The Osprey takes a deep breath. “No more procrastinating,” she mutters, and checks everything to be in order and ready for the shot. She takes aim on her stomach, and pulls the trigger. She swears under her breath; the bullet flies true, but her hands had shaken at the last minute, moving the barrel to the left slightly. The shot would nail him in the right arm, and she ducks down. “Damn. I’m not going to hear the end of that one for a while.”