Short stories

She didn’t see it coming. As she crumpled in the darkness, he couldn’t help but note how strange a body looks when it falls unseen—and he chuckled.

“You’re not supposed to enjoy it,” the voice crackled in his earpiece, though the hidden smile was obvious.

“Why not? It’s the only way to get through this shit.”

“If it helps you sleep at night,” they said. But it never did. Whiskey used to blur the edges, but now it only left a metallic taste on his tongue.

“Sleep? What’s that?”

“Something the dead do.”

By then, he’d already packed up his rifle and gear, slipping away before anyone could notice. They’d write it off as another East Bay Sniper job—especially since she’d “deserved it.” Hits this clean rarely happened.

“When it lines up, it lines up,” his handler had told him. “We take the chances God gives us.” He didn’t question how murder fit into divine will. His job was simple: pull the trigger and move on.

He’d learned not to linger. No probing motives, no late-night soul-searching. He showed up, made the shot, got paid—and that was that. Other people needed meaning; he just needed to get home and tuck in his kids.

Toby was down with a scratchy throat when he left, and Abigail was already begging for help on her school project. His ex would manage, but if Abi struggled, his weekend would vanish fast. All he wanted was to flop onto the couch—but the odds of rest were zero.

French sirens wailed in the distance as he dropped his kit in the secure stash for the ops team. Now every step was toward the Eurostar, under the radar. A long-range shot blurred his identity; by the time he reached passport control, he’d look nothing like the grainy figure on CCTV. Top-secret cameras were tougher to fool, but DGSI and DGSE sanction—and his signal-jamming collar—meant leaked footage was impossible to trace back to him.

His only priority: catch that train to London. If he made it, he might even swing by the Nag’s Head for a pint and some scratchings.