No sex in this one. Far more sex in the next.
The man checks his weapons before stepping out of the low-slung black sedan. During the day he would normally use a white Corolla, The Toyota Corolla being the most widely used car, and white being the most common shade. It was Unobtrusive, and therefore invisible. Just another middle class worker trying to get home. Throw on a shirt and tie and you could kill someone in cold blood and walk straight out of the cubicle in which they'd been working. His preferred method, for his chosen career.
This latest job however, was difficult. It was specific, it was frankly strange, and to top it off he'd charged far less than for a standard job, even though he should have asked for far more, considering the visibility. The man gave a small shrug. He'd given a quote, and as a businessman it was his obligation to follow through. His equipment reflected this perfectly. A black car, normally suspicious, but in a specific alley with the clock approaching midnight, virtually invisible. California plates, obviously not his. He was wearing all black- not for stealth, as black may be a concealing color, but a man in black rings all sorts of alarm bells, but for intimidation alone. For this task he'd picked a black turtleneck, a balaclava with a Kevlar faceguard, black Kevlar jeans and large black combat boots. Normally he would wear shoes slightly more appropriate, however unobtrusive was not his goal tonight, fear was. Hence his weapon, A Sig-Sauer P220, silenced. Normally chambered for nine-millimetre Parabellums, currently holding none. Zero in the chamber, Zero in the magazine. Intimidating and virtually harmless, unless he was crazy enough to use it as a blunt instrument.
He takes another look around the alley before pushing away from the door, a small black briefcase dangling from his left hand, balaclava and faceguard balled in his right. Suspicious, but no reason to start calling phones. He steps up to the rear fire-exit of his target's apartment. Like all small places with terrible security, the staircase was external, a metal skeleton clinging to the side of the brick complex. Like most, the security was held in the ladder, normally kept far out of reach, which would slide down when a panicking resident used it to escape from the namesake fire it was designed for, and the incredibly loud noise it made when attempting to climb it. The first issue was dealt with by a rope the man had tied to it that afternoon- the second was rendered moot only by a decade of experience using them for his grisly profession.
A swift tug on the rope was all that was needed for the ladder to begin obeying the laws of gravity, rolling downwards towards him before he cleanly fields it with his left, briefcase leaning against his leg. He slowly continues pulling the ladder downwards before trapping it with a raised leg, swiftly puts on the rest of his costume, picks up the briefcase and starts upwards.
He only needs to climb two stories on the rickety stairs before arriving at his destination. However, a stroke of luck hits. The window, normally one of the toughest parts of his job is sitting ajar, letting a stiff breeze wend its way through the house. Taking a quick look at the hinges, he places the briefcase upon the ground and removes a small bottle of lubricant. No need to take chances, even though he'd usually take a spray-can for jobs like this. A few drops into the hinges and the window acquiesces silently to his gentle pressure, easing open further and allowing him to drop into the room, the bottle back with his other tools in the briefcase.
A quick look around tells him he's in the dining and lounge room. Through an open doorway he can see a kitchen, with a pass-through in the wall next to it. Anywhere else, he'd consider a student or shift-worker would live here. In a town this cramped it was just as likely they were a full-time worker, or even a teacher. Three doors headed outwards from the room. One was instantly ruled out because of the peep-hole in the centre, normally a godsend to a man in the profession of killing, but this time all it served to tell him was that the only thing on the other side of the door was the hallway. So, two doors. One bathroom, one bedroom. He wanted to slow down and check them over thoroughly, but this wasn't the time for taking small steps. He was in another person's house while they slept, with a gun. Loaded or un-loaded, it wouldn't do for the target to alert the building to his presence. Suddenly he spies it. A small grey shape underneath one of the doors. He looks across the the kitchen to confirm it, and there it is. A small grey slider which both hides and heralds the shift in flooring from the carpeted lounge to the tiled kitchen -- and hopefully the tiled bathroom. Process of elimination. Stepping to the last available door, he crouches down, creating a lower profile, quietly turns the knob and steps in.
There's a shape on the bed, single sheet rising and falling to the pace of quiet, oblivious breathing. He gathers his courage. This is the single action with the highest chance of failure.
In a fluid motion he stands, his pistol drawn and pointing, the other hand in front of his mouth, one finger up.
"Stay quiet or die"
