I let out a deep breath, pulling my eye away from the rifle’s scope. My target was there, sitting at his dining table with his family, eating dinner with them. He was happy, and so were they, laughing and talking and having a no doubt thrilling conversation, while I was inside a tiny four-square-metre room with the one window and one chair and table, the only place in the town with a view of his dining room. I leant over to the table and plucked the large bottle from its surface, then froze. Alcohol was the last thing my body needed when about to kill someone from this distance, and even if it was the first thing my mind needed, it certainly wasn’t thinking in the long term. Putting it back in its place, ensuring myself a reward for the dirty task fate had appointed me with, I turned back to the sniper. The notes and investigation I had done beforehand had provided me with the information to know that I had (at the very least) about twenty minutes to kill this guy.
I’d done my homework well. They ate dinner as a happy family every night at six-thirty on the dot. Dinners rarely lasted over half an hour, and tonight looked like no exception. The day was a sequence of him waking up, enjoying breakfast for between fifteen and thirty minutes, then retreating into his study for work for the whole day, having a servant bring lunch to him, then exiting at five o’clock to spend time with his children for an hour and half while they waited for dinner. Dinner was served, and then he went back into his study until ten-thirty, upon which he joined his wife in bed. Because of the way his mansion was built, however, in relation to the rest of the town, it was impossible to get a good shot while he was in the study, thus, dining was the only time he was vulnerable. Which meant if I was going to kill him, it had to be in front of his whole family. It was upon this realization that I had purchased the bottle that was seated to the side of me, in preparation for the task. Of course, even the master strategist forgets that he needs to be sober when he takes the shot.
I hated this. I always had. My targets were usually corrupt politicians, perverted religious figures, greedy executives and the like. Then, more and more, our targets became less morally ambiguous, and the nature of crimes became more so. We started killing bankers and judges who, while not entirely innocent, didn’t deserve death. Their deaths were necessary to obstruct bad legislation, or to prevent the financing of evil deeds, deeds that they usually had no knowledge of. I joined this organisation not in the name of murder, but in the name of change and justice. I wanted to use my skills to actually help people rather than simply end them, but the occupation seems to become more and more like my previous one.
Assassinations are by nature are amoral to most people, no matter who you’re shooting. The leader of our organisation always justified it as the choice between what is right, and what is easy. The thought that these deaths of a few prevent the suffering of many is the iron-clad rhetoric that gives us solace when we squeeze the trigger, plunge the knife or drop the poison that our job details that we must. We told ourselves that these are evil men, that we are ridding the world of another problem. However, as I stared down those crosshairs and the laughing man enjoying his family’s company, I replied to that; how many problems will I create from this bullet? His children will be psychologically scarred for life. His wife will be traumatized. They will see their own father, the man they idolize, have his brains and skull dashed upon the wall behind him, his eyes lifeless and cold and staring at the roof. They’ll see things children brought up in a mansion aren’t built to see. What problems will this create, and will my conscience be able to deal with them? Yes, he is developing software that could give his country the capability to control all communications inside of it. But he does so thinking optimistically of what good it could, of the possible criminals and dredges of society it will allow them to catch. He does his evil deeds, like us, in the hope that it will create a better tomorrow. Because I, no, because the people that give me my assignments tell me that he is wrong, does that forfeit the value of his life in comparison to mine? We are the same. Except…he isn’t a murderer.
Five minutes left. How long did I stare down that scope? As I looked through the enormous window, I thought of all the possible other solutions we could have done, that I suggested. Breaking into his mansion and destroying his computers and storage devices? Too difficult, they said. He has armed guards patrolling the grounds all around the clock. Blowing up his house while he is on vacation? Too expensive, they said. One bullet is easier to replace than two tons of C4. No, the easiest way to do it is to simply put a high-velocity sniper round through his head and stop the only brain capable of writing this software.
Just as I finished that thought, their plates began to be taken away. He untied the napkin from his neck. This moment was my last chance. I gripped the rifle with both hands, took a deep breath and aimed, accounting for wind, accounting for the glass, accounting for the distance and for the gravity. It would, one-hundred-percent-for-sure go through his head at this angle. I took a deep breath, and remembered; to make the choice between right and easy.
He stood up from his table, still smiling jovially, and left the room with his family, to go back up to his study to work on the project. I dropped the rifle and pulled the cap off the bottle to my side. I couldn’t do it. I could not take this man’s life without having no alternative. I didn’t care if the cruelty would be justified, as I took a swig from that vodka bottle, because justified cruelty is still cruelty. It’s still amoral. It may be the easy option, but it isn’t right. I grabbed the bag containing my essentials, already packed in case of emergency evacuation, and left the room with the notes, gun, ammunition and communication devices still there. I knew they’d be coming after me; both the cops wanting to know why a loaded rifle is pointed at the mansion, and the organisation wondering why it wasn’t fired. I didn’t care. Let those who enjoy murder perpetrate it. I was done.
