Jackson is an assassin; he’ll kill anyone if the price is right. Lately, he’s doing a lot of work for the Government: that’s the ‘War on Terrorism’ for you.
It’s a rush job but Jackson doesn’t care, he’s on double money for the inconvenience. His handler tells him Jimmy Jones lives somewhere at the top end of Walton Road, Kilburn. The details are sketchy but he has CCTV snapshot of his target.
Jackson finds the address from the electoral roll and stakes out the place. He doesn’t have much time but there’s a building opposite and Jackson soon has his rifle set up on the roof.
Jackson never knows his targets, why he needs to kill them. He doesn’t want to know.
A man comes out of the house, Jackson checks the blurred photo. He looks the same height, mid-thirties; the beard’s a bit longer and he’s altogether scruffier. The man hesitates on the pavement, checking pockets for his phone.
That’s all the time Jackson needs. He has the target in his cross-hairs. A pause. Steady, steady, then pop. Right in the middle of the forehead. Jimmy Jones crumples to the pavement; he doesn’t feel a thing.
Jackson picks up his rifle, takes the stairs and melts into Walton Road. Job done. Jackson crosses Jimmy Jones off his to-do list and heads for the next job.
Five doors further down the street, Jim E. Jones straps on a suicide vest, slips into a parka and heads for the Tube station.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 