Monday, 6th

It was an auspicious day in the small town of Kimton. The lake on the outskirts of the town, which had, until now, resembled a swamp, had been completely re-landscaped after having been allowed to deteriorate over many years. The plants and mud, which had exuded a disgusting smell for the last ten years, had been removed. The edges and banks on the waterside had been cleaned and tidied, and strengthened with thick baulks of hard and heavy timbers. The surrounding parkland had been reseeded, replanted with trees, and shelters of timber had been erected. A timber boardwalk had been constructed around the whole of the lake where necessary, with seats set at regular intervals. The old boathouses, which had been derelict for years, had been rebuilt for the servicing and maintenance of all types of small, manpowered boats, and the whole area looked in pristine condition. Everyone agreed the result was a credit to those who had made the effort to make this amenity available once more to the whole community. A number of boats, the smallest of which, were pulled up onto the hard standing ready to be launched by sliding them on small trolleys, into the water. Others – the larger, heavier ones – and punts complete with poles, were tied up at a small, wooden dock ready for their first day's venture.

Anyone of any importance in the town was there; principally the Mayor, who was to perform the honours complete with his chain of office glinting in the morning sun; the Deputy Mayor; and the other members of the Council, all dressed to suit the occasion. The tiny ripples on the surface of the water of the lake shimmered in the sunlight, reflecting the appearance of the Mayor's chain of office. Even the weather, it seemed, had smiled upon the occasion. The sky was displaying England's richest of blues, and small fair weather cumulus clouds drifted almost lazily across it; so different from the previous week, when it had rained almost incessantly from low dull-grey skies.

Everything was in order and the invited public, seated in chairs facing the podium and the lake, were waiting expectantly for the inauguration of this new municipal facility now returned to the use for which it had been created fifty years earlier.

The Mayor was flanked, on his right, by the Mayoress; his third wife some twenty years his junior and whom some thought of as a 'trophy wife'. She smiled sweetly but there were stories circulating of affairs she had had or was having. On his left was the Deputy Mayor, equally happy to be attending the event; but it was also known that he – for a good many years – coveted the mayoral seat. But, as always, he was beaten to it by the incumbent. On the face of it, all was sweetness and light between them – but those close to either, or both, knew otherwise. The Mayoress, behind her trophy smiles, was becoming tired of her husband's infidelity and there was talk of a separation or perhaps an even more permanent arrangement.

Other dignitaries of less importance gathered too. The leader of the Council, the Town Clerk and the Borough Treasurer among others, were sitting facing the crowd with their backs to the lake, congratulating themselves on a job well done. The Town Crier, a position created some years before by this Mayor, stood resplendent in his red coat and tri-corn hat and with his large shining brass bell ready to bring the crowd to order. Everything had been planned down to the smallest degree and the day was running smoothly.

However, the day was not to continue as intended; at this moment, the cross hairs in the distant telescopic rifle sight covered the spot on the forehead between the target's eyes.

The rifle sight had been carefully tested for its range accuracy and there was no wind to cause the bullet to deviate. The assassin had considered using a hollow nose projectile, but a full metal jacket .300 Winchester Magnum – pointed nose and boat tail – would achieve, in his expert opinion, the best result. At three hundred and fifty yards, it would achieve greater accuracy and plenty of penetration, particularly with a one hundred and seventy five grains charge. He knew that within half a second of pulling the trigger, the target would be good and dead. At that distance, the deviation of the bullet would be within one point five inches of its intended target. So right between the eyes should do it. The silencer would cut down the muzzle flash and, therefore, there was much less chance of anyone who may be close noticing it.

It was a perfect day, he thought, for a killing – there was no wind and the light was good. It was dry and had been overnight, therefore the grass, upon which he was lying, would soon spring back to its normal shape after he vacated his position.

The sniper knew that his location was carefully concealed. He had checked it out from a variety of positions and angles and even from where the victim would be standing. Everything had been planned and nothing had been left to chance. There had been small tweaks needed as more information came to light, but nothing consequential to the outcome. The assassin did not know his victim or his paymasters, and he cared even less who they were. It was they who had chosen the hit. He, for his part, asked no questions. He never did. He did the job and collected his money. There was always a great deal of it. After all, he was good at his job – very good, and, thus far, had never made a mistake. Neither did he know the unsuspecting target had a connection to The Syndicate, who wanted his erasure. The killer had a strong suspicion of it, but did not really know, and certainly did not care. It often happened that way. The target, however was totally unaware of his intended early demise, and to the man who would pull the trigger it was of little consequence.

Through the telescopic sight, the killer could easily identify the man as he stood on the bedecked podium at the lakeside; he had studied him carefully from every angle possible from photographs that had been provided by The Syndicate – full face, profile, and a variety of angles between. He knew every blemish on the target's face and head. His instructions were not to harm the smaller man who would be standing beside him – he did not know why, and again, he did not care. He could despatch both, but that was not in his instructions. No one in the crowd that morning had the slightest idea that the intended victim had a connection to a group, known to some as The Syndicate and to others, particularly those in the Security Services of the world, as 'Hydra'. It was not so much his contact, but more the connections his father had with them through shadowy third parties.

The assassin's place of concealment under a hedgerow on the low rise just beyond the edge of the small town was disguised by a variety of bushes, trees, and long grass. Even across the small field from the narrow country lane behind him, the killer was undetectable – perfect.

There would be a national outcry. It would be international news. Both the assassin and his paymaster knew that of course, but it would be over and done with – mission accomplished. No point in going back over what had happened and what might have been prevented; by then it would have already been done. Perversely, the hint of a smile crossed his face as a thought came into his mind; on waking this morning, did his assassin ever consider – like the Lakota Sioux before...