The last light from the sky of early evening barely penetrates the narrow allyways of the city. It gives the merest hint of the assassin lying in wait; a blue sweaty sheen on the forehead, a glint of dull metal of the pistol's barrel. The target is ahead but turns sharply under the city light as he hears, what...
Will he join the refuse in the wheelie bin? Will his blood spill down the drain?
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