It was late at night when I pulled up to the property, buried deep in a forest of skeleton

bare trees. My headlights had been off for a while, and I quieted the engine's rumble with

a backwards twist of the key in the ignition. Once the car was still, I breathed a sigh of relief.

No lights were turning on, no people were waking up inside the house. My prey had not noticed me yet.

I opened the driver's side door of my truck, keeping the decibels low as I closed it shut behind me again.

The cabin lights were rigged to stay dim, and I felt secure in the shadows by the gravel road.

There were no cars along this stretch, but still, I had pulled the truck far onto the grass,

tucking it into the darkness of the trees. I strapped two pistols to my waist and one on my ankle,

slinging the lightweight assault rifle across my back for long range. I wasn't anticipating a fight,

but it was always good to be prepared. The sickle moon overhead provided a sparse glimmer of light

as I stepped into the forest and began to move silently through the trees. I'd done this so many times

that my feet didn't make a sound as I walked. When you've been hunting the most dangerous game in

the world for 20 years, you learn to be stealthy. There's nothing worse than being caught in the act

when you're trying to kill someone. Making my way through the last section of forest,

I considered the gunshot scars and old knife wounds which decorated my skin.

Winsing, I couldn't help but remember the worst of them. A 22 millimeter to my side,

which had ping-ponged around my thoracic cavity, doing a multitude of damages.

I tried my best not to think about how much longer I would have to do this for,

how many more people I would have to kill before I could finally rest,

before I could finally retire and be free of this madness.

But the people I work for will never allow that while I'm still healthy,

and while I'm still in my prime, I would need a lot of money to escape permanently

...