It was a dark foggy night, about 5. 45 pm. The assassin was lying there comfortable in his seat waiting for the victim to come by. As he opened his window, a car zoomed passed him on the quite street, making him very nervous. The rain was drizzling down, there was even a glimpse of thunder, he was parked across the street to the house 205. He picked up his rifle and glanced at the front of the house especially angling his gun towards the door. As the assassin looked towards the house he could sense the cold chilling wind rushing through his back, the rain got even worse causing huge puddles to be seen every where.
The dark sky’s cased hideous shadows over house 205, the colour of the house was not very seeable although you could see the dark brown paint making the house look very Victorian. As the assassin looked up at the widows he could see a family photo sticking out also a huge cross symbol was seeable, meaning the victim was a very religious person. The assassin looked away from the victim’s house concentrating on the arrival of the person. He turned as a blue car turned off the road onto the muddy, rutted path leading to the house; the car looked much damaged the bumper was nearly broken and there was mud all over the windscreen.
Then the woman exited her car, a frustrated expression appeared on her face. She sprinted toward her house, the rain thrashing on her body. She accidentally ran into a massive puddle and tripped, her face was in anger, but dragged herself up and carried on running. When she got near the front lawn, she stepped to take a look at the house. After a minute or two, she walked towards the entrance of the house, the woman to scared to glance behind her into the silence of the night. Trying to block out her feelings, she began to enter the house. As if reading her mind, he knew she would pause again.
Elevating his arm, he pointed his rifle at the back of the woman’s fair – haired head. Then he pounced, hitting her in the back of the head with one single shot. The rifle could not be heard because he was using a silencer. He walked up when she was on the floor and shot her again to ensure that she was dead. The walls were painted with her deep red blood, and her splintered skull was spread on the floor. Within a split second the bullet had seized her life in an almost volcanic like eruption, draining her limp body down to her last drop of blood.
He lifted his rifle and took it apart. Placing it in the pocket of his puffy coat, he lifted any signs of his presence, lifting the cigarette ends and cartridges out of the puddles one by one and put them in his brief case. He gave off an air of calmness and peace although he was cold and drenched. He quickly ran to his van, carefully missing any muddy puddles making sure not to make to much sound. The hood of the coat was pushed over his head, covering his blue eyes.
When he got to van, he opened the doors at the back and went in to change his cloths, putting the old ones in a black bin bag. He zipped up his jumper and climbed over the seats and sat in the driver’s seat. His conscience did not bother him at all. There was no change in his cold, motionless, blue eyes. He took one last look behind him to check that she was dead and that his job had been done properly and made his way to his next job leaving her to die in her own pool of blood. He pushed the key into the ignition, turned it, and drove off.