A Stranger's Stranger Short Story

He ran so graciously, swerving past the opposition. Constantly keeping an eye on what was happening behind him, not wanting to be marked. Then the crucial pass, just him and the goalkeeper now. This is it. But he dives.
“What did he do that for? Why didn’t he just shoot?” Philip Green shouted at the giant flat screen television showing the FA Cup final. He glanced to his left, pulling out a cigarette. The pub was packed tonight. “Have you got a lighter?”
The man to his left looked to be in his late sixties, wore a grey blazer embroidered with a badge that read Grumpy Old Man, and the remains of his ginger hair seemed to be piercing out of his head. As the old man reached into his pocket, he seemed to be hurt. “Here. I can’t move this arm, you see.”
My lucky day. This made what Philip had to do easier. “Thanks, what happened to your arm?”
“A stroke, two years ago.” He looked around the pub. “So, I see you’re watching Manchester united in a Chelsea pub,”
Philip laughed, exposing the Manchester united jersey under his striped shirt. “What do you think gave it away?”
Philip green had been planning this occasion for three months. Acting like a friendly stranger was part of his plan. He actually knew more about this old man, named Michael Ferdinand than anyone else in the pub. He knew from his so called research that Ferdinand was born in Dublin, his wife had died five years ago, and subsequently because of her departure his own health had deteriorated. He didn’t want to kill this old man, but this was his job, and the pay was good.
Some rich Russian man wanted this man dead, and he was the man to do it. The pub was too crowded for him to make a move; he needed to think of a next move. Stage two as he liked to call it, when someone touched his shoulder. It was Ferdinand. “What’s wrong, mate? You seem to be thinking a lot.” The old man said, sliding him a pint of beer. “It’s on me.”
He definitely felt bad now. The old man seemed to be a good guy, someone that he could befriend. Even brought him a drink. For that, he would spare him the torture. He smiled as the old man burped, then watched as he jotted down something with his good arm. What was he doing now?
“Are you jotting down your number for the waitress?” Philip smirked. He continued watching till the old man stopped writing on the napkin.
“I want you to read this out load,”
“Sure.”
Taking the napkin from the dangling hands of the old man, he stared at the child like handwriting, and read out load. “I know who you are and that you were paid to kill me. Do not make any sudden moves. We will leave together through the front entrance. My driver is waiting for us outside. If you do not comply, I have my pistol pointed at your chest.”
What? This couldn’t be happening.
He stood up, trying to laugh it off. After all what could an old man with one good arm do? “Is this a joke?”
Swoosh, Swoosh.
What was this feeling?
He suddenly felt his body go cold, his eyes almost sleepy. Then the trickles of blood, oozing from below his right breast.
This is how it must feel like to die.