His feet pounded the ground as he ran along the trail, shirt stuffed into the waistband of his shorts. The sun was all ready bright and it was barely eight in the morning. His iPod was strapped to his bicep, earbuds shooting Copperhead Road into his brain.
The sun lessened as he entered the tree lined section of the trail, the breeze feeling even cooler in the shade. He glanced at his watch again. It was almost time for the judge to come down the trail, walking that fucking yappy little dog. The man left his house at eight on the dot every morning. Must have never learned better. Ah, there he was, coming out the gate in his backyard fence. Right on time.
The runner ran a few more strides then slowed to a stop, kneeling on one knee to tie his shoe and nodding at the judge as he approached. He reached into his fanny pack as the judge passed, hand wrapping around the butt of the .22 automatic. He had it half pulled out of the pack when he head the cell phone tone that signalled a text message. Only one person had that number and it was not a person who could be ignored.
“Abort mission. Bill paid.” His eyes narrowed but the runner shoved the phone back in the pack beside the pistol and zipped the pack. He pointed his fist at the judge’s back in the shape of a gun. “Pow,” he whispered then started running again. Might have to stick to this path, he thought.