Monday Morning Micro Madness Presents:
Ricky Talon
By S.T. Hoover
I inched closer to the ledge and caught sight of the target at two o’clock. Fifth row, thirty-two feet away. I didn’t think anyone would notice me above the box; not even the sportscasters seemed to hear me inch closer.
Just one clean shot at the son of a bitch. That’s all I could ask for.
I pulled the rifle from its leather case, timing the loud zipping with yet another point buzzer. The Lakers were playing well tonight. Between another point and the silencer, no one would notice Ricky Talon drop at first. At least, not more than a few people around him. It would leave me more than enough time to escape. It’s all I could ask for.
My smirk was like the one that had haunted my client’s daughter since she lost her fight against the son of a bitch in bed. And in court.
That smirk.
Just one more point. Just one more point.
The Lakers took the rock up court, and a player whose name I couldn’t place went to dunk it. He did.
The buzzer sounded.
I pulled the trigger.
That smirk was gone.
That’s all I could ask for.
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