Jerry was ready.
He knew his target’s schedule inside and out -- better than his own family knew it. He had practiced for weeks on the target range with 9mm automatic provided by Snakefoot/Stalwart’s organization. He wasn’t yet an excellent marksman, but he planned to be close enough so that it wouldn’t matter.
Jerry was waiting in his car half a block away from the target’s house. The target was a middle-aged male with a one-year-old son and a young, pregnant wife. After a full day killing babies in his office, he always went to the same bar for a few drinks, then arrived home to his own babies and wife around 8 p.m.
It was 7 p.m.
Jerry waited. He thought about his target. How could he kill babies all day long, when he had a child of his own, and another one on the way? The thought enraged Jerry. He began to thump his revolver against his thigh. He thought about his mother. He had always loved her, of course. He and Joey were always enveloped in a cocoon of love. That’s why it had been so devastating when he found out the truth -- that she had never wanted him; had tried to kill him. It was the deepest, the worst kind of betrayal. He would never forgive her.
It was 7:30.
He didn’t trust Stalwart. There was something phony about him. He spouted the right words, the words that engaged Jerry’s feelings. But there was something missing. Stalwart didn’t seem genuine. He was playing a part. His passion wasn’t there. Jerry had the uncomfortable, growing suspicion that he was being played; a pawn in Stalwart’s game; but what was his game? Jerry couldn’t get it. What was Stalwart’s purpose, if he wasn’t really sincere about protecting human life?
It was 7:45.
Jerry was thinking too much. Was he going to be the victim, instead of his target? Who was this Stalwart person anyway? Got to focus. Just be calm. Remember your training. Legs apart. Two hands on the piece. Aim. Squeeze.
It was 8.
[Don’t be on time. Don’t be on time.]
He was on time. A black sedan pulled into the driveway. The garage door opened. The black sedan drove in. The garage door closed. Jerry saw a shape enter the kitchen. Jerry’s mind went blank. He forgot all his training. Everything moved in a dreamlike sequence.
The target got out of his car and walked toward the door. The walkway was a million miles long. Step after step, Jerry approached the front door. His feet moved on their own. The bell was within reach.
He rang.
Nothing.
He rang again.
Nothing.
He rang again.
Finally, the door opened.
It wasn’t the target. It was the target’s wife.
“Can I help you?” the wife asked.
“Just came to say hi to Fred,” Jerry said, remembering his training at last. Make it as personal as possible; something from a friend, not a salesman. “...haven’t seen him since med school.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. What’s your name again?” she asked.
“He may not remember me. I wasn’t in his class, point-average-wise,” Jerry said modestly.
The wife smiled.
“Who’s that?” The target stepped up.
“One of your victims,” Jerry said. He raised the gun and pointed it at the target.
The wife screamed.
The gun fired.
Jerry turned and fled.
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