His careful planning always did justice to his chosen profession.
He was a thinking man. He was always anxious to do justice to his work. For him, it was never anything but a simple question of justice. After all, these were bad people, weren’t they? The garden was growing dark. There were so many forms of justice; his was just one of them. The back of the house was lit with windows. The man he received his orders from would always insist on justice. He was comfortably leaning against the tree at the end of the garden. He was proud of the way his work was carried out in order to administer justice. The rifle hanging by his side would stay there until the man appeared. Then, he thought, justice would be served.
The man would come out of the house and light a cigar, the paperwork told him that this was his habit. None of this was without justice, when one thought of it logically. The night was growing cold. In this case, as the intended victim was an international arms dealer, it had to be poetic justice, right?
He heard voices coming from the back of the house. He raised his weapon, because these people needed to be brought to justice.
The red laser dot that travelled up the side of his body, put there by the arms-dealer’s bodyguard, was yet one more example of justice…