This one was more his kind of woman!
TROUBLE IS THE GAME
A steam whistle sounded. The train was coming. Peace checked his watch again. Then he slid the window open and fed two bullets into the Springfield. He brought the stock up to his cheek and lined up the sights.
A few seconds passed. He willed away the raggedness in his breathing and wiped sweat from his forehead. The jitters were a first for him, and he blamed it on Helen. No more time to think, he told himself. Just do the job.
His forefinger curled around the trigger. Why did he always have a brief mental picture of his father, the second before he killed?