One shot. There was a purity to it, to the idea of it, even to the words themselves. One shot. The two words had become a kind of mantra for him, a summation of all his life, of everything around him. One shot.

He was on a fire escape, four floors up, one floor down from the roof. The fire escape was rusty, and two weeks ago he'd spread a mouldy sheet of heavy cardboard across the landing on which he lay. He was curled in a fetal position, and couldn't be seen from underneath. The rifle was heavily modified, customized by himself, and he cradled it in the crook of his body. The electronic scope fed the image of the street to his tucked-away head..

One shot equals one chance. Equals one bullet. Equals one target. Equals one job. Equals a couple of months of easy living, after which the cycle, as he saw it, began anew. But it always came down to that one shot.

The parking lot was two brick buildings down, and across the two-lane street. The parking lot served customers of Betty's, an oddly named Mediterranean restaurant. The side entrance to Betty's was on the far side of the lot. The front entrance was twelve meters from the street. That was the first variable.

One shot made sense to him, after a lot of things stopped making sense. One shot brought everything together, packed it into one small flicker of time, a second that, seen from one side, was so small, and so vast from another. First into the moment went himself: his reasons, his motivations, his health, and reservations. Next went the actions, the minute movements of his finger, the gun, the wind on his barrel, and the bullet inside the gun. Last went the truth of the shot, the cleaving of air and the meeting of bullet and form. And then, from that small, gigantic moment flew the consequences of the shot, expanding like a firework, back into normal time.

The parking lot was marked with neon yellow guidelines, diagonally dividing the pavement into imaginary boxes. There were presently seven cars and one van in the lot, leaving nine spaces open. Three of these spaces were beside the side door, two were close to the concrete walkway which led to the front entrance; they were marked with blue paint and whitish neon, meant for the disabled. That was the second variable.

One shot divided the world for him. There was the time before the shot and the time after. The two were as different as night and day, and so was he. The shot meant that he changed in that moment, as a consequence of it. The shot put everything before it into a cloudy past, and everything after into a sharply defined, rapidly mutating future. The shot, he liked to joke, was to him as Christ's birth was to our calendar.

It was, he saw in the corner of his vision, six forty-nine and twenty seconds, A.M. His target arrived at this location every weekday morning at approximately five minutes to seven. He breathed slow and easy in the cold air, micro-puffs of moisture escaping his dry lips. He had seen his target come here every weekday morning for three consecutive weeks, but he knew that this was the third variable.

One shot drew on all his skill. Fourteen years of handling firearms, eleven of those years using mostly rifles, and two years of handling this weapon almost exclusively. Seven years of training to become a part of his surroundings, to be silent and strong. Six years of tactical training. Two years of social psychology. The shot took all this training and put it to a test where ninety-nine percent was a failing mark.

Three weeks of becoming Leonard Niles McAllister. Of learning his habits, his social status, his family's vices, his chauffeur's patterns, his bodyguards' reactions, and so much more. Still, it all counted for a fourth, fifth, sixth variable, and more. Nothing was certain, but certain things were probable.

One shot was all he had. He loaded only one bullet in the rifle, slid it into place with a smooth, tender motion. He had other weapons, but the target only got one shot. This was the way he worked, now.

The car drove up the road, slow and easy, pulling into the parking lot at six fifty-four and thirty-one seconds. It was a small limousine, a BMW model about three years old. It swung into the center-most of the three parking spots that were closest to the side entrance to Betty's with the smooth, careful decceleration of a rigged vehicle. He allowed himself a grin. Leonard Niles McAllister had a sister in a wheelchair, and never parked in disabled spaces. And if the Irish mob figure stayed true to form, he would be sitting in the middle bench seat, facing the rear, on the starboard side of the vehicle.

One shot didn't mean success. It was merely a shot, and could guarantee nothing. It used his skills, it used his feeling, but it was not always true. He accepted this, and moved on, leaving the time before the shot in the past. Leaving the shot itself in the past. It was easy.

Leonard Niles McAllister got out of the right hand side of his limousine, following his bodyguard by about four seconds, as always. He straightened out his heavy, two-tone brown winter jacket, and sniffed a harsh breath of Seattle air. The world compressed down to a flicker, and expanded out again instantly. The second bodyguard, half-out of the car door, opened his mouth dully, and watched Leonard Niles McAllister collapse to the pavement.

One shot, when finished, was undeniably gone. The consequences would follow for a while, and then, as if he had looked up from reading and realized that night had begun to fall, the cycle would begin again. It would again be 'before the shot.'

The rest was easy. While the bodyguards were still reacting, he made a quick escape by rolling into the apartment he'd rented, closed and locked the window, and stripped off his tattered clothing. Changing into a corpoarate suit, he locked the door behind him, and ran down the hallway, carrying the now-disassembled gun in a small briefcase. The building was long, and its occupants primarily night workers. He was not seen on his way to the opposite alley, as he had hoped. He made his escape on foot, walking casually down the street parallel to that which he'd recently stood watch over.

One shot did everything. It paid the bills, complicated life, killed a woman, shattered a machine, established his reputation, pinpointed his location, caused the air in its path to crash in on itself, clouded in the astral plane, honed his skills, gave him purpose. It was how he lived, and it helped him order the world around him, a world that until recently had made perfect sense.

One shot.