Smith walked slowly along, his boots hitting the wet cement of the sidewalk with a muted thud. He was not a large man, and walking where he was, surrounded by high-rise buildings that reached up to the sky and beyond, he looked small and insignificant. He wore an old trench-coat with grease stains running jaggedly down the front. The sun was bright on the slick-black wetness of the asphalt paving; his hair flopped over his tired eyes. He was carefully following a man, slipping easily in and out of the crowds of pedestrians, always keeping the man in front, in his sight at all times.
The man paused in front of an alleyway, looked both ways a few times and turned into the alley. Smith quickly followed behind. The man went into a door on the right hand side. Smith stopped outside, looked around just as the man had a few moments before.
Once he'd checked the coast was clear, he reached inside his coat and pulled out a gun. The sunlight glinted off the dull silver of the gun, it looked dangerous, deadly and meant for business. Smith opened the door and stepped inside.
He stood just inside the doorway of the room and watched the scrawny, thin-faced man who had stood up and was staring back at him. The man was Eddie Jones, a small-time bookie who, Smith knew, always carried his assets in his pocket.
"Who are you? How dare you barge inÃ¢ÂÂ¦!" he trailed off, noticing the gun Smith held in his hands.
Smith drew his gun and leveled it at Eddie. He knew what would happen next with crystal clarity, he had everything planned. He had killed seven men in the line of duty and he knew the way everything worked. The police would come,