His half smoked cigarette fell slowly through the air, hitting the floor with the sparks from the still lit end flying and staining the white tile. He paced back and forth, holding the worn AK-47 in his hand. So many battles had taken a toll on his trusty friend as seen by the various cracks and bruises along the butt of the rifle. This definitely wasn't the first time him and his crew had worked this kind of job, but it was definitely felt different then any other "errand" he had run before. His band had done bombings, assassinations, and many other hostage takings before, but this time was peculiar .He did not feel as confident. His killer instinct had faded over the years. Murdering and maiming hostages begins to lose its orgasmic thrill after doing it thousands of times. But he couldn't worry about that now.
He tightened his black, fuzzy ski mask, making sure it was in place and that the hostages couldn't see the features of his face and skin. He could almost see his reflection in the air. The scars, the stress lines, the vacant eyes, , his ever graying hair, all were visible to him. Obtaining such features were matter-of-course for someone in his line of "work."
He had immunized himself from all feeling. Having any could be deadly when all of his emotional reserves had to be on the task at hand. All that was left was a cold, heartless man. No memory, no feeling. Only the manipulative rage of a cold-blooded killer was present.
Ref: associatedcontent.com
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