Twist, Night, Habit.
Three hours had passed since a hooded figure took refuge atop the grassy knoll. Unless stood on the hillside with the man, no one would have noticed him lying flat on the dirt. Only his head just raised above his body. If the darkening sky wasn’t helping his cover, the randomly sprouted bushes helped to camouflage him. His face was painted, but his eyes were almost blocked by his hood. He had watched a farmer come out of his home, bring in the cattle before nightfall and tend to the rest of his animals before retiring back inside. He was growing tired of waiting, but knew his target’s movements. He didn’t run on a specific schedule, unlike a lot of his targets, the marksman had found to his annoyance. The target was due at this location before morning.
The assassin held his position for longer than he knew and his mind started to wander. The farm reminded him of the old McDonald place back home. Home, being the place where he was from, where he grew up. He hadn’t been back there since his 15th birthday. Some drive by visit where his aunt and his younger sister were conveniently out and missed him. He shook his head slightly, shaking the memory from his head. He hadn’t thought of his old life for the longest time. He wiggled his toes in his shoes, making sure the stillness didn’t travel down to his legs. The marksman needed a quick getaway as soon as the job was done. There were aches travelling along his muscles, he hadn’t laid in the dirt for this long since his stint in the army and even then, this kind of endurance was rare. In the distance two headlights lit up the gravel dirt road to the farm house. On their tail was an entire convoy. Blacked out 4 by 4s.
With a twist on the binoculars to focus his view on the licence plate, the assassin recalled the number from his memory. This was his guy. He kept his eyes trained on the passenger window as the first car drove past the farmhouse and to the locked up barn. He watched the cars pull up outside in a semi-circle. One guy, shorter, not his target, got out of the car and opened the lock. He looked suspicious, his head darting around to check it was clear. No one saw the assassin on the knoll watching. Girls were ushered out of the following wagons and escorted inside, all the while the passenger didn’t leave the vehicle. The hitman couldn’t see what was happening inside, the doors had been closed but lights could be seen flashing various colours through the cracks in the wood.
Finally, as night had fallen and more cars appeared down the driveway, the passenger left the car. He stood, arms open, welcoming his guests to the barn. Within an instant of the car door opening, the hitman had swapped his binoculars for his rifle, he lined up the shot using the long range scope, and waited for the guests to witness. His client had asked that he “send a message” and he intended to. Waiting, patiently for a few more minutes, he saw the opportunity. The target turned to face him. The assassin inhaled sharply. He squeezed the trigger.
Screams followed. The farm burst with light as the barn doors opened and the half-naked girls could be seen fleeing for safety. Security had pulled out guns and were looking around. Blindly trying to find the killer. He had already packed away his tools and rolled himself off the knoll, away from the scene. Once low enough, and with the hill to camouflaged his escape he fled to his getaway vehicle. His motorbike was waiting a few hundred feet from the edge of the farmer’s land. When he reached it, he rode away in darkness, keeping his headlight off to avoid being followed. Once a safe enough distance away he turned his lights on and joined the congested Friday night traffic as he reached civilisation. His stopped three towns over, a little before midnight. A trick to avoid detection was to always stay as far away from his marks as possible. Who else to suspect than the strange visitor to town. Once he had checked into the hotel and changed clothes, he headed down to the nearest 7/11 and bought a blue Icee and a packet of Lucky Charms. It had become his post hit habit . A ritual of sorts. By the time the packet was empty, he’d be on his way home or onto the next target.