Opening the drawstring bag, it produced several large pieces-parts and began assembling them. In short order it became obvious that the assembled object was a scoped rifle of some sort. Reaching back into the drawstring bag, it extracted several small tanks comparable in size to the drink container, and a small box of projectiles. It opened the empty magazine of the rifle, then the box, and loaded several of the hollow-point projectiles into the magazine before closing the magazine firmly and engaging a kind of locking mechanism.
Then it took one of the small tanks and screwed it firmly onto a one-way valve port on the side of the weapon. Flipping the valve switch on the rifle and hitting a small button on the tank, it watched as the needle on a pressure gauge built into the stock of the weapon moved upward on its scale.
When the needle on the gauge stopped moving, the figure removed the tank, flipped another switch to swap tanks within the rifle, then replaced the external tank with another, repeating the process. As it removed the second tank and laid it aside to reach for a third, the first tank slid and rolled, clanking softly across the pavers around the rooftop’s periphery.
“Shit,” came the soft curse, as the figure spun around, looking. “Where did it go?”
The figure spent some minutes in a search of that area of the roof, but did not find the tank. Finally it shook its head.
“Well, if I can’t find it, no one else will,” it decided, and returned to the rifle, loading a third tank into its stock.
Several more swigs on the drink container emptied it, and this time the figure carefully placed all of the discards – tanks and drinks – into the backpack, then produced another drink and sipped on it. Setting the drink on the parapet, it eased into a kneeling position on the roof, ensuring it was largely hidden behind the parapet as the sky in the east slowly lightened. It gradually polished off the drink and tucked the container into the backpack.
Then it drew a bead on a particular window in the target building diagonally across the street, watching and waiting.
It didn’t have long to wait. After about ten more minutes, the lights came on in the apartment across the way, and shadows moved against the window blinds.
Fifteen minutes after that, a woman moved into view in the targeted window. An image of her head reflected softly in the eyepiece of the rifle scope just before the black-clad figure bent its head to the eyepiece.
The black-clad figure adjusted its targeting, and pulled the trigger.
A soft thwuk! sounded, followed almost instantly by the tinkle of impacted glass, and the woman in the window dropped, as bright red liquid splattered the far wall behind her.
The black-clad figure hit a release button on the gunstock, producing a soft hiss as the pressure chambers within vented. It calmly stood, slung the backpack over its shoulders, then, with its now-safed rifle in one hand and held close to its body, headed for the stairwell down into the building, vanishing from sight well before the sun rose over the horizon.
Fifteen minutes later, a figure in street clothing, and wearing a round pin or badge on one lapel, sauntered into the arcade level from the building’s exit, carrying a backpack over one shoulder. It headed for the food court and a quick, hand-held breakfast from a kiosk, before riding the slidewalk to the nearest people-mover.
After she had been completely stable for fully two and a half months, the doctors deemed Ames ready to resume work, and little Leya coming along nicely. So Ames and Ashton left the little ones with Cally’s parents, and returned to work, officially ending their parental leave.
When Cally arrived in the ICPD headquarters precinct, she walked right into a baby shower.
“Hey,” Terry Ross, who had been brought in after Alan Compton’s death, told her. “We had one planned for you, just like we did for Paul’s birth, but when you got hospitalized, the shower got sorta overcome by events, you know?”
“So we revamped,” Maia Peterson decreed, “and made it a ‘pamper mommy and baby’ shower!”
“But we remember how Nick got all wobbly when his firstborn made his debut,” Tim Jones added with a mischievous grin, “and we threw in a few things for him, too!”
Cally laughed, delighted.
When Ashton arrived on the top floor of New Headquarters, he was greeted by a raucous band of investigators and forensics officers, all happy to have him back.
“You guys have been good to Win and Pete, though, right?” he asked, somewhat stern.
“Yeah, Nick,” Winston Peabody said. “They’re a great bunch to work with.”
“Besides,” Peter Stone added with a chuckle, “if anybody started getting their noses bent outta joint, all we had to do was to say, ‘Nick will be back soon. Do you want him to hear about this?’ and they settled down in a hurry.”
Everyone laughed.
“It’s good to be back, guys,” Ashton declared.
Then he headed into his office to dig himself out from under being too long on an offworld assignment.
“Hey, Nick,” Carter called later that afternoon. “Have you got a minute?”
“Sure thing, Lee,” Ashton said, rising from his desk, exiting his office, and going to meet the Director, where he stood in the bullpen talking to investigators Brandon Elliot and Donna Law, along with Pete Stone. “What’s up?”
“Guys, I want you
