I watched the man cross the street through the glass eye of my high-powered rifle. He wasn’t my target; he had nothing to do with me. I was here to kill a killer, not some guy in a faded wool coat.
Then he turned his head up towards me; understanding restructured his face. Instead of running, he patted down his coat and rearranged his collar. Satisfied, he looked back, as if he expected me to fire.
Who was this guy? I pulled my rifle down from the window sill and slunk back into the shadows.
*Written as a response to the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt.