The rain kept pouring down. I was soaked and sore from staying in the same position for the last half hour. My bones creaked with every small movement I made, making me feel much older than my thirty years. Why the hell am I doing this? I could be anything I ever wanted in life. I had a couple of houses, a hotel, two restaurants in my name, and more money than most people dream of. An offshore account of about five hundred thousand pounds, even though I thought to myself there is no such thing as too much money.
Now I’m lying on this tar and gravel rooftop, ruining one of my favorite suits, getting soaked. I cannot believe there was a time I couldn’t wait to do this kind of thing. Having the power of God at my fingertips, deciding who will live and who will die. I am the great one, best friend of the reaper. It is I who makes sure the angel of death gets his paycheck by making him work overtime. What a great feeling. These thoughts bring a smile to my face. I would just buy another suit, who gives a damn.
Still soaked and cold, but now with new life in my body, a warm feeling ran down my spine. Just in time as well, the man got out of the limousine, followed by his wife and daughter, and surrounded by about five bodyguards. I know there were others scattered throughout the crowd, trying to blend in, and doing a good job at it to the normal untrained eye, but if I just as much as looked at all the people gathered there despite the rain I could spot each and every one of them. They wouldn’t have an umbrella and would look a bit tight as if they had a broomstick stuck up their ass. There were probably other men hidden in different apartment buildings around the open square and one or two on the rooftops lying behind their rifles, looking for anyone trying to do what I am about to do. But I didn’t even look at any of these since I did my homework beforehand and anyway, the man started to mount the stairs leading up onto the platform after shaking a couple of hands.
People were clapping and I could see the smile on the faces of his wife and daughter in the top left corner of my sights. The crosshairs were centered on the chest of the future president as he stood behind the pulpit and started his speech. This is where years of training comes in handy. Cool weather, rain coming down even though lighter now than ten minutes ago. A slight breeze from my left side. Distance between myself and the target, 1232 meters exactly, firing from an angle of twenty-two degrees. I aim slightly to the left and about six inches above his hairline. I slow my breathing as to stop trembling from the cold and after four breaths I exhale completely, blocking my breath as my finger starts squeezing the trigger. This is going to be loud and I won’t have much time to get away. The trigger gets tighter, the raindrops slow down in mid air until they almost come to a stop. Should I or shouldn’t I? I make a last millisecond adjustment on my aim, and then the smoke and sparks fly out the barrel of my rifle as if in slow motion. The recoil digs into my shoulder. I always loved a gun with heavy recoil. Heavier than this you cannot get. I follow the bullet as it flies through the air straight at the target. This is beautiful. Now I need to haul ass!