Of all the retirement plans in the world, shooting the Vice President is perhaps one of the more outlandish. And yet here we are, crosshairs lined up, one shot away from the fattest paycheques of our lives.

Dan glances at the digital display of his watch in the dark. “Eight minutes until they sweep by again. Those assholes don’t sleep.”

He’s talking about the security patrols. Whenever Vice President Anderson visits here, his Secret Service detail is never far behind. Fortunately for us, the discreet nature of Anderson’s stay means they’re running a skeleton crew - only eight of them for the whole estate. Plenty of opportunity to slip through if you know what you’re doing. We’ve got a perfect hiding spot in the bushes, dark, with enough wind and foliage to cover our voices - and crucially, a direct line of sight down to the front door. A single clear angle is all we need.

“Can’t be long now,” Dan says, his Boston accent clipping all the vowels. “He’s usually only in for an hour, tops.”

“I’ll wait all week, if we need to,” I reply. 

Dan chuckles and strokes his stubble. “For what it’s worth, I’d wait here all month,” he says. “This is some next level shit, man. We do this right, and we’re done, ya know? Outta the game. I’m edgy, Logan. You know I never get edgy. ”

I don’t say anything. Dan’s always been a talker, and it’s been a long evening. He’s right though, the stakes are high, but if things go right tonight then we’ll never have to crawl through the mud on our stomachs again. No more dodging security, no more stress. And chances are, no more Dan. Our working partnership is one of the slickest in the game, but it’s born of mutual professionalism rather than friendship. Maybe that’s why it works.

“I think I’m gonna buy a nice car once this is over, man,” Dan begins. 

Usually he says a Jaguar. Did I mention he likes to talk?

“Something real nice, something fast. All the bells and whistles. You seen the new Jaguar F-types they do? The ones with soft tops and the V8 engines?”

Told you. 

“You even listening, Logan?”

Nope. 

It’s two minutes exactly before Dan tries again. I know, because I watch the digits tick over on his wrist. He does at least have the sense to try a fresh topic.

“You know what the worst bit about this job is, man?” Dan says, “If we get him, we’re never gonna be able to tell anyone it was us. This is gonna be across every paper in the world tomorrow. Every news channel, every single one of them. The perfect job, and we just gotta lay low and stay quiet. History, man. We’re making history. It’s not even about the money.”

Fuck that. It’s all about the money. Tomorrow I want to be on a beach in Thailand, as far away from the TV as possible. Dan will be a million miles away, probably on some Caribbean getaway island sipping Piña Coladas out of coconuts and partying with bar girls. Or in Mexico, or South Africa, I really don’t care.
Below us the door handle rattles, at long last. 

Vice President Anderson steps out. 

He’s still wearing his suit jacket, even if his tie is comically askew. Red lipstick is smeared on his neck like a bullet wound. He turns to place a kiss on his lover’s waiting mouth as she waits in the doorway. Their lips embrace, her auburn hair falls across his cheek, his hand slips inside her nightgown for one last touch. 

There’s the money shot. Kiss your career goodbye, Handy Andy. 

I fire in burst mode, each slam of the camera shutter worth a dozen front page headlines. Each shot, a six figure sum. Hell, maybe seven to the right people. Dan’s video camera is just as merciless. 

They part. The door shuts. Anderson draws away, blissfully unaware of the media hellstorm that awaits him in the morning. Thank you and goodnight, Mr Vice President.