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was directly involved made him even less friends. They had listened though. They always listened, because his track record spoke volumes. They paid him to do the job he did because he was good at it.
     
    Putting his phone away, he continued walking. The path took him beneath a small roof of trees, past an empty bench where a lone grey squirrel sat nervously, looking at him with quizzical, worried eyes. As Croft walked closer, the squirrel panicked and darted off, disappearing into the uncut undergrowth with nimble agility. Croft smiled at the sight of it, his smile however faltering as he turned his head back in the direction he was heading. Sixty metres ahead, a couple came into view, walking towards him in a lovers’ embrace. The blonde-haired woman was carrying a large bouquet of flowers, a common occurrence in any graveyard across the country. She laughed in response to something the man said and clung to his left arm, the flowers obscuring her right arm and most of her torso. So why did Croft suddenly feel alarmed? Why was there a claxon going off in his head, warning him of impending danger? Why were his adrenal glands firing up?
    Slowing his pace, he did a casual 360 look around him and noticed a third individual closing in behind at a similar distance. Croft did not make eye contact with him but noticed his lean, muscular physique hidden from the world by jeans and a heavy sweater. Something wasn’t right here. He didn’t know what it was that first alarmed him, but he saw the tell-tale signs of the man walking behind him. The guy probably had a concealed weapon on his right hip; he could tell by the way the man moved, by the way he swung his arms differently. Croft’s training was kicking in, and when that happened, he listened.
    Croft stopped and pulled out his Bluetooth from the inside pocket of his black suit, placing it behind his ear. He pretended to activate it with an exaggerated motion.
    “John, good to hear from you.” There was, of course, nobody on the phone; he just needed a plausible excuse to stop, and he spoke loudly, the words puncturing the quiet bubble he had been dwelling in. Wandering off the path, Croft went over to a large oak tree and placed his back to it, his right hand slipping onto the gun holstered to the left of his spine. To the unsuspecting it looked like he was perhaps merely scratching himself, but the HK P8 felt reassuring in his hand. There was a calmness in him, and he felt time almost slowing down. Three targets, 15 rounds, plus a further 15 in the other magazine on his belt. Thirty metres out.
    “No, I hadn’t heard that, could you forward that to me, please? Great.” The three people grew closer, and neither of them looked at him, despite him directing his gaze at them in turn. They were avoiding eye contact. An innocent passer-by would have been drawn to the volume of his voice, would have noticed him staring at them, maybe even given him a disapproving look. He sidestepped the tree, moving backwards a few steps ready to use it as a shield, the gun now free, held behind him, safety off, finger on the guard. Never point a gun at anything unless you are prepared to shoot it. Never put your finger on the trigger unless you intend to fire. “How’s the wife?” he asked the ether. The question came up now, should he flee or stand his ground and prepare to fight? Obviously, he couldn’t just start shooting. These might still be just regular passers-by; there was still a strong chance of that. Despite his training, he might just be riddled with paranoia. So what was it that had triggered his alarm? Whatever it was, and perhaps he would never know, he didn’t run. If they were here for him, he wanted to know why. Ten metres out now and the woman stumbled and dropped the flowers. Croft tensed, his gun moving.
    And then it happened. The flowers were an illusion to hide the fact she was holding a gun. The stumble to distract him from the man coming in the other direction who