His heart pulsed, sending rhythmatic spurts of blood to his brain in tiny, throbbing jolts. He could feel the thumpiness of the blood-addled brain in his ears, his eyes, his inner soul which he suspected had dwindled considerably over the course of his professional career. Though he was well accustomed to death in its many forms, which was his chosen career, he had never been able to get over the pulsating feeling of adrenalin laced blood coursing his veins. He supposed he would never get over the sensation, but that didn't mean he had to like it. He didn't like it, not one iota. It's amazing what folks will put up with for a paycheck.
This kill was a relatively quick danse macabre. Cain wasn't getting paid enough to linger around and torture the mark. His client was a cheap bastard, and for that he was grateful. Not that he did not like the gravy money of an open pockets client, but most of the time open pockets meant open minded torture. He was more of a "kill and be done with it" kind of guy.
He had spent a considerable amount of time locating, tailing and setting up the kill, so he believed a quick, clean rub-out was all the client needed from him. The mark was a weird bird to say the least. The creepy little mofro almost seemed to sense someone was tailing him, even though he was an expert in surveillance techniques. Hell, Cain had written three books on the proper techniques of surveillance for the general population. Being a former CIA operative meant he knew a little something about surveillance. Yet the mark seemed to sense he was being tailed. Go figure. Maybe he was slipping in his old age. No, Cain refused to believe that.
In the end, the kill happened just as Cain had imagined. The mark let down his guard for a brief moment in time, brief enough to seem non-existent to the rest of the world but long enough for him to make his move. The mark walked through the door and around the corner into the alleyway, walking in the direction of his ridiculously expensive sports car and into the waiting grasp of his fate. Suddenly, the mark felt something covering his face, something cloth with a horrid, acrid scent. He wondered for a split second what he had walked into, but he did not have a chance to solve the mystery before the chloroform kicked in and did its job. Then the killer did his job. He pointed a small caliber handgun with a silencer in the direction of the mark, who was now crumpled inertly in the alleyway, and squeezed off three quick bursts of bullets into the lifeless body on the ground. He squeezed another bullet directly into the center of the forehead. The mark never even twitched as death bit him. He slid the gun into the pocket of his coat and strolled out of the alley and into oblivion.