potted plants that formed a roof garden.
Footprints and a cleared bench showed the chill didn’t keep office workers from using it in such weather. Between the benches, a plant-less pot showed fresh cigarette stubs. The garden occupied about a quarter of the roof space. A low barrier of metal tubing fenced off the rest of the roof. Victor placed his footsteps in or over those of previous visitors and stepped over the barrier to approach the roof’s south side. He shuffled his steps to distort the prints left in the unbroken snow.
Vents and boxy air-conditioning units stood in a cluster. He rounded them and moved with caution until he was in position. He peered over the waist-high parapet and down to the street below.
On the far side of the street was the gated entrance leading to the basement where he had been ambushed the night before.
You’re lucky that cab went by when it did
, the assassin had taunted less than twelve hours before.
Otherwise you would have taken a seven-six-two in the back
.
She was referring to a 7.62 x 52 mm bullet: a high-velocity rifle round. A useful one for an urban environment because the rifles that shot it weren’t as long or as difficult to position and transport as those that fired larger rounds. He pictured her assembling it from component pieces taken out of a briefcase.
Somewhere out there Al-Waleed bin Saud was flying to his next destination on a charter jet according to a coded email from Muir. Caglayan had disappeared.
Muir wanted answers. She wanted to know what had happened and what Victor intended to do to rectify his mistake.
His
mistake.
Victor had elected not to reply. He didn’t know what had happened. He had been set up and ambushed. It wasn’t the first time. It was doubtful it would be the last. And he wanted answers beyond those his employers were able – or willing – to provide.
He had no interest in fulfilling his obligation on Al-Waleed when someone had almost killed him. His priority was to stay alive first, and get paid second.
He squatted low, imagining the assassin doing similar, maybe steadying the rifle with a bipod resting on the parapet. He saw no indentations in the snow for the bipod feet for the same reason he saw no footprints on the roof.
It had snowed overnight.
Victor inched forward to correct the perspective of a woman behind a rifle. How long had she been up here, waiting? He could not be sure. He had not seen her prior to the attack in the basement while he had performed routine scans of the area, but as he had noted at the time he had not had the window for thorough reconnaissance. The message with the time and location of the meet had only arrived an hour beforehand, and Victor did not know where or how she had gained her intelligence.
It had required no prior preparation for Victor to gain access to the building and its roof. It was an office building with no security greater than a bored guy behind a desk. Victor had walked straight by and taken the elevator up to the top floor and followed the signs to the roof. She could have done the same, or booked an appointment with someone in the building to provide an excuse for her presence, or she could have pretended to be a cleaner, or paid a bribe, or gained entry through any manner of distractions or bluffs.
It had been cold last night, and the woman was slight and had not worn any winter clothing. Like him, she opted for agility over comfort.
Using his knuckles, he brushed aside snow in a circle around him. He did so with a light touch to remove only the top layer of new snow. Nothing.
He widened the circle. Cellophane crackled. He removed a glove and picked the cellophane out of the snow with the nails of his thumb and forefinger.
It was crumpled and torn from its original box shape: three inches long by two wide and half an inch in depth. He recognised the shape from his days as a smoker. Though he had never littered like this.
He searched through the snow around where he had
Footprints and a cleared bench showed the chill didn’t keep office workers from using it in such weather. Between the benches, a plant-less pot showed fresh cigarette stubs. The garden occupied about a quarter of the roof space. A low barrier of metal tubing fenced off the rest of the roof. Victor placed his footsteps in or over those of previous visitors and stepped over the barrier to approach the roof’s south side. He shuffled his steps to distort the prints left in the unbroken snow.
Vents and boxy air-conditioning units stood in a cluster. He rounded them and moved with caution until he was in position. He peered over the waist-high parapet and down to the street below.
On the far side of the street was the gated entrance leading to the basement where he had been ambushed the night before.
You’re lucky that cab went by when it did
, the assassin had taunted less than twelve hours before.
Otherwise you would have taken a seven-six-two in the back
.
She was referring to a 7.62 x 52 mm bullet: a high-velocity rifle round. A useful one for an urban environment because the rifles that shot it weren’t as long or as difficult to position and transport as those that fired larger rounds. He pictured her assembling it from component pieces taken out of a briefcase.
Somewhere out there Al-Waleed bin Saud was flying to his next destination on a charter jet according to a coded email from Muir. Caglayan had disappeared.
Muir wanted answers. She wanted to know what had happened and what Victor intended to do to rectify his mistake.
His
mistake.
Victor had elected not to reply. He didn’t know what had happened. He had been set up and ambushed. It wasn’t the first time. It was doubtful it would be the last. And he wanted answers beyond those his employers were able – or willing – to provide.
He had no interest in fulfilling his obligation on Al-Waleed when someone had almost killed him. His priority was to stay alive first, and get paid second.
He squatted low, imagining the assassin doing similar, maybe steadying the rifle with a bipod resting on the parapet. He saw no indentations in the snow for the bipod feet for the same reason he saw no footprints on the roof.
It had snowed overnight.
Victor inched forward to correct the perspective of a woman behind a rifle. How long had she been up here, waiting? He could not be sure. He had not seen her prior to the attack in the basement while he had performed routine scans of the area, but as he had noted at the time he had not had the window for thorough reconnaissance. The message with the time and location of the meet had only arrived an hour beforehand, and Victor did not know where or how she had gained her intelligence.
It had required no prior preparation for Victor to gain access to the building and its roof. It was an office building with no security greater than a bored guy behind a desk. Victor had walked straight by and taken the elevator up to the top floor and followed the signs to the roof. She could have done the same, or booked an appointment with someone in the building to provide an excuse for her presence, or she could have pretended to be a cleaner, or paid a bribe, or gained entry through any manner of distractions or bluffs.
It had been cold last night, and the woman was slight and had not worn any winter clothing. Like him, she opted for agility over comfort.
Using his knuckles, he brushed aside snow in a circle around him. He did so with a light touch to remove only the top layer of new snow. Nothing.
He widened the circle. Cellophane crackled. He removed a glove and picked the cellophane out of the snow with the nails of his thumb and forefinger.
It was crumpled and torn from its original box shape: three inches long by two wide and half an inch in depth. He recognised the shape from his days as a smoker. Though he had never littered like this.
He searched through the snow around where he had
Similar Books
