The gun felt heavy in his hands, the waiting was getting to him. A patience problem was something he had never had. In his past life, when he freelanced as he was doing again now, his confidence was so high that he felt bullet-proof. With Section, the waiting was just part of it, half the time waiting for the target to appear, half the time waiting for Section to make up their minds if they really wanted the target taken out, or brought in for 'questioning', i.e. torture.

He had gotten a little soft when he was brought into Section. It wasn't that he has lost his edge, it was just that it got smoothed, more refined. For the first time in his life, he had friends. He had many friends that watched his back just as he watched theirs. And...he had found love hadn't he? She had heightened his protective nature and lulled him into comfort with her love. In her arms, the horrors of their lives, their jobs, sank away until they had to face them again, together. But wasn't that exactly what had gotten her killed? The job and even perhaps so of that complacency that he sometimes slipped into when she was near him?

She had been the better operative, he knew that then and knew it still. Her attention to detail that was rooted in her analytical mind. He first saw it in the intensity she put into her work in Systems. He sometimes thought that he fell in love with her mind first, her heart second and her body last.

He shifted the weight of the weapon to his left arm, moving the scope away from his eye to wipe away the remnants of the tear that streaked his cheek. He had thought the ability to cry would have been lost to him. In the months following her death and his recovery, he had shed his weight in tears. The sweet Japanese woman that served as his watch-over told him once that, "...the ocean will never want for salt water as long as he lived on the Earth." And on the day that he was finally discharged, she had told him she could die happy when her time came because she thought she may witness a miracle. When he lifted her tiny hands to his lips to place a soft kiss to each, he had smiled at her. She beamed and told him that her miracle had happened, she had seen the saddest man in the world smile.

The gun moved back, the scope returned to its proper position in front of his now clear vision and he watched people come and go on the street below him. They were, so far, the wrong build, the wrong height, the wrong sex...none matched his target. Disguises were of course part of the game, for both sides really. They were part of the variables that had to be figured in. But they were just that, only part of the game. It was the unwritten rules that make up the rest of it. The parts he couldn't quiet put his finger on, tons of things actually, were the other more important part.

The way he would feel the hair on the back of his neck tingle, his scalp feeling like it was being tightened. His heart rate would go from the normal glug-glug to a hammering hoof-beat in his chest. All this seemed to happen right before it should, in the moments before his target appeared.

He knew now, after his Section training, especially with Michael that he was merely tuned in, turned up...switched on as Kristie used to say. Switched on, yes, that was the most accurate.

The way you didn't think about why you were noticing that the street, busy only seconds before was now much less busy. The way the songs of the birds now changed to a nervous twittering or even better, complete silence.

Lovers on a bench suddenly find it uncomfortable when their gropings had seemed un-interruptible. Dogs suddenly stop in mid-stride and lift their noses to the breeze before tossing a quick glance around then breaking into a run. A fight would break out, or a fender-bender would happen. He knew it for what it was now, a distraction.. Keep your eyes off of that and you may just catch sight of the target being thrust into a car or hustled into a building.

That precious nano-second may be when your finger tightens on that trigger that you know so well and you see them jerk forward or back. You may or may not see blood but you most certainly will not see anything further. You know it was a kill shot, you only aim for the head. You only use the highest caliber with the heaviest load. You know they will be searching the windows, passing cars, bums on the street. But by then, your weapon has been dismantled, you disguise will be in place and if you're really good, you'll be on the street headed toward the commotion.

Yes, toward the crime scene. People are basically sheep. After the initial panic and scatter, they regroup and their natural curiosity gets the best of them. You filter into the herd, follow them to the horror, the outrage...the target. You can get the clarification that you didn't need that he or she is indeed dead and ooh and ahh with the rest of the sheep for a few moments at least until the first black and white with the wailing sirens pull up and the yellow tape and bullhorn come out of the trunk. Then you move away, just another businessman, with your weapon stored in your attaché case, except for the lightweight titanium stock which is secured under your armpit beneath your suit jacket, blue like so many other men on the street. Or maybe stored in the cleaned out interior of a jam box as you carry your skate board under your other arm, your baggy jeans and oversized tee-shirt doing much to hide the true size and shape of your body. Fit into your surroundings, become one of them. Pull that sheep's wool over your wolf eyes and blend my friend...just blend my friend. Another one of Kristie's favorite lines containing tons of wisdom.