THE MARKSMAN
The killer knew fear when he smelt it. Rust and sweat, that was what it smelt like. And Jack Maeto reeked of it. It had not been an easy task finding the man, but once he had found him, staying with him was relatively easy. The man was enormous and so, he stuck out like a sore thumb. His size did not give the killer cause to worry. Scared people were predictable. They were clumsy too, repetitive. They slipped up, made mistakes. Unfortunately for them; fortunately for him. The killer sat behind the wheel of his Toyota, a old rusty car he rented. It was perfect for keeping a low profile and had let him follow the man around town without being looked at twice. He fancied himself a hunter, and Jack Maeto and his companion were blood trailing prey. The Toyota was parked in a shoulder of gravel on the street that was directly opposite the restaurant the big man had just walked into. CRAIG'S DINER. The killer popped open the glove compartment where he had kept
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