose where to shoot you, angling my pistol to allow for a quick double-tap. A pair of phuts come from beneath my magazine as you again pass, hidden by your cries of pain, and I'm walking over as you start dropping onto ruined knees. Smoothly I drag you off the path, into the park's undergrowth, and prop you against a tree trunk, ignoring your pleading. Fear and confusion war for dominance on your features as you glance around, you might have an inkling as to why you've been attacked but probably not. I turn towards you, interrupting my pacing, following a loud whimper and you shrink back against the tree.
"Quiet please. I am a professional and don't want to hurt you more than needed."
I let you stew in your growing negativity for a minute, keeping you unsure of my intentions. Rummaging through your hip pouch I pocket the cash I find, and also your jewellery, to disguise the fact that this was an assassination. Whenever you try crawling away I haul you back to the tree, being rougher each time to hammer the lesson home. Eventually, when based on my other observations you'd have finished your jog, I move to stand directly before you.
You stare up at me, pain-filled eyes searching mine before dipping in resignation, and I pull the trigger of my pistol. The final shot digs into your forehead, your skull snapping back from the impact to bounce off the tree trunk. Your head then tips forward so your chin rests against your chest, blood trickling from the neat hole made by my bullet, and I start striding away. On the edge of the path I turn for a last look at you, squinting to spot you, before nodding, satisfied that you resemble the victim of a violent mugging.
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