The hitman

Bob Hyman's anger boiled as four men sat in uncomfortable silence. Evan "Slim" Green squirmed in his seat while Joe "Snakes" Hill tried to look everywhere else in the room except on the heavy set man whose gasket was about to blow. Andre "Smokes" McGibbon nervously pulled on his cigarette while Simon "Quick Kill" Durrant played absently with his weapon, a huge hunting knife.

The fifth man, Paul "Terminator" Malone, an unassuming man in his late thirties sat absolutely still, undisturbed and seemingly oblivious to the venomous words spewing from Bob's angry lips.

"What the hell am I paying you all for?" he raged. No one answered as they knew all too well that this was a question not requiring a reply. After all, they are used to Bob's tirades, nothing they did was satisfactory to him.

"One simple job! One lousy contract and some numb nut have to go and screw it up!" Bob ranted as he glared at Snakes who sat shorter in his seat, a difficult feat for this six foot four, muscle-bound hulk.

"And you!", Bob raved as he pointed an accusing finger at Smokes who stopped mid-drag on his cigarette, eyes bulging in surprise, "Who the hell told you to let him go?"

"Er, boss, I thought...", Smokes gulped.

"Shut up!", Bob screamed. "If it hadn't been for Terminator here, your precious pal would have run off to squeal to the cops!"

Paul finally moved. Actually, he spoke first before he moved.

"I don't like your tone." he said calmly.

Bob's mouth flew open in mid-curse. His eyes widened as the Terminator fired. Bob sank slowly to the ground, his face frozen in shock. The hitman calmly holstered his weapon and left the room.

Word count 289