broken
the law, I'm no sheriff. I think about the effect that what I'm about
to do will have on people who look up to Jon Russell, and that makes me
nervous. I have nothing against them; if anything, I actually
sympathise with their cause.

I put the thought out of my mind. It's unprofessional, a pause at best
and a hindrance at worst. It's far too late to start developing
emotions at this stage of my career, after months of training and
almost three years of missions.

I pull the trigger, just for half a second, my eyes momentarily
shielding themselves from the visible end of the beam on his neck.
There's no recoil on my weapon, giving it the eerie feel of a
simulation. The only sign that it's firing is a loud popping noise
like someone squashing a bag of crisps. It's over in an instant. I
can almost convince myself that I haven't done anything wrong, but not
quite.

The bright circle is instantly replaced with a gushing stream of blood,
pumping out in rhythmical bursts. His cardboard cup drops to the
floor, and I unscrew the rifle from the tripod, duck below the top of
the brick wall of the bookstore, fold up the tripod and put everything
in my holdall, hidden beneath a pair of jogging bottoms.

In a fleece, t-shirt and designer jeans, I hopefully pass for someone
on her way to one of the gyms scattered around the legal district,
where people who help corporations sue their customers for a living
would feel far too inconvenienced by taking a detour on their way home
just to stay in shape. I put on a pair of designer sunglasses to cover
up my designer eyes, as if anyone could spot their telltale trademark
without being close enough to kiss me, then I pull the scrunchy out of
my hair and tie it in again, keeping my dark brown ponytail as taut and
professional as it is glossy.

By the time anyone can work out what happened to Russell and where the
brief burst of energy came from, I'm already half way down the fire
escape. By the time anyone's dialed the emergency services, I'm
already briskly walking down Fleet Street and out of the scene.

"Remind me why I had to kill Russell." I drop my bag onto the desk of
my boss, Mike Vegas, and it lands with a satisfying thud. Frankly, I'm
glad to be rid of the evidence, if only until tomorrow.

"Because it's your job." Mike slides the bag under his desk without
even glancing at its contents, then finally looks up to meet my gaze.
His facial expression look