His mark stepped out from the black limousine, her curly brown hair falling in soft layers around bare shoulders. She had the right physique and the right hair, but he'd have to wait for her to turn to get a positive I.D. on the face. He made the siren noise, everyone turned toward it, including her. Who doesn't want to see the ambulance or the police chase? The photograph hadn't done her justice at all. In his magnified scopes her eyes shone and there was a genuine look of concern on her symmetrical features rather than the glee of a gawker. He wanted to reach out and touch her lips, full and glossy red even in the fading light of the evening. Her bare arms were honed from hours in the gym and about her neck sat the diamond necklace from his employers vault. She was the thief or someone close to them, either way his brief was to eliminate her. She fell without even a cry, never aware of her own end. One minute she was expecting a glittering gala and the next she was gone, dispatched.
Sam Green was not his real name. His hair- black and a little greasy - was fake, as were his glasses, mustache, and uneven teeth. He looked fifty years old, but he was actually closer to thirty. Nobody knew the man's real name, but in the business he was in, a name was the last thing he could afford. He was known merely as "The Gentleman," and he was one of the highest-paid and most successful contract killers in the world. He had been given his nickname because he always sent flowers to the family of his victims.
Found in Alex Rider, Point Blank, authored by Anthony Horowitz.
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