PROLOGUE
The little girl held her mother’s hand as she skipped down the sidewalk teeming with people. New York City never slept, and with evening rush hour traffic of both the foot and vehicle kind buzzing with motion, the city seemed busier than usual. Dressed in a karate gi, an over-sized NYC University hoodie hung low enough to reveal the ends of the little girl’s white belt dangling below. Golden hair, plaited in two pigtails that bounced every time the little girl did. The woman leading her to lessons wore a brown cable-knit belted cardigan over blue jeans and boots. Slender, she moved along the sidewalk with an amused look on her face at her daughter’s antics.
Leaves were starting their yearly autumn-themed costume ball with September winds leading the dance. Dried leaves crackled beneath the little girl’s shoes as she stomped upon them, a Godzilla in a leafy Tokyo where no citizen was safe. The wind would tumble them stem over end toward the Feet of Doom and with a satisfying CRUNCH, the little girl would rawr! loud enough to carry the battle cry to high windows as her red Converse-shod foot came thundering down.
From his vantage point, the bearded bald man stared at the scene before him. The third story window offered some anonymity, and the stop-and-go traffic would aid him in his mission. Had only one shot, had to make it count. The glycerin dart would dissolve in the target’s skin, leave no trace of a tiny entrance wound. All the shooter had to do was disassemble the gun and silencer, place the parts in his backpack and leave the brownstone building. Mingle into the crowd, melt away into a ghost nobody remembers. Upon completion and confirmation, he would be considerably wealthier and could retire to the Ukraine in style, take care of his aging mother and aunt, and never want for anything for as long as he lived.
His gun, already assembled, raised to the shooter’s shoulder in a swift, practiced motion. He looked down the length and through the telescopic sight. Crosshairs settled on the target. Watching the little girl and her mother cross the street, he knew he had to time it just right or all would be lost. Out of habit, he held his breath as he squeezed off his shot. It must look like an accident.
The screech of metal twisting, car horns blaring, and screams of commuters filled his ears. The hostage-breath released and the sniper smiled. From his view, chaos reigned. Sixty-five seconds after pulling the trigger, the gun lay in four pieces in his backpack and he left the building, pulling his ten-speed bike through the heavy front door. Riding off, he spared a quick glance over his shoulder. People crowded around the bodies laying in the crosswalk. Two cabs were twisted together in a macabre dance mid-intersection, and sirens filled the air in hopes of saving those already dead in the street, victims of a taxi losing control.
He knew better than to ask why the woman and child were targets, knew asking questions wasn’t a part of the job description. But the boss would be pleased. One shot. That’s all it took.
He would cash the advance cheque for a job well done in the morning.