Andrew Britton: The Assassin

She would not have to decide for many years, but she wondered what she would say to her child when he asked about his father. Would she tell him the truth? Or would she invent some acceptable version of events? Somehow, she didn’t think she could stretch her imagination that far. After all, there was nothing acceptable about the things she had done. While her actions had never concerned her before, she couldn’t help but wonder — in light of her recent discovery — whether it was time to put it all behind her.

It was something she’d have to consider, but for now, there was work to be done, revenge to be had. As she stared through the light dusting of snow on the windshield, a distant figure emerged from the predawn gloom, his feet pounding a steady rhythm on the pavement, his shoulders bouncing beneath ethereal light. He was obscured by a sudden gust of loose white powder, but then he reappeared, right on schedule, drawing ever closer.

Without shifting her gaze from the man jogging south on 17th Street, Nouri Hussein reached for her gun and pushed it under the folds of her coat. Then she opened the door and stepped onto the icy pavement.

The runner approached, unaware, and the snow came down in a great white cloud, obscuring the rising dawn.