The Hitman’s Morality

There was a lot of pressure riding on this job. With the precision of a hawk the lithe man focused his scope on his target. Conflict surged in his chest, but he tried to shove it out of his mind.

Sweat dripped in his eyes. The setting sun was quickly disappearing behind the buildings' skyline. Time was off the essence. Wiping the sweat away, finger poised on the trigger, the target moved.

Cursing under breath, all of the man's senses zeroed in on his prey. In person she was more beautiful, he noted to himself. The feelings of doubt flooded his consciousness.

The man had been a hunter since he was a little boy, teaching himself how to fish, set traps, and shoot. Always was a feeling of respect for everything he killed.

The woman struck a nerve with all the hunting instincts inside him. Feelings he'd once felt for graceful, uncommon animals, within his sights, surfaced, and he couldn't shoot.

There would be no $50,000 reward now. At least his conscience would remain intact. For a moment longer he looked at her with similar awe to a tigress in her natural habitat.

A man struck the woman to the ground from behind and smiled sadistically. At first the hitman wondered if he was the only one looking to collect on this woman's bounty.

Then, upon observation, the aggressor looked like he was involved with the woman domestically. The man viciously kicked the woman he had knocked to the floor.

All at once the hitman felt protective of the lovely creature, so he moved his scope a hair to the right, and pulled the trigger.

A perfect shot led to a poetic, precise kill. The sun slipped out sight as the hitman packed up his gear and walked away. He had work to do in covering up his tracks. There would not even be a remote chance he'd get put away for murder once he was finished cleaning up.