It was too hot for a suit, but that didn't deter him. A well dressed man is a happy man, he thought, and in his line of work it paid to look professional, even in the damp heat of a South American micro-nation. He sighed, and looked around the small hotel room, wincing at the accomodations his employer had set him up with, and turned to look out the window, making sure he had a good line of sight. He straightened his tie and made sure that his long black hair was securely tied back behind his head, and with that done Kim popped open the briefcase he had brought with him and smiled.
Carefully he removed the pieces of the Remington 700 rifle and laid them on the bed, making sure that every piece was in its proper place. Satisfied, he began to put it together, like a giant LEGO construction, each piece sliding into place with a click. When he was done, he grinned again, the massive weapon filling him with joy. It wasn't that he was a psychopath, though he had been accused of that more than once, he just took pride in his work.
He sighed again, checking his watch. The time was near. He moved across the room and set up the gun on the windowsill, taking care to extend the bipod legs so he could rest it comfortably, and slid open the window just enough to allow the barrel to poke out. He shifted, getting himself comfortable as well, and looked down the scope, waiting for his target to come into sight.
While he waited, the assassin let his mind drift back a bit, to the day he'd been hired for this job. He'd met his contact, a thin, bespectacled bastard with a sweating issue, at the baggage claim at LaGuardia. They sat down on a set of plastic chairs, and the weasel had insisted on trying to look everywhere at once while they spoke.
"He will be coming in a grand parade, for his birthday," the weasel had said, his thick accent making him irritating to listen to, "You will perform your job when he reaches the high point of this hill." Weasel pointed to a photograph taken from the window of the motel, "You'll be staying in this room, and we've already determined that this will be the best place to take your shot."
Kim chuckled to himself, not bothering to ask why they needed him if they already had the job planned out. It wasn't in his nature to turn down a milk run. Still, he had his own plans on how to perform the job. Professional pride and all.
"This is El Presidente," Weasel had said, handing him a picture of what looked like an anthropomorphic pig wearing a general's uniform, "He is your target. One shot, to the head, quick and clean."
Kim flashed back to reality, gritting his teeth and looking through the scope. The sun was high in the sky, and he had to adjust a bit to compensate for glare from the hood of the car that was coming over the hill, but he was soon able to line up his shot. Sure as told, there was El Presidente, waving from the back of the car that Weasel was driving for everyone to see. Kim grinned and checked the wind, just to make sure.
There was a loud crack, and then the screaming started, as Weasel's head snapped back and bits of rotten brain and blood showed El Presidente. The car veered off to the side, slamming into a fire hydrant and causing a ruckus. Kim laughed and started packing up his things.
Weasel had handed him the picture, and for the first time Kim noticed something off about the little bastard. His hands, or at least the hand that had gripped the photo, were black. Not dark, not brown, but black. The assassin normally made a point to respect the wishes of employers who didn't want to be looked at, but he couldn't help it this time. He looked the weaselly bastard right in the eye and saw him for what he really was.
"I really, really, fucking hate zombies," he muttered to himself as he walked out of the hotel, pulling his satellite phone out and dialing quickly. When the voice on the other side answered, he grinned, "Got him," he said,
"Fuckin' rot bastard paid in advance, can you believe that?" he chuckled again, "Fine, fine, just get me home."
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