He had long since lost count of the number of men he’d killed. If he’d been a cop, he’d have been evaluated every time after he’d shot someone, have to file a report, talk to somebody. This job wasn’t like that. Every kill was a good kill. Aim, fire. It was second nature. He’d never had that hesitation some men had. But someday, someone was going to be faster than him. He’d been lucky too long. Lucky wasn’t the right word, not when you’d lost as many people as he had.
He should have been dead years ago.