Blasting classic rock through the speakers of his dune buggy, John Smith bobbed his head to the rhythm. He didn't know exactly what he was happy about, but he decided to ride the wave. Sometimes, simple, stupid joy was the only way to drown out the noise of his crumbling marriage.
John Smith: forty-three years old, suburban husband, and completely unreliable.
Once a soldier in the US Army, he had transitioned to mercenary work after his discharge to pay the bills. It was during that time that a contact introduced him to "The Company." He quickly realized that the life of a contract killer offered better adrenaline—and significantly better pay—than soldiering. Without a second thought, he abandoned his old comrades and went pro.
Over the next few years, he racked up dozens of successful hits. The money was great, the travel was extensive, and the life was good.
It was during one of those missions in Colombia that he met his wife. Back then, Jane was passionate, wild, and intoxicating. Every day with her was a new adventure.
But now, five years into the marriage, the fire was gone.
The passion had evaporated, leaving behind a dry, boring routine. Jane had become distant, her smiles rare and forced. They were both trying to play their roles—the doting husband, the perfect wife—but John could feel the truth in his gut. Their love had cooled. It had expired.
I should have listened to her two years ago, he thought bitterly. Maybe a kid would have fixed this.
It had been nearly two months since they last had sex. They still slept in the same bed, but facing away from each other, separated by a silence as deep as the Mariana Trench. The divide had grown quietly, invisibly, until it was too wide to bridge.
THUMP!
The buggy slammed over a large rock in the badlands, the suspension groaning in protest.
"Dammit," John cursed, but kept his foot on the gas.
He was heading to his mission waypoint. Truthfully, he shouldn't have taken this job. He had just finished a contract recently and usually took time off between hits. But the atmosphere at home had become suffocating.
A few days ago, he had tried to initiate intimacy—just a little connection after their failed couples counseling session. But before he could even make a move, Jane had shut him down with the classic "I have a headache" excuse and feigned sleep.
It had been the same every night since.
John was hurt. It felt like she had lost all interest in him. The fake smiles, the cold glances when she thought he wasn't looking... it all pointed to one conclusion. The marriage was dead.
How did we get here?
In the beginning, when he realized Jane traveled for work as much as he did, he was thrilled. It was the perfect cover for his double life. He thought it would minimize the risk of exposure.
Now, he realized how wrong he had been.
They were ships passing in the night. Sometimes they wouldn't see each other for a week. Sometimes they spent less than seven days a month under the same roof. A house isn't a home without people in it. The bond had withered from neglect.
Maybe meeting in Bogota was the mistake, he mused. Maybe the foundation was rotten from the start.
He knew he should be the bigger man. He had lied to her first about his identity. If it was over, he should let her go so she could find real happiness with some boring, honest accountant.
But then he thought about life after divorce.
He'd go back to his old ways. Sure, he was rich and handsome. He'd spend his nights buying expensive drinks, waking up in strange beds, losing himself in temporary warmth.
Wait a minute.
John paused. That actually sounded... fantastic.
Thinking back to his bachelor days—the freedom, the chaos, the lack of silent dinners—he realized he had been mourning something he didn't even want anymore.
Why am I sad? That life was awesome.
"Screw it," he said aloud. "If it doesn't work, just sign the papers."
The buggy reached the waypoint. John killed the engine and hopped out. The long drive and the coffee had caught up with him. He scanned the horizon, unzipped his fly, and prepared to water a cactus.
He was completely unaware that five hundred meters away, on a rocky ridge, he was being watched.
Perkins raised her assault rifle, her voice crackling over the comms.
"Shit. We have a bogey. Where did this guy come from?"
"Is he driving deeper into the zone?" she asked. "I just planted proximity mines on that road. If he trips them, he'll alert the convoy."
"Hunter," she hissed. "You have the better angle. Can you drop him? The convoy is two minutes out. We can't have witnesses."
On the ridge, Hunter lay perfectly still, blending into the earth.
His enhanced senses had picked up the engine noise long before Perkins did. He had been tracking the vehicle through the 16x scope of his McMillan TAC-50 since it crested the dune.
When the driver stepped out, Hunter's face twisted into a strange, grim smile.
Well, well, he thought. John Smith. The universe really does try to force the narrative.
When Perkins had chosen this specific ambush site, Hunter had wondered if the other half of the Smith equation would show up. Less than two hours later, here he was, right on cue.
He listened to Perkins panic in his earpiece.
"I got him," Hunter replied calmly.
He shifted the rifle slightly, centering the crosshairs on John Smith's back as the man stood relieving himself. He checked the wind, adjusted the elevation, and exhaled slowly.
No hard feelings, John.
Hunter squeezed the trigger.
BOOM.
The heavy report of the .50 caliber rifle echoed across the desert.
Five hundred meters away, John Smith felt a sudden, ominous sinking feeling in his chest the moment the sound registered. His instincts screamed at him to move, to dodge, to roll.
But it was too late.
At this range, the 12.7mm anti-materiel round covered the distance in under a second.
Before John could even zip up, the bullet slammed into his back.
He was wearing body armor—high-end kevlar capable of stopping pistol rounds and shrapnel. But against a .50 BMG round designed to punch through engine blocks and light armored vehicles, the vest might as well have been tissue paper.
The kinetic energy was catastrophic. The impact lifted John off his feet and threw him forward into the dust.
He hit the ground hard, gasping for air that wouldn't come. He tried to push himself up, his hands scrabbling in the dirt.
Then he looked down.
He saw the ruin of his chest—a massive exit wound where his heart used to be.
John Smith, a veteran killer himself, knew exactly what this meant. He slumped back, a bitter, ironic smile touching his lips.
He coughed once, spraying blood onto the dry earth.
As his vision faded to black, the last thought of John Smith was that at least he wouldn't have to deal with the divorce lawyers.
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