065 - hundred

The club, like all clubs tended to be, was dark. The music was pounding a slow beat that Samson had to admit was somewhat entrancing. If he were not on duty now, he might have enjoyed spending his evening here and seeing where the night took him.

Unfortunately, he was here on business. For him, the loud music and dim lights were doing no favors towards accomplishing his goal. Pibb could be leaving the club at any moment, and Samson had to prevent him from doing that.

Finely dressed in a custom-tailored suit, Samson did not stick out at all. Pibb had never seen Samson before, and that would be working to Samson's advantage. He felt the concealed, slim submachine gun press against his chest as he began to worm his way through the crowd on the dance floor.

It was hard for Samson to ignore the beautiful woman that seemed to be everywhere. His target was an obese, grotesque man, but he apparently was able to surround himself with attractive girls nonetheless. Such is the allure of power and money, Samson reflected.

Then he thought about how he was losing focus on his objective. This was probably exactly why Pibb did this, to foil any would-be pursuer by distracting him with pretty eye candy. Well, it wasn't going to work on Samson. He focused up and kept scanning his surroundings.

Making eye contact with any face the random fluttering of the lights would allow him to, it did not appear that finding Pibb would be an easy task. Perhaps he had already skipped out, Samson considered.

Perhaps Samson was walking right into a trap. He had considered the possibility when he received the tip that Pibb would be in this club tonight. But he had no option but to follow the crumb trail and hope it led him to his oh-so-elusive mark. If he were killed tonight, it would hardly be worse than knowing that he hadn't acted and Pibb had gotten away.

So, he carried on. Meandering through the crowd, hoping to find him. And then, quite unexpectedly, he did. Bumping into a rather large mass, he found his path suddenly blocked. The possessor of the large body turned and gave Samson a very evil look.

"Pardon me," Samson said, hoping he was able to completely conceal the glimmer of recognition as he locked eyes with Pibb himself. The man turned away, not acknowledging Samson's words at all but apparently willing to forget his potentially fatal faux pas.

Samson, for his part, worked his way away from Pibb, attempting to give himself some distance. He knew he would only have one chance at this. Making a move while standing right behind Pibb would virtually guarantee the bullets would connect, but the act of pulling the weapon out of concealment may also have attracted too much attention.

So Samson moved a bit further away, where the crowd was less dense. He readied himself for a moment, hoping not only that he would neutralize his target, but also that no innocents would be harmed. It was a calculated risk he would have to take.

"Let's light it up," he said to himself. In one smooth move, he pulled the gun out from his coat and before anyone had any chance of recognizing what he had done, took aim at Pibb.

He pulled the trigger. The sound of bullets ripping through the air overrode the pounding bass of the dance music. The crowd scattered as people screamed.

Somebody killed the music. The lights were suddenly on full blast, and as the club patrons' eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden change in brightness, for a moment, all they could see was red.