Behind the scope, the assassin waits. Guests mingle at the party hundreds of meters away, unaware of 9:30. He adjusts the knob. Vague, pointillist hedges turn into green sculptures of elephants, dogs, and other animals. These preside over the evening and its guests. A tidepool of tuxedos and silk dresses writhes into a mixture of black and white paint that never commits to gray. The mob weaves through the white tabletops while a small instrumental ensemble grows music from the patio. Marble tiles bloom the guests into the ensuing waltz. Lights from the tall stone manor lends silver silhouettes to the throng of musicians, waiters, ushers, and wine glasses.
He pulls away from the rifle to examine his notebook and the rough sketch of the manor grounds and floor plans. The blueprints of the posh structure huddles neat lines and curves around the red X. Beside the “X” reads 9:30 p.m.
The assassin checks his watch. 9:15 p.m. With a leather-gloved hand, he pulls the bolt on the rifle, exposing the dull gleam of brass. It’s a quiet punctuation to the weeks of preparation for its target.
The assassin snaps the bolt back, hiding the shell's gleam. He looks through the scope again,
The guests continue going through the motions. Glasses toast, lustful smiles beam, waltz's continue their circles like a vulture's flight plans and the band plays whispers.
The party's sounds die before reaching the assassin's perch. It was by design. Their movements and celebration would mask any noise from the bullet’s impact. A suppressor, club-like, covered the end of the weapon’s barrel.
The assassin directs the rifle to a large decorative clock face above his target’s office. The minute hand looms near the bottom cross-hair. He levels his aim over the window to the office. And he waits.
The assassin is motionless as he lies prone on the blanket across the grass. His head remains still behind the scope. Only his eyes move.
Gaps in the window's glare offers the assassin a glance into the target's life. A trophy cabinet sits in the corner of the office next to two paintings, Edvard Munch's Scream and another piece, obscured by the glare. He examines the target's desk. A silver lamp, pens, stationery, and a row of small picture frames decorate its black top. The frames may have held pictures of his family, parents, children, a spouse, or any other thing, but the distance offered no hints.
The door to the office opens and a man in a tuxedo walks in, accompanied by a woman with laughing red lips and a matching dress. The assassin leads the reticle close to the man's face. He had made all the calculations for this shot, including wind, humidity, gravity, elevation, and cartridge temperature inside his notebook. He was completely zeroed in.
There was no guarantee when the bullet hit the body but he at least planned to have the round avoid breakable items, like the trophy cabinet or window. But if he was lucky, the cold-loaded round's slower velocity might prevent this issue. But, the bullet might also deflect off bone or muscle down the man's leg into the floor.
The man and woman walk from the doorway to his desk. He sits and smiles at the woman. She returns it and says something to him, seasoned with a smirk, while gesturing to the window. The man nods, grinning. She leans her lips into his before moving.
She opens the window, nodding to no one in particular. Signal. Her red dress catches the measured wind. She moves again to the desk, saying something to the man. Her head tilts with the question and he nods an answer to the left of the window, out of the assassin's sight-line. She walks out of the shot.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Squeeze.
Broken glass splashes into brass trophy cups. The red dress comes back into view, retrieving the cork from the cabinet, a foaming bottle in hand. Outside, the clock shows 9:30. She turns to the wet, red desktop. She stares and then drops the bottle, lifting an authentic scream. The man's desktop continues to match her dress.
The assassin searches for the bullet impact and finds it. One of the paintings is missing from the wall. He finds it leaning against the wall on the floor, a hole in the center.
In the painting, a man examines a phonograph while a corpse lies in bed.
“Magritte,” He whispers to himself.
