Eleven O'Clock

“Come in, come in,” Alan said impatiently to the quiet, measured knock-knock-knock at the door. He waved his hand in the air, gesturing, as the door opened. “Take a seat, we need to make this quick. My eleven o’clock just got moved up half an hour.” The white binder lying atop his desk held his focus entirely. He was hunched over, his eyes darting greedily over the pages.

The figure stopped in front of Alan’s desk, inches from the edge. It did not take a seat.

“I don’t have all day, Jack. Sit your ass down.” Alan’s tone of voice was strained as he looked up. “Let’s go over these numbers befo-”

Alan’s jaw went slack for a moment, the intensity gone from his face as his eyes softened with recognition. “Oh. It’s you.” The shift from strained to resigned was jarring.

Blood spattered on paper as the silencer coughed the first bullet into Adam’s forehead, the second and third into his chest. The figure silently placed its weapon on the desk and walked out, ignoring the chatty, gum-chewing secretary.

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