He sighed.
The pocket of his zip-up sports jacket hummed and vibrated, the burst of moment coming in short intervals.  He took his eye off the sight and his hand off the trigger, reaching into his pocket to cease the annoying buzz.  From the pocket, the man produced a cheap phone – one of those pay-as-you-go services – and studied the number that was calling.  The buzz did so annoy him, but turning it onto a higher volume would simply jeopardize his operation.  He let the phone ring once more before answering it with a terse “What?” as he realigned his sights and adjusted the bipod, the phone resting on between his shoulder and ear.  The scope was slightly off, but a twist of the knob set it into focus.  The voice on the other end had finally responded.
“Are you in position?” the garbled and distorted voice asked, a slight hint of aggravation to its already muffled tone.  The man caught it though – he always did.  “Your target has a board meeting in five minutes exactly.  When he enters the room, he will place a folder at the head of the table and wait until the others arrive before taking his seat.  We’re sending you a recent picture of him now—“ The voice cut off for a moment as the phone buzzed in his ear once more. “Take the shot after the meeting has started – no sooner.”  The assassin had heard enough of the useless orders – they failed to realize that they wouldn’t be paying this much for an amateur.
Right on cue, the man entered the room and placed down the folder his caller had mentioned.  Sure enough, he also waited before taking his seat, but something seemed to be off – the picture he had received did not by any means match up to the man in his sights.  The assassin waited a few more minutes as more well-dressed men entered the room, each with a sort of grim, businessman-like expression on their face.  What a boring life, he mused.  Still, his target was nowhere to be seen.
The meeting commenced, those present in the room taking their seats and resting in them, again, in a very business-like way.  He searched the room, locking in on each and every face present, but still no sign of the 500-million-dollar-man.  The assassin moved his Dragunov SVD over a notch.
He had taken up camp in a cherry picker – a wide basket attached to the cable company’s van.  The assassin had been planning this moment weeks in advance, and there was no better position in the city than one in such plain sight.  The AEP electric company had hired him not two weeks prior, and he was out at that moment fixing a wire he himself tore.  Crouched in a partial-prone position, the man took aim once more, hidden by the leaves and branches of the tree he had taken residence in.  Finally – the man had appeared.
The target stepped into the room lightly, a fake apologetic expression on his face.  He took a seat besides the head of the desk, nodding off to the man across from him – the other just shook his head.  He leaned his elbow against his arm-rest and his chin against his fist, listening closely to the meeting he had rudely interrupted.  The assassin aimed up, added slight pressure to the trigger, and held his breath.
Not one shot, but two were heard simultaneously as the assassin pulled the trigger, a 7.65x54 round penetrating the unsuspecting target’s cranium.  The second shot caught the assassin off guard, and he looked frantically through the scope for a better view – two assassinations at the same location? At the same time? During the same meeting?  Something didn’t add up, but what shocked the assassin more was that the second shot went straight for his target, too.  His head was literally no more.
The man lowered the gun and folded the bipod, laying it flat against the cherry picker’s floor as he stood up and manned the controls.  He lowered the basket and hopped out, closing the half-open back door of his white van.   Two women ran past him as he hopped into the driver’s seat and brought the vehicle to life.  Glancing in the rear view mirror, the assassin’s mind raced as he drove down the street and made a left on McMecken Boulevard, following the path he’d predetermined a week prior.  There were always cases of rival agencies fighting over targets, but usually one agency knew when the other was planning a hit – and they usually informed their man.  Usually.
The assassin came to a two-way intersection, the light red for his lane – he dug out the phone in his pocket and dialed the contact number.  He hadn’t pressed the call button – he wasn’t ready yet.  Making another left, he continued on the road for a quarter-mile more before pulling into one of the city’s smaller AEP plants.  The assassin parked the car and pressed call.  The signal was poor – the reading jumping from one to two bars and vice versa – but the call picked up, and the line rang three times before the other end picked up.
“There was someone else on him,” the assassin said calmly, looking in his side-view mirrors as another AEP van pulled in.  “The second I shot, another round fired off.  Needless to say, there’s not much left of his head.”  As he waited for a response, the man stripped himself of the sports jacket, dumping it into the storage section of the van as he yanked a small plastic bag from behind the passenger’s seat.  From it he pulled out a black hooded sweatshirt – no markings – and black sweatpants.
“We had a feeling there might be some competition,” the voice on the other end finally replied.  This time there was no garbled voice, no distortion – it was a simple female voice, gentle as most could be.  “Don’t worry, your pay has already been wired.  We’ve received confirmation of the hit, and you’ve fulfilled your end of the bargain.”  Having heard all he wanted to, the assassin pulled the phone away from his ear and nearly ended the call when he heard his name through the earpiece.
“Xavier, you might want to look into it, though,” the girl said.  The assassin – Xavier – pursed his lips and let out a short “hmm.”  He sighed as he pulled the sweater over his head.  “I’ll see,” he said, ending the call.  He turned the phone around to its backside and removed the battery cover.  The assassin snatched the battery and pocketed it, slamming the phone against the dashboard of the van until the device was broken beyond repair.  Xavier quickly changed from jeans to sweats and with one last look in the side and rear - view mirrors, opened the door and stepped out of the van.
He took nothing with him – not the gun resting in the basket, not the clothes he changed out of – the only thing that came and left with the assassin was the phone’s battery, which he soon dropped in a bundle of weeds along the fence of the plant’s parking lot.  Xavier holstered his hands in his sweatshirt’s kangaroo pouch and walked down the street as two police cars, sirens wailing, rushed past him towards the site of the murder.  The assassin came to a bus stop, mere minutes before the next bus arrived – he smiled slightly at his timing and careful planning.  Boarding the bus, he merely smirked as it drove him further away from the site, leaving him with 250-million more dollars in his bank account.