Blood dripped from his one lively wrists. A swiss army knife, bloody, lay in his hand. It was nothing new to me. The house was dark, sadness in the air. This was bad, I had seen bullets in the head, headless bodies, but this was the worst. He had done it himself, before anyone could stop. I didn’t even get to do my job. Holstering my hand gun I leap out the second story window.

It is hard to be a hitman.