A single assassin’s bullet, locked and loaded, destined to kill in Denver.
Certain aspects of the life of a paid assassin aren’t much different than a normal person. They go to sleep at night, get up in the morning, shower, shave, and have a nutritious breakfast. Loading up the car for a day of work, the job going beyond nine to five. A burner cell phone in the pocket, a notebook computer in a leather case, and a sack lunch sitting in the front seat. Veering from the normal, locked away in the trunk, in a backpack, is a long-range takedown sniper rifle and a high-powered 9mm Sig Sauer handgun. Tools of their violent trade handy when the time came to complete the task at hand. Followed by a drive during rush hour traffic to arrive at the jobsite, the plan clearly formed and ready to act upon.
The reason for the kill the assassin didn’t know or care to understand. It was a job like any other job. Paid for with a large sum of cash—half in the beginning, the rest upon completion. Earnings he would use to live off, in a quiet and normally boring life in your everyday family community in Oklahoma City.
His wife and three kids, being the voices he needed to hear every day, providing him balance. Calling them religiously when on the road. No one in his family knew any aspect of what his true profession entailed. The guise of a travelling salesman used as a cover for his brutal occupation. The plethora of assignments coming via the secret back-end channels devised after years in the trade.
The assassin had been tracking movements of the target and a second man for a few days now. The second man, a US Marshal, providing protection. A sharply dressed black man with a solid build, a shaved head and goatee, with a Glock on his hip, driving a black Dodge Charger. A threat had been discovered; the local US Marshal brought in temporarily to provide security.
Today the target had gone golfing with a foursome of friends at the Pinehurst Country Club. Information the assassin had stealthy obtained. Situated in the southwest part of Denver, the club not only had eighteen-hole and nine-hole golf courses, but also housed swimming, tennis and fitness amenities. Membership only afforded to those elite people in the community, the cost per year exorbitant. An extravagance the target’s family could easily afford.
Having explored the outer area, the assassin found a prime location with trees as cover to view the Dodge Charger in the parking lot. Out of sight, he could bide his time for the right moment when they returned to the car. Patiently waiting, the timing rigid because of a call the assassin had arranged. His eyes clearly focused through the scope, the wind today not an issue. He saw the two men walking toward the car, the target having said his goodbyes to his friends, the bag of the clubs moving in behind him on their own thanks to the electric cart they were sitting on.
As the target reached the trunk, he stopped to talk with the Marshal, his back to the shooter. The assassin sized up his shot, taking careful aim, the suppression unit in place. A slow squeeze of the trigger, the stifled “thump” of the weapon lowering the decibels. The bullet slicing through the air, finding its mark. With lethal force the kill shot to the head dropped the victim in a bloody mess as he slid down the car. The life of a US Senator’s son, on his college summer break, extinguished in the blink of an eye without thought or remorse.
The assassin quickly gathered his bag, making a beeline for his car, the US Marshal hot on his tail. Escape not guaranteed.
R.Weir 