1/4"

He had missed; his target still alive. As he adjusted the scope of his sniper, he saw that he had been a 1/4 inch off, which was enough to bring her to knees but not nearly enough to stop her heart. Her name was Anna, and unlike his other targets, her beauty made him stop dead in his tracks; paralyzing his ability to think clearly. Even in the pale moonlight he could make out her hourglass figure and platinum blond hair. She was worth a million, yet he missed the simple shot. Slowly he made his way to her; crawling throughout the woods, careful not to give away his identity. 

She was about a 100 yards away and he could hear the moans that come from her fragile body. She was cursing, rummaging about the forest searching for a tourniquet he presumed. He knew he had to finish the job but he wanted to make sure he got a clear, definite hit. He knew his boss would be disappointed, if not furious, that he was delivering a body with not one, but two bullet wounds. For a brief second, pity flooded his brain but the vision of his new Ferrari snapped him back to reality. 

****

She could hear him zoning in on her; the sound of his boots breaking twigs, the sound of his heavy breathing. Within moments she caught a glimpse of his weapon. She grinned in disgust. "Rookie", she whispered as she positioned her body directly in the line of fire; adrenaline pumping furiously throughout her warm blood. Silently she counted; five...four...three..two...one. "Hey asshole!" she yelled. Impulsively, he lifted his weapon engaging the trigger. "Big Mistake Sweetheart", she laughed as she pulled the trigger, sending a bullet directly in between his eyes. As she lowered the pistol into her holster, she moved towards his lifeless body; the sweet aroma of gunpowder and revenge engulfing her nose. 


He was about 6'2" and muscular, yet one bullet had knocked him off his feet in a blanket of his own blood. In his pocket he carried a stainless steel lighter and a folded up twenty dollar bill that smelled of sweat and oil. She assumed he was a mechanic by trade, possibly a construction worker. His hands were large and calloused presumably from years of hard work. His jaw was strong; masculine. His eyes the color of coal. She wondered why he decided to become an assassin as she flipped through his brown leather wallet. His name was Silas Jones, 34; a resident of Tallahassee. He presented no photographs of a wife or children. For a moment she stared at him. She knew nothing of this man, yet she wondered what he was leaving behind. Gently, she closed the lids of his eyes with her fingers that were adorned in a film of leather; careful not to leave her prints behind. "I hope you enjoyed meeting your maker," she snarled as she grabbed the sniper that laid beside him.