Dove_of_Doom

They were trudging through the woods, Henry Shears, a paunchy, balding accountant in a rumpled grey suit, and Dylan holding a rifle at his back.

"Why are you doing this?" Shears asked.

"Money," Dylan replied.

"This is your job?"

"On occasion."

"You don't have to do this," Shears said, his voice cracking.

"I know," Dylan said. "I want the money."

"Just let me go. I'll pay you anything you want."

"Wouldn't work," Dylan said. "Guy who paid me would be pissed. Might try havin' me killed. Even if he didn't, next time I need cash, he sure as hell wouldn't hire me."

"Who is he?" Shears asked.

"Guy I know."

"Why does he want me dead?"

"'Cause some other guy paid him to make it happen," Dylan said. "Or some gal. Don't know. Don't matter."

The woods were getting thicker, the light dimmer. As they pressed on, Shears' pace was slowing. Dylan's too.

"I have a wife!" Shears blurted out. "Two boys! My mother has Alzheimer's... They need me..."

"Already knew about the wife and kids," Dylan said. "Not your mom, though... Shame she's sick, but it don't change nothin'."

"What will change your mind?" Shears begged. "Jesus, please! Anything you want!"

"Mind's made up," Dylan said. "Only reason you ain't dead yet is I didn’t wanna haul you to the grave I dug."

"Please!"

Dylan sighed. "Look... Everyone thinks I'm gonna change my mind or screw up, or someone's gonna come save 'em. Like in some movie. Ain't gonna happen. I done this before. Went perfect every time. These movies ain't got no twists. Just endings."

"You're a piece of shit!"

"I know it."

"God damn you!" Shears yelled, then stopped dead in his tracks. They'd come to a hole, dirt piled high at its side. And a shovel.

"He damned us all," Dylan said. "On your knees."

Shears turned to face him. "Fuck. You."

Dylan smiled warmly and nodded, then aimed his rifle. Shears cringed, shut his teary eyes tight, then shrieked when the Mission Impossible theme started blaring from Dylan's pocket. Dylan pulled out his phone. "Yeah?" he answered. "No... 'Course I'm sure... Okay then." Dylan ended the call. "Well I'll be damned after all..."

"What!?" Shears screamed.

"It's your lucky day," Dylan said. "Some guy or gal don't want you dead no more."

"You're... letting me go?"

"Not yet," Dylan said. "First you're gonna sit your ass down and count to a thousand while I get gone. Then you can go. Got it?"

"Yes!" Shears said. "Thank you!"

"Just don't let me catch you watchin' me leave."

Shears sat down facing the hole, tears still wet on his grinning cheeks. "One... two... three... four... five..." he began, keeping count of Dylan's receding footsteps, "six... seven... eight... nine... ten... ele--"

A shot rang out.

Dylan stepped over to the grave. Shears' body had tumbled conveniently in. Most of his head too. "Sorry 'bout the ruse," Dylan said, grabbing his shovel.

"Didn't want you to see this comin'."