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and be a long way away from the building before anyone knew what had happened.
    Stringer methodically set up the XM2210 ESR Enhanced Sniper Rifle on its tripod. It was an advanced weapon designed to kill efficiently.
    He turned from the weapon and opened a small chrome box, and took out the long sleek projectile that was embedded in the form-fit foam.
    He rolled the bullet around in his fingers enjoying the feeling of power that it possessed. He looked at it closely in the dim light and admired the craftsmanship that went into producing such an efficient killing device. Then, with practised precision, he loaded the special DNA specific high velocity round into the rifle.
    It was special purpose ammunition that not only tracked specific targets; it also injected an untraceable DNA specific toxin into the victim providing instant death at contact.
    Accuracy was usually not important. However, to Stringer accuracy was extremely important. He was a professional.
    The subject will be dead long before the toxin would be needed ; he thought as he prostrated himself behind the rifle and carefully adjusted the telescopic sight.
    He knew that he would only have one chance to eliminate his target.
    Once he was satisfied that he had successfully completed setting up his position, he sat back against the death grey wall of the room and took in his surroundings. He looked with disinterest at the copious quantities of discarded syringes and the tell tale remnants of drug use.
    He ignored the piles of old newspapers and the myriad of insect life that infested the stained and mildew riddled carpet. He had no interest in the disgusting environment in which he was forced to work.
    He absently brushed a piece of lint from his pants and reached into his pocket for his nicotine neural infuser. The fact that he had a weakness disturbed him. He would lose the habit if it wasn’t for the fact that it kept him sharp.
    He had once tried to quit cold turkey. Unfortunately, the uncontrollable shaking had nearly caused him to screw up a hit. Nothing could interfere with his work. Besides he was nearly a hundred, it was time to grow up.
    He twisted his wrist and checked his watch. He smiled as he realised that within the next forty five minutes he would have accomplished his mission. He had time to kill. He hated that.
    When he had time to kill, his mind would wander, and it would often wander down dark neural pathways to memories he would rather forget. Hiding insidiously within his neural net, lurked the ugly truths, the putrid realities of an abused childhood and a fucked up adulthood.
    Like congealed vomit, vile and acrid, the memories would fester within him, seeping into his nightmares.
    Images of his Father would be distorted and twisted, the visions evoking a visceral, gut wrenching fear.
    There were of course, far worse memories than those of his Father.
    He still vividly recalled the horrific images of his friends being blown to pink mist by improvised micro anti-matter explosive devices in Sadamistan.
    He sneered as he remembered his time crawling through the dusty streets of that filthy hell hole. Constantly looking behind him as each moment brought him closer to eating his own DNA bullet.
    He shook his head and tried to empty the thoughts as though they were sand pouring from a bucket. He exhaled deeply and shoved another piece of the nicotine neural infuser into his mouth. As he chewed, the jarring narcotic effect made him think about his childhood.
    As a young boy growing up in Nixonville, he would often lie awake at night and listen to his parents argue.
    The constant fear of being hauled out of bed and punished for trivial things caused him to hide under his sheets. He would also block out the yelling and screaming with his pillow. Many nights he went without sleep for fear of the punishment for wetting his bed.
    He was eleven before he had grown out of the humiliating weakness. Many times he had to wake himself up in the middle of the