He moved with the stealth of a trained killing machine. The victim was an unfaithful housewife; the client a wealthy, take-no-prisoners businessman who felt he been made a fool of. "A fool and his money are soon parted, and it makes me a happy man," he thought.

She was working out at the local gym. He eyed her through the front window. "Nice body," he thought. "A shame, a damn shame. But a contract is a contract." As these thoughts raced through his brain, she got off the motion machine and headed for the locker room.

Dashing down the alley, he found the back parking lot where her Mercedes sat, sparkling fresh and clean from the car wash. He'd watched her wash the car, and followed her to the gym. Feeling inside his coat pocket, he made sure the silencer was solidly in place. For the few minutes as she was showering and preparing to leave, he smoked a cigarette and mindlessly felt at the scar on his stomach, a 30-year-old scar, and he remembered.

She exited the backdoor to the gym, and proceeded to her car at a brisk pace. Her blonde, gray-at-the-edges hair bounced happily as her breasts pushed and pulled in her tight red sweater. She was dressed very nicely. A handbag bounced at her side.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he asked her, stepping up politely, "but do you happen to have the time?"

As she looked at her watch, the bullet sailed smoothly through her heart, exited her back, and lodged in a nearby tree. He grabbed her handbag as instructed, and was gone like a thief in the night.