“Please don’t,” said the man, trying to cringe back into the corner of the room, his hand outstretched towards me. He was a rather portly man, balding with one of those stupid comb-over jobs, not so much clothed as swaddled in an ill-fitting, cheaply-made tweed suit. You could almost see the drops of sweat beading up on his pale, pasty face.

“Don’t do it,” he said, his eyes fixated on the dark opening of my pistol, a void that weaved a lazy figure-eight centering on the bridge of his nose. I didn’t need to keep my aim even that tightly locked-on - this target was far too scared to even contemplate trying to run away or fight back.

“Just shut up,” I replied, trying to sound calm, cool, and confident - the suave disaffectation of a professional hitman. But, as always, a note of irritation came through - syllables slightly clipped, too much force at the end of the sentence. Hearing how my voice sounded just made me angrier, and I almost thought about winging him just for the heck of it, just to watch him squirm, and scream in pointless fear - but not this time. This time, the client wanted a picture for posterity. Trying to shrug off the emotions, I reached into a pocket of my coat, sliding out a cheap digital camera. This was definitely going to be amateur-hour composition - no time to set up a tripod, and you don’t get a soft, romantic image with a cheap, weak strobe.

“Please,” he begged, waving his hand as though to ward me off. Not gonna happen. “Please, I’ll give you anything you want! Money, cars, fame, beautiful women, anything! I swear it!”

“And how are you gonna do that, friend?” My voice still sounded irked. But what the heck, I thought, let me be irked - it wouldn’t be much longer before my frustrations were released in the orgasmic rush that only a trigger pull could bring.

“I swear I can! I have power, really! Power beyond anything you can imagine! That’s why they want me dead, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Whatever they’re paying you, whatever reward they’re giving you-”

“Can it.” I brought the digital camera up in front of me, far enough out so I could see the viewscreen, but not close enough that it would obstruct my view. This guy was pretty much out of it, but I couldn’t rule out the possibility that he was simply a consummate actor, and that a momentary wavering in concentration would lead to a sudden shift in character. There wasn’t any good place for him to conceal the bulk of a pistol from the brief frisk I’d done on him earlier, but hiding a knife was easy enough, and at this range, it wouldn’t matter what he used…

The flash went off, and the likeness that stayed on the screen for a few seconds was good enough. Camera goes back in pocket - so much for the “living” picture - and time for the rest in the series.

“Oh, god…” he blubbered, actually starting to cry. Unbelievable. “Please… I’ll give you anything… anything that’s in my power to give… just let me live on…”

“Yeah, right, like you could give me anything.” I pull back on the slide, and let it clack home for emphasis.

“No, really! Like I said, I can give you anything, anything you want…”

“Yeah, right, man. Prove it.” I brought the gun back on target. Right eye? Left eye? No, the client wanted enough of the face left to display, whatever the heck that meant…

“Fine, I can prove it, I can prove it…” The man seemed to pull himself together, to look a little less afraid. “What is it that you want? What’s the one thing in the world that you really, truly want?”

“Well…” I thought for a second. “I want my girlfriend to still be alive.”

A strange look of beatific sadness seemed to come over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking up at me with a smilingly forlorn expression, “But that’s one thing I can’t do. And I really am sorry, I wish I could help… maybe it could have brought you to a better place than this. But anything else…”

“Stop wasting my time. I’m gonna blow your fucking brains out, and you want to feel sorry? For me?” Dammit, that irksome tone again…