Fill in the Blank - Clintasha

1

**February 12th 2006**

Clint took a deep breath and let it out slowly; lining up his shot.

If he was honest, it would be difficult to miss. The target was stout and tubby with very little neck and an overly large head. He struck an overbearing figure in the evening light, a fake grin plastered on his face as he drank his champagne. He wasn't a young man, already balding; the patch at the back of his curly head glinting in the sun like a shiny, flesh coloured bulls eye.

He was a sniper's dream come true.

The target was attending a colleague's dinner party and had dressed up lavishly for the occasion. Clint watched as he lounged around, a generous glass of alcohol in his hand, not a care in the world.

Clint took in another deep breath, gauging the distance and aiming carefully.

There was no scope to aid his shot. He only owned a small, standardised pistol which wasn't ideal in the slightest. The gun wasn't built for this but Clint knew he could make it work. He had to. This was he start of a whole new life for him. He couldn't afford to fuck this up. He wouldn't.

A chilly gust of wind blustered straight through the thin material of Clint's shirt and he shivered, his fingers numb and his nose tinged red. The nippy spring breeze was still riding the coat tails of winter and Clint had sold his jacket last week.

He'd better not fuck this one up.

Adjusting himself a little, Clint tried to get a clearer view of the gardens below. He was about four storeys above them on a neighbouring apartment's rooftop. He knew it was impossible for anyone down below to see him. Still, Clint couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him. It was making him twitchy.

His hands were shaking, trembling, but Clint tightened their grip on the gun and ignored it. With a newfound determination he concentrated on his breathing; focusing until the world narrowed down. Shrinking to just him, his gun and his target. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in. Breathe out. A little to the left. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Pull the trigger.

The crack of gunfire shattered the still evening air and Clint winced, his fingers stinging from the recoil. He didn't wait to watch the man fall, sprinting across the open rooftop, the screams of horror ringing in his ears as he went.

His breathing was harsh and loud, echoing against the stairwell walls as he ran. Taking the stairs two at a time Clint very nearly dropped his gun when he shoved it in the back of his pants. He only had a moment to adjust his ratty T-shirt and jeans to hide the weapon a little better before he was stepping out onto the crowded street.

Terrified party guests were already swarming the sidewalk; an effective distraction for his escape. Clint made an impressive show of gawking at the distressed party-goers. No one would remember his face.

Clint thought he was doing a pretty good job, even if his heart was thumping against his ribs far too fast. His hands still trembled and Clint irritably shoved them into his pockets. He didn't allow his mind to wander to the man now lying five storeys above him, gurgling and choking, drowning in his own blood because of Clint's job well done.

A sour taste entered his mouth at the thought and Clint ignored it. He felt a little dizzy, a little queasy, but nothing else. This one had gone far better than the last two. At least this time he hadn't been seen, he hadn't dropped his gun, nor had he immediately chucked up his breakfast after the deed was done. Yes, he decided, almost proud of himself. Much better.

People said it got easier the more you did it, killing. For his third attempt Clint thought he was doing better than most. He was fine. He just...he just got a little shaky sometimes.