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The first job.

It hadn't been some elaborate scheme to isolate the target, trailing him for weeks to learn his routine, Nate didn't think he needed that, how hard could it be to kill a man? All he needed was a ski mask, a gun and a little patience.

Nate waited outside the bar the target spent most of his evenings at. Waiting for what felt like eternity, the gravity of what was about to happen weighing down more and more, so that when the guy did emerge Nate felt like his feet were stuck to the floor of his car, he couldn't pick them up, he couldn't work the pedals.

He watched as the target walked down the street, some woman he had picked up on his arm. After what seemed an age he got the car moving, slowly rolling down the street towards them. He grabbed the ski mask off the passenger seat and clumsily pulled it over his head as the car crept up behind them. He reached for the gun, drew the car up level with them and raised it. He pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. Like a fucking idiot he hadn't taken the safety off. He quickly rectified that but by now the guy had looked over, seen the gun, the ski mask and knew what was happening. For a moment Nate locked eyes with him. He didn't know anything about him other than he was being paid more money than he'd ever seen in his life at that point to kill him. The guys eyes had a pleading look to them. Nate hated those eyes, he couldn't look at them any longer and squeezed the trigger.