The man held the cold metal stock of the rifle against his right shoulder. His left eye closed as he stared down the scope at his target. There was a deep sense of satisfaction in ending this particular piece of trash. When the name came across his interface, he had been anxious, excited. The energy buzzed around him. Electricity crackled and made the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. Usually this kind of thing was just a job to him, nothing more. This time it was personal. This target had fucked him over once in a situation that could have been the death of him. Granted, his survival ultimately created the demise of countless others but that was neither here nor there. He had been lucky. His target wouldn't be as fortunate.
He watched carefully as his target spoke to some adoring fans. His wife stood stony to the left, looking very unhappy. She tapped her foot subtly. It seemed like she couldn't wait to get away from the whole ordeal. If only she knew.

Soon.

Sights adjusted. All variables accounted for. He knew his target like the back of his own hand. He could predict the movements of his target better than a meteorologist could predict the weather. This would be easy, laughably so. He usually wanted more of a challenge, but this was much too good to pass up.
A deep breath in. Light pressure of his right index finger, just enough to squeeze the trigger, a little tease.
Exhale.
The rush of endorphins this time was better than most orgasms. A smile crept onto his face. Justice served and vengeance achieved. Finally.
He quickly disassembled his rifle and stored it away, pulled on a baseball cap and silently made his exit.
He never missed.
One shot, a single solitary shot, and his target had hit the ground.

Jim Stockwell was no more.