The man gets out of his car in a turn-out high above the city, breathes in the night air; it smells of jasmine and exhaust. Walking around to the front of the car, he half-stands, half-sits on the slope of the hood, watching the city lights twinkling in the distance. Pulling back the cuff of his shirt, he glances at the watch on his wrist. Five minutes to twelve. It seems fitting somehow, that the witching hour is almost upon him.Stuffing his left hand in his pocket he fishes out the keys and singles out the trunk key. Shuffling to the back of the car, he opens the trunk, pulls up the carpet and reaches into the well where the spare tire rests. He pulls out the handgun and lets the carpet flop back into place. Reaching up, he gives the trunk lid a downward push.He walks back to the front of the car, this time choosing to lean against the driver side fender. He studies the gun in his hand. It's been well maintained, handed down to his father from his grandfather, who carried it during Eisenhowers charge from Normandy to the Fatherland, and now his, after his fathers death three years ago.He racks back the slide and peers through the barrel, clean. He pops the empty clip from the gun and reaches into his right pocket for the ammunition. Seven rounds of .45 caliber Golden Sabres click smoothly into the clip he holds in his hand. He taps the butt of the clip on his knee, then pushes it into the gun until it locks into place. He releases the slide, chambering a round, and checks to make sure he's got the safety on. The far-away lights make the lightly-oiled gun shine menacingly in the night.The man lets out a sigh, flips the safety off, raises the gun and fires once. His body stiffens, then he slides slowly to the ground, the hole in his right temple leaking a small trickle of blood, in contrast to the gaping hole the hollow-point bullet has made where his left temple used to be.Inside the car, a cell phone begins to ring. And in the quiet night, its electronic chime is very loud, and very lonely.