Dead Shot
He was ready, his long-range rifle aimed at the predetermined spot, the wind, humidity, air temperature and pressure all accounted for. At five hundred yards from the rooftop location, it was an easy shot, a shot that would earn him his pension, the target a visiting head of state. Rich pickings.
The statesman was in view, strolling innocently with his entourage towards the chosen location. There was a one-second window; the man’s finger tightened on the trigger.
A pigeon gliding to land on its favourite vantage point on the same rooftop noted the presence of the outstretched figure and altered course; it would land elsewhere. As it banked left, its rectum tightened and a sizeable slurry of excrement was ejected, the mess splatting onto the rifle’s telescopic sight and into the assassin’s eye.
His trigger finger twitched and relaxed. The moment was lost, as was his pension.
©David George Clarke 2021