The hammer snapped forward sending the firing pin into the primer cap of the 9mm cartridge. Smoke arose from the barrel as the metal-jacketed slug whined through the air towards the intended target. He rarely missed; hours near the little shed pumping rounds into soup cans had perfected his aim and honed his craft. Gunpowder now filled his nostrils propelling his memory back in time; his dad standing with him on the makeshift gun-range, the Beretta seemed much larger then. He could almost hear the patient, soothing whisper of his father's voice very close to his ear. The strong embrace as he wrapped the boy in his arms, steadying the youth's frame comforted the eager student, holding the handgun outstretched and shaking slightly.
"That's it son, breathe easy, when you're ready to fire, hold your breath and squeeze the trigger. Don't jerk it! Slow and easy, now go ahead, take the shot."
Oh, how he desired to hear those words again. To feel his father's presence, to smell his aftershave or to be wrapped in his arms; he would give everything he had for just a brief moment in time.
The weight of the gun bouncing off his thigh brought his thoughts to the present and the work at hand. An anonymous source had requested his 'special talent' and was willing to pay mightily for it. In the back of his mind, he knew it was almost too good to be true, but who was he to question as his ego reminded him that he was certainly in a class by himself.
"Stir things up!" they'd said.
That was something he knew how to do and the gun would be his insurance.