His only weapon was a knife, serrated. He only carried a gun when the target was a man. A woman wasn't going to be a problem for him. He was sexist and he absolutely wasn't sorry about it. As far as he was concerned a woman's place was in the kitchen. All that women empowerment bullshit made him nauseous. He would snap her neck, slit afterwards. Severing the jugular was part of his ritual. He wouldn't feel right without completing that part of the kill. The assassination business payed well, he loved it. But he loved it more because of that feeling of invincibility he got after every kill. The very act of staring death in the face and be able to smile at it. It felt better than an orgasm, he always felt more alive after a kill.
The Slitter reduced his pace and joined with the people behind him. It was never a good idea to stand out. Nonetheless he kept his eyes on the mark. He felt that sudden jolt of happiness he alway got in anticipation of a kill. He felt weightless, the euphoria was exhilarating. It was like the rules of universe didn't apply to him anymore, he was in another dimension. He felt complete.
The lady walked into a corner disappearing from view. No worries. He knew exactly where she'd appear next. The Slitter quickened his pace, he needed to get to the ambush point before her. That part of town was mostly deserted, no one in their right mind would use it at night. But for Christine it was a shortcut as he had come to know. A shortcut to the grave.