Mr. Benjamin Scott (sq. to Smell of Dead Cigarettes)
Above the door I came in through is a small speaker box. The kind you would find in any doctors office or school class. The men seated around me have all taken magazines from the coffee table in front of us and are thumbing through the pages. I, however, am reading for the tenth time the details on a Mr. Benjamin Scott.
I’ve managed, up until now, to not know the actual reason for my hits. In Mr. Scott’s case, however, this was virtually impossible. Scott was a fellow hitman, the best. His only fault was crossing too many alliances while making his hits. One too many, apparently, and now I’m here for him. The only problem is, I don’t know which of my current peers needs a bullet in the head.
The plan is to wait for his name to be called and then terminate him and any witnesses. It shouldn’t be too difficult, unless Scott is one of the large fellows and his two friends protect him. Otherwise, I should be in and out.
Closing the folder for the last time, I look up as “Mr. Scott” comes over the speaker.