Count Your Fucking Blessings
Shit. Fucking shit.
You'd have thought that I'd have mastered it by now. Black clothes. Hood up. Gloves on. Gun in the waistband of my jeans. Not a trace left. I had the lock picking kit wedged in my sock, as usual, and it'd gotten me through the back door with no issues. It'd taken me near enough eight years to finalise my tactics, make them undectable and, in the worst case, lethal.
Just once I'd pulled the trigger.
It did the job, a bullet to the head to silence the witness because I couldn't afford to be thrown in jail. Any hope of having a job after I was potentially released would vanish, and my good name would be tarnished.
Back to the unfortunate situation occuring right now.
A motherfucking dog.
I'd watched this guys every move to the T for the past fortnight, and yet his unknown possession of a German Shepard would be my downfall. It hadn't barked yet, was just watching, waiting for my move. He could probably smell my own two dogs on me, and what that was doing for him I didn't know.
There's a bridge. Under it, you may find a certain tattooed man.