On Her Majesty’s Service.
The moon was shining bright-yellow above in the dark, starless sky. He was tired, but not so exhausted that he could not go on. It was a fairly long walk, but he was used to those kinds of walks. His walked on firmly and with purpose, his feet striking the pavement smoothly as he strode on.
Spanish Harlem. The enemy agent. That was his target. He was to terminate the chap. He knew who the man was, what he looked like, and what his habits were. He had been studying him for quiet a while as they both prowled the backstreets of New York during the long hot days, and cool, windy nights.
He walked past a small shop selling Mexican food. There were three people inside; an elderly man, and two old women. They talked loudly and with high-pitched Latin voices. The smell of the food being cooked in the kitchen was spicy and full of life. He liked the smell. As he walked on he passed the adjoining alley, and saw some cats fighting over a refuge bin. Screeching and clawing the cats fought a quick battle.
He had already walked on when the fighting cats had settled their quarrel over the refuse. He went and stood under a tree planted on the pavement. The night-shadows thrown by the tree hid him from view from the casual observer. The enemy agent would be coming out of the betting office soon. It was said the man was a communist. He didn’t give a damn either way – he had a job to do.
Yes, here he came out of the front door of the bookie’s old run-down house. He wore a long, dark overcoat and he had the brim of his hat drawn over his eyes. But despite this he could recognize the man; after all, he had been studying for a long time. The man was about medium height, but stocky. Now he crossed the quiet road, approaching the man in the shadows, but taking no heed of him.
Maybe he has had a few drinks, thought the man to himself, and smiled. When the enemy agent was virtually right next to him, he took out his revolver and plugged him. He shot him four times in the chest at close range. The man fell down on the pavement in a pool of blood, and only convulsed slightly before dying.
In this part of the city it would take to police quiet long to arrive on the scene of the shooting. The assassin walked away quietly and unhurried into the protecting arms of the dark New York night. His job was done, and soon he would return home.
The city skyline burnt with the fires of a million lights in the jet-black night. The man whistled a happy tune to himself as he walked on to the nearest subway-station. A taxi-cab drove past and sprayed the sidewalk in front of him with water. He walked on unhindered…
