“Did you get the call?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“So?”
“So?”
“Are you going to do it?” she pressed.
I shrugged, “Maybe. I’m not sure, really!”
“You have to do it!” she assured.
“No I don’t!”
She shoved the picture in my face, “Yes you do!”
I admit it, the images in the picture disturbed me. Me! Nothing ever got to me.
I stared out the window, and peeped through the eyeglass.
“The price isn’t right!” I said.
“If you got the call; it has to be done. Now do it!”
She was right you know. She was always bloody right!
Clenching my teeth, I sniffed and bent over the rifle. I peered intently through the eyepiece and found my target.
George Klemp. Pedophile. Rapist.
The shot exploded, and there was a splattering of blood as his body went limp.
I frowned.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
“Yes.” I said. There was no victory.
Death was too swift a punishment. There was no justice here. Only revenge.
She got on the phone. “It’s done, Mr. President.”
There were two cracks in the air, and a sharp pain.
Then nothing.