Liar, Liar

2 - Hunter

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It is only the stars and the occasional street lamp that stop me from tripping on the uneven road. I walk briskly with my head down. 

I have a job to do.

Leaves swirl around my feet as the wind picks up. It's going to rain soon. I can feel it. 

I go over the details in my head:

Esther Davies. Age 43. Tall. Brunette. French-American. 

Robert Davies. Age 47. Tall. Blonde. American.

Both involved in the plot to kill hundreds.

My stomach churns at the thought. What sick people.

I focus on my breathing. I listen to the sound my shoes make against the concrete. The rustling trees put me at ease. They remind me of the times my father and I would go camping. We'd sleep out under the blanket of stars while the autumn leaves fell around our face. But that was before.

I hear voices. 

It's them.

I hide in the shadows and don't make a sound. 

"Well, here's to new beginnings with my two favourite girls. Whatever that may be."

Now.

The struggle doesn't last more than a minute. I knock them to the ground, until I'm satisfied that they can no longer defend themselves. I take out my knife - the one I use every time - getting ready to perform the task. Robert sees the blade and kicks it out of my hand. Now defenseless, I use my fists. He falls to the ground, face bloody. I grab the knife and hold it to Esther's throat. She looks at me right in the eye. She knows why I'm here. Her eyes travel to her right. "I love you," she whispers, and I slide the blade across her throat.

I stand and look over the two bodies.

Two less murderers in the world.

I turn to leave, when I hear a whimper. I look down to Esther and Robert. Definitely dead. I look a little further past them and see a figure slumped in the darkness. I squint.

No. No, it can't be. I approach the whimpering shape carefully. It's a girl.

What is she doing here? She wasn't supposed to be here.

As suddenly as it started, the whimpering stops. Her head falls against the dumpster.  I crouch down beside the now-unconscious girl. There's a trickle of blood dripping down the side of her face. I don't know what to do. I don't know how much she knows. Could be a lot. Could be none. I stare at her tear-streaked face. A small voice, somewhere in my pounding head, whispers 

let her live. 

So I go.

QOTU: Do you prefer stories written in first person, third person or as a shared point of view?