It would have been supremely challenging for any sniper to get a kill shot in the small area between the truck and the precinct building, and that was before taking into account the group of officers that would accompany the detainee. The only available line of sight was from directly across the street, above traffic and pedestrians but below the tree canopies in the yard. Achieving a prone position at that height, unseen, would be very difficult. Very difficult did not mean impossible.
An alley ran perpendicular to the street on the other side, its mouth facing the courtyard of the 73rd precinct. The cab and jutting sleeping compartment of a Winnebago motorhome had just nudged its way into view and came to a stop at the other end of the alley. A small, circular section of the wall of the sleeper compartment disappeared, leaving a hole through which the barrel of a Remington 700 PSS rifle appeared. On the other side of the opening, Shadow Dragon was lying motionless in a modified berth, waiting. She had a tablet next to her, showing real-time feeds from two cameras—cameras that she had rigged along the street, running past the police precinct in opposing directions. She couldn’t afford to have a passing eighteen-wheeler truck or bus spoil the shot.
John followed as Quinn was escorted down the corridor toward the side exit leading into the secluded courtyard. They stopped at the door and waited for the ‘all clear’ from two officers outside. Chapman and John followed the men out.
John heard the sound of a truck pass by along the street outside and then watched in horror as the side of Quinn’s head took a bullet like a watermelon. The sound of the shell hitting the Kevlar helmet of an officer behind him rang out in synch with the report of a rifle. Quinn’s legs buckled. He spiraled downward, slamming his face into the pavement.
John, forgetting that he was a spirit, had ducked back into the building for cover, along with Chapman, as the SWAT team frantically trained their assault rifles at the windows and roofs of the neighboring buildings to secure the area. But it was all too late. There was no need for a sniper to take a second shot. There was no way that Quinn would survive.
Chapman was met by a young guy in a suit and blue windbreaker running toward him, holding a phone out. “It’s Cromwell, sir, he says it’s urgent, he couldn’t get through.”
John could hear Cromwell shouting in panic over the phone. He was obviously driving. “As soon as I got a strong-enough signal, I logged back on the website where the hit on Lazlo was ordered to see if I missed a clue as to how the assassin found him. On the assassin’s account, I found three new hits, already paid for two hours ago. A guy named––”
“Gabriel Quinn?” Chapman interrupted.
“How did you know?”
“It’s too late, George. Quinn’s dead, sniper bullet to the head.”
“Shit! If I hadn’t gone to see Lazlo!”
“George, calm down. Who are the other two?”
“That’s just it— they’re just civilians, as far as I can tell. A lawyer named David Miller and his daughter, Jennifer.”
Still dumbstruck by the image of Quinn’s head exploding, John felt his senses dull, then fear and panic started to somersault through him. His mind conjured up horrific scenes of Jennifer and her father with their own devastating head wounds.
Twenty-Eight
John rushed to Kingston Residences, the address of the rental where Jennifer and her father were staying. Santiago’s spirit may have gone, but a far deadlier threat had been set in motion. Images of Jennifer’s and her father’s executed bodies continued to taunt him as he tried to convince himself they were still alive––they hadn’t been the assassin’s highest priority, and only he knew their location.
Passing through the door of the apartment, and through the foyer, he felt a wave of relief wash over him when he saw David sitting, relaxed, on a couch in the living area, watching a game on the huge TV. Thankfully, the blinds were lowered to prevent reflections on the screen—they would also prevent a sniper from getting a sightline into the apartment.
When she came out of the kitchen, he felt his heart leap. She looked as svelte as ever, with lips as he remembered them, always verging on breaking into a smile or ready to bestow a kiss.
She dropped the bag of pretzels she was holding, when she saw him. “Thank God!” she exclaimed.
David just sat there, confused: the Yankees had just hit a home run.
“John!” She ran toward him, eyes moistening, an air of hope and relief surrounding her.
Forgetting their separate worlds for a moment, they both raised their arms and attempted a futile gesture of embrace.
Jennifer was reminded once again of the cold aura of John’s presence and backed away from it. “Is it over? Are we safe?”
He told her the news, watching her emotions rollercoaster from elation at Santiago’s departure from Earth, to horror at Lazlo and Quinn’s executions.
“Poor Daniel! He died because of us, John. First Paul Hamilton, now him. If we hadn’t told him about the drug manufacturing....” The words died in her throat as her eyes spilt tears.
“Jen, listen to me. Daniel Lazlo was battling with El Gordito for years. He put himself in danger, willingly.”
“Was he shot by the same sniper who killed Quinn?” she asked, composing herself and noticing her father by her side, confused by hearing only part of the conversation.
John’s expression turned grave. “It was…and the FBI said a hit was ordered on you and your father at the same time as the hit on Quinn. It’s the same assassin.”
Seeing her knees weaken, David helped Jennifer to sit on one
