Nemesis

A retiring assassin gets what's coming to him.

Nemesis

            Max Hunter stepped into the elevator, smiling broadly with thoughts of retirement, and of going home.

            Another man, an aid worker, stepped into the elevator on the fifth floor and looked at Max’s broad smile like it was a disease. He, like every other person who worked in the building, had just spent a day dealing with refugees from the Chu-Nan Gulf conflict and wondered how anyone could be happy.

            Max, however, did not have this problem because he was not an aid worker. In fact, he did not even work in the building. He was there simply due to a matter of perfect location and convenience. But, misinterpreting the stare of confusion for one of suspicion, he dropped the smile and stepped closer to his briefcase.

            Because the last thing Max needed was suspicion.

            Max thumbed a cab and slid into the back seat, mumbling his destination while clutching the briefcase with white-knuckled hands. The trial last week had almost caught him. Sure, he got out, but still. Almost.

            When the cab arrived at his apartment building, Max surveyed the brownstone walls, the curtained windows, and the old, worn steps. His eyes rested on the winged statue on a ledge above the double doors. He smiled. If nothing else, he would always be welcomed by her open arms, her weathered, forgiving features. And yet every day, he lied to her. The sniper rifle in his briefcase suddenly became a burden. It was times like this when Max realized how much he really hated his job. Lawsuits, trials, lying. But at least it was almost over. 

The End

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