[ WP ] A villian who thinks he 's a hero realizes he 's the villian . What is he thinking ?

I feel no sympathy for the snow-dusted corpse at my feet. Nikolai Stravinsky – 43, a Princeton graduate, loquacious orator, budding politician, and crafty conspirator – knew well that he had his nose in dangerous business, and I have put holes in better men ’ s heads with pride. The cuffed briefcase now cut from his quickly-cooling wrist, I pocket my shears and sling the prize into my satchel. A quick, clean operation – my superiors will be pleased. 
 
 Nevertheless, that damnable complication still toys with my well-armored conscience. Innocents aren ’ t supposed to greet their husbands in the driveway. Sasha Stravinsky – 35, a graduate of the St. Petersburg conservatory, former symphony violinist, and mother of one – was never meant to decorate the moonlit snow with her innocent blood. 
 
 No matter. It comes with the career, and I ’ ve learned to live with the flagitious. My return trek is short, and soon enough I ’ ll be under a friendly roof with enough liquor in me to forget that burning image of a pregnant carcass. 
 
 The faint footstep behind me taps my hair-trigger. Nina Stravinsky – eight, ebullient, innocent – almost has time to gasp before nine-millimeter rounds burst open her effervescent heart. As golden curls meet red-spattered snow, I scamper towards respite. My breath grows shorter and my legs move faster. I plunge headlong deeper into the blinding whiteness, but those dead blue eyes never fade into the veiling blizzard.
