McPherson: 'Mr. Shook'

A momentary break in the clouds almost cost him the prize. Watching from afar he had become distracted, like some newbie on his maiden hit. Then sunlight glistened off wet pane and pavement, and the glare was blinding.

Luckily he caught a glimpse of motion, dashing away from the old church, around the corner and into the shade of the sanctuary's red brick wall. He followed down a narrow street, deftly, silently, passed shops and umbrella-toting pedestrians.

“Well look at that,” muttered a savvy patron, sitting at the window of an adjacent café. Bulbous coffee cup frozen in place, his prematurely graying hair and marred, twitchy right leg were the only evidence of another time when death was so visceral. Back when the hadjis wouldn't listen to reason.

“Eh, what?” answered a haggard wife, disturbing his trance. Her eyes were fixed on a cream cheese bagel. Taking a bit of the savory topping, she licked her finger clean and rubbed it absently on a trouser leg, head swiveling in feigned interest.

The assassin continued his pursuit.

It wasn't a personal matter; no sanctimony or ill-feeling attended the event. He had a job to do, that's all. The subject would be dead and he would live.

Nor did he entertain delusions of grandeur, or silly notions of right and wrong. If he knew history, he'd probably liken himself to a member of the Twelve Apostles, that small gang of pitiless IRA gunmen who stalked British secret service agents through Dublin a century ago, murdering them in broad daylight. A fitting comparison.

At the end of the street he stopped abruptly, resting on a black steel rail and scanning for his prey. There! Unmistakable profile in panicked flight, rotund and a little graceless, crossing the street by a vacant lot. The perfect spot.

Off again, maneuvering carefully into a favorable position. He liked to work close, to hear the air escape his victim in that sickening instant right before death arrived, still and final. Nearby a group of onlookers sensed impending violence, and scattered.

He wanted this one. He needed this one. An old hand, he couldn't afford mistakes anymore. Younger, faster, stronger – all would be happy to replace him. Fifteen years in this business is a long time, but he didn't know any other way. It's what he was born to do – all he could do. No conscience to disturb him. Just the cold fact of it, and the momentary satisfaction of a job well done.

Anticipating, his heartbeat raced. Overhead the clouds had returned, dark and ominous, now an unwitting accomplice to this gruesome deed. He drew closer and closer, rising briefly above the target, without shadow or sound to betray his presence.

Suddenly he plunged, talons extending. Striking hard and firm, he felt the puncture of feathers and skin, the snap of brittle bone under his iron, thorny grip. The game was over, the task complete. Pleased, the hawk climbed once more toward the sky, a pigeon's lifeless form hanging limply as he went.

Photo above is of James Stephens, founder of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. His nickname was "Mr. Shook," from the pronunciation of the Irish word seabhac, or "the hawk."