"Assassin? Scum is more like it." An old man took a sip from a wine glass as he watched the television. The he seemed stressed, his large frame silhouetted by the light of the TV and the fireplace. "He's probably just another two bit thug who got a hold of his fathers pistol." He brushed his white hair aside as a picture came up on the screen. A drip of sweat hung from his brow "I'm just happy that Mr. Berton is in good health." The the man being interviewed replied to a question. The old man, Mr. Dean Ethermore, pressed his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "Unbelievable." He turned off the TV, reached for his phone and held down a number. The speaker rang once then was picked up. "Stuart's dead. We're going to have to pack up shop again." A voice on the other side complained. "Yes everything. Dispose of anything we don't need." The old man hesitated. "And find a replacement for the young man."
He hung up the phone without another word and sat there looking down at it for a moment. Then he picked it up and slammed it down again, again, and again before placing it nicely back on it's perch. leaning back in his chair he reached for his glass of wine again and spoke. "I'm getting too old for this." He downed what was left in the glass, stood and walked over to his desk.
There he pulled out a key, opened a filing cabinet. 15 folders were inside. He picked one up and opened it. Inside was a picture of a young man sitting on a park bench all smiles. Below it read Stuart Gert. He was a good kid. Too good for this job. Dean flipped through the pages of the files as he meandered his way across the room to the fireplace. He stood at the hearth till he reached the last page. "Guess your number 23 Stuart." He closed the file and threw it into the fire. The pages lit up and curled back turning to black. Then to ash. Dean turned, picking up his wine glass, leaving the room.