With mounting excitement, Marty targeted the groom's champagne glass. How tempting to take it out first, just to spice things up. He grinned, then gasped as the flute exploded into a cloud of particles. His mouth fell open.

'What the F*CK?'

He checked the safety, which he'd applied automatically on taking out the possum. He looked at the crowd. There was consternation, but not panic; the groom was uninjured. Had he gripped the glass that tightly? Marty shook his head at the coincidence then rose to his knees and stretched - scanning the horizon to refresh his eye. Deidre murmured a sleepy protest and pulled a corner of the rug over herself. To his right, Marty noticed a breath of steam drifting from a pipe in the neighbouring roof's air conditioner. Eyes wide with disbelief, he crouched back into cover and levelled his binoculars at the pipe, just in time to see it withdraw.

He wrenched his gaze back to the wedding party. The bride lay among bent heads, carmine blooming rapidly on her breast.

Stunned, Marty turned to see a dark figure sprinting to the stairwell. Through blinding rage he brought his weapon to bear on the fleeing assassin who had stolen his idea and ruined his revenge. Leading slightly and allowing for the breeze, Marty fired.
And missed.

The round smashed into a louvered window, echoing loudly. The figure dropped, rolled and came up scanning for the source of attack. Marty froze, monitoring his target's fervent search. From St Vincent's Hospital came the wail of ambulances.

To be continued...