this were to be his final moments

the turn-coat
tiny beads of water turned to ink as the rolled down his umbrella
the noise of his surroundings muffled a silent coughing noise
his comrade in front of him hugs her body as her white evening gown turns a deep hue of velvet red.
the mole in the organization
he shed his blue uniform
he left it in the rain
blood-stained and rain-soaked
he scoffed at the ghastly sights of those whom he had murdered.
double the agent, double the glory
he reached into his beige pants and pulled out fine white powder, and inhaled it.
a momentary rush, as life around him seemed to slow down
a creak
in one fell swoop he withdrew his pistol, zeroed it, aimed it.
bang!
he was too slow..
he hesitated ..
this time it was his ebony cloak's turn to drip the faint smell of oxidising iron
from a pool of crimson nothing-ness