Preface

“70 feet to the left of the tower, two degrees north. Five feet to the right of the stop.” But it was actually 71 feet to the left of the tower and four feet to the right of the stop, and 2.5 degrees north. But who’s actually counting? Well, me. Because if I didn’t count, and I took their word for it, someone else would end up dead. But in just a few seconds, when the target walks to the gate of the restaurant, the stopping point, something will happen that will change his life, end his life. And only I will feel the movement of the gun as I pull the trigger, and only I, and the people specially trained to watch, will see the bullet fly through the air, and rip open the target’s skin, and kill him.

And as it happens now, I know that this man, the target, shouldn’t be lying on the floor bleeding while the maître d’ frantically picks up the phone at his stand and calls the police, the French police. And I see the woman dressed in black very gracefully swoop down and pull a small slip of paper out of his pocket, and put it in her oversized Chanel bag.

I'm running down the tower stairs now to meet the woman with the Chanel bag, and then to kill her and the people who were speaking in my ear just a moment ago. Because they will start to ask questions like “Why is the paper so important?” “What was the purpose of killing this man when we could have just stolen the paper?” and in truth, we could have just stolen the paper, but that would leave a man that knew too much, alive and walking, and because they have started asking questions, they too know too much, so they must die as well.      

Author's Note

Don't say anything harsh. Ignore grammar problems unless something is serioulsy wrong, and please be positive.