Well?

Beads of sweat dripped down his nose and on to the barrel of the gun. The gun that pointed out into the arid landscape, as if it were a long, black finger eagerly searching for a victim. The man did not move from his perch. It may be that he could not have moved had he wanted to, but he didn't. He was born to be there in that crook of the hill with a bolt-action rifle pinned underneath his arm. He was the Death-Bringer. The Grim Reaper. The man always one trigger pull away from sending another man to oblivion.

Only this victim would not be a man.

I'm not sure if this deserves more development. If I feel the same about it tomorrow I'll write some more. Who knows?