Two males sit in the cabin of a Chevrolet Malibu stopped at the side of the road between 18222 and 18224 Sunnyview Lane.

PASSENGER: It says we’re there.

DRIVER: It’s not even the right road. It’s supposed to be Thornbush something.

PASSENGER: I know but the little dot is flashing. It looks like the right place. I need to zoom in.

DRIVER: You’ve had that thing one day and already I hate it. Tell me why I shouldn’t throw it out the window.

PASSENGER: It got us all the way from the airport to here without a problem. I don’t want to hear your shit.

DRIVER: Where’s here? Tell me that. Where’s here, genius boy? Nowhere, because we don’t know where the fuck we are. You better hope we’re not late. You know what happens if we miss this.

PASSENGER: I think I’ve got it now. You pinch and then—

DRIVER: There he is. Fuck! Jogging up there.

Though the men are not adroit adopters of technology, they are skilled in their profession. They pull up alongside the jogger, one Walt T. Jessup, and the passenger fires one shot into his midsection to bring him down. The car stops, the passenger gets out and fires a clean killing shot into Jessup’s head.

DRIVER: Where’s the camera? The client wants a picture.

PASSENGER: Don’t need it. This thing has a camera in it. Fuck, it’s so much easier to bring one thing.

DRIVER: So take the picture already.

PASSENGER: I will. I will. It’s just still got the map on it. It says we need to turn left in 50 feet.

DRIVER: I’ll fucking leave without you if you don’t get this done in ten seconds.

PASSENGER: No. I’ve got it. There we go. [Click]

DRIVER: Don’t stand there like an ox. Come on! We need to move!

PASSENGER: But it’s asking if I want to share on Facebook or Twitter.