After three years of looking, the database had coughed up a match. A routine police investigation in a South American country, to rule out the innocent, had been picked up by NSA scans. His print was one of those tested and discarded, because he was innocent. As if he could ever be.
The taxi thumped over potholes, rattling my luggage.
I inhaled and let my hands rest in my lap. All I had to do was get a long gun, stay distant, and kill him before he realized I was here. The CIA had taught me to shoot and I’d enhanced my combat skills over the three years since, anticipating this day.
If he closed in, if I was brought within range of his freaky mind control, I would fail.
The longer I took, the more likely he or the CIA would find me. I’d been bad.
I stepped out of the cab into the shadow of a roof outside Reception. My apartment in this up-and-down, dilapidated little resort was elevated and on the fourth floor.
Signed in, keys given to me, and after a quick shower I walked onto the balcony and stared across a half mile of night. My first sighting of his dwelling.
Be still my wretched, hateful heart.
I could see over the white walls surrounding his compound – all the way to his bedroom which occupied the entire top floor – or I assumed it was his from the building plans. The mansion sat at the tip of this small peninsular, where the land wrapped about the north of the bay. No one could reach his house without travelling along the narrow road below and I was under no illusions – the compound gate would be guarded.
A bullet could leap his walls.
I walked inside, drew a breath, and punched the number for the gun dealer, praying I’d not get robbed, assaulted, or killed trying to do this.
That night, I bought a rifle. I walked into a room of men and bought a gun. Chutzpah, balls, whatever, it worked. Maybe they thought I had connections.
One AM.
I opened the French doors wide, tied back the lace curtains, and sat on a chair at the back of my bedroom, in the dark, in my black negligee, with the rifle over my lap. My hands liked the solidness of this weapon. I could smell gun oil, could feel my heart thumping.
While my heart beat, I would try to kill him. Failure would only be admitted if I were dead.
This was not a gun I knew well. The scope was ancient. If I could’ve practiced, I would improve my chances but being this close to him was shredding my insides.
The longer I stayed, the higher my chance of being discovered.
With a good sniper rifle and scope, with practice, I could hit a small six-inch circle at this distance. The wind speed would be nearly zero, if I chose well. Elevation was equal, plus or minus a couple of feet. Tomorrow night – a date on my dance card. I clenched my hands over the metal, drawing forthrightness from the weight. I prayed he’d switch on a light before going to bed.
If not tomorrow night, the next.
Being in the CIA meant I knew the basics of assassinating someone with a long gun. I smiled, realizing I was dressed in black. Appropriate, though I lacked the savoir faire of a Hollywood assassin, the black gloves, the case with the gun in pieces so it could be assembled from the parts.
Tonight was for assimilating the atmosphere and lessening my nerves. Imagine doing this. A glass of tequila, ice, and lemon kept me company, as well as a lone mosquito blown in by the sea breeze.
The old clock on the wall cut at my nerves. Tick, tick, tick, tick. I smirked and considered shooting it, downed a gulp of tequila instead. The tang sang to my throat as I swallowed.
Streetlights bathed the road as it climbed to the point where his villa perched – the globes casting circles of brightness.
There was the pathway to evil.
“Melodramatic, baby.” I felt like giggling.
A light came on in the villa bedroom – a big square of light that demarcated the floor-to-ceiling window. A man walked from left to right then disappeared. Had to be him? I nestled my hands around my instrument of vengeance and stroked the trigger guard with my finger.
Should I load it? Do it now? That might not be him. I hadn’t seen him in years. At the very least I should use the binoculars sitting on the coffee table to my right.
“Die you fucker,” I whispered, lovingly.
Do this...kill a man, and I hoped to be free of this influence. I could be normal, couldn’t I, though I wasn’t sure what that was anymore.
The rifle wasn’t silenced. I’d get a few shots then have to run. How to leave the country was planned but it wouldn’t be as simple as arriving had been.
And if I missed?
The man stood in that distant window, silhouetted. Fate was nudging me. Binoculars. I reached for them, and a key scratched in my door, followed by a sulking truckload of heaviness of thought that I recognized instantly.
Him. My stomach lurched.
This was not how it should have been.
I hadn’t fired a single shot.
I’d rehearsed this – sudden departure in the face of threat – somehow it carried me. I heaved aside the gun. In a few strides, I was on my balcony with my leg vaulting the railing. The door to my apartment swung. A sting on my skin warned me as my inner thigh was lacerated on a bastard-sharp piece of iron.
Lights flickered...on.
By the door, a hand showed on the wall, fingers leaving the
