New York City
May 3
Early the following evening, on silent feet, Roman Block’s hired assassin made his way up the attached wrought iron fire escape ladder to the roof of the brownstone across the street from the target. With the utmost care, he removed his Heckler and Koch 417 bolt-action sniper rifle, flipped down the retractable bipod, and set up. His target kept an irregular schedule so he tucked in for a long wait.
Not that he wasn’t used to it. He once spent three days in the bell tower of an orthodox church in Eastern Europe to eliminate the pro-democracy rival of a threatened incumbent. He had spent a week in a rock outcropping in the Chihuahuan Desert, hidden by Yucca plants and Prickly Pears, in order to take out a particularly nasty cartel jefe—so he could be replaced by an even nastier one. It took about seven-tenths of a second to take out a target at this distance; ninety-nine percent of his job was waiting.
Calliope emerged from the Borough Hall subway station in Brooklyn Heights and made her way home. It had been an uneventful and thankfully drama-free day. After a particularly steamy shower that morning where Tox had demonstrated his prowess at multitasking by shampooing her hair while he wrapped her legs around his waist and drove into her, she had headed off to work with a smile. She did end up with some lingering suds, but oh, so worth it. After a pleasant lunch with her father, Calliope submitted her Gentrify Capital story, marking the end, she hoped, of a harrowing assignment. Now she was ready for a quiet night with Coco and a rom-com.
Two hours later, the shooter tracked his target. The woman, black hair, five-eight, walked toward her home. She wore jeans, Chucks, and a raspberry-red turtleneck sweater. As he predicted, she climbed the stairs, slipped the key in the lock, and pushed open the door. He lost her behind the front door while she was most likely disengaging the alarm. He chambered the round and sighted her through the scope. The assassin hoped she wasn’t turning in for the night. It was only nine-thirty, and he really didn’t want to be perched on this roof until morning or move to a new position.
Through the big bay window, he noticed the slightest change in the lighting inside and was relieved to know she had gone into the kitchen. He clocked the movement of a big dog as it lumbered off the couch and headed for the kitchen as well. The living room, where he hoped to acquire his target, was still dark, but the television was there, and that’s where most people ended up at this time of night. If all went well, the woman would finish popping popcorn or open a bottle of wine and head to the front of the house to watch a movie. He shifted to take some weight off his hip and clocked his target through the scope.
Calliope threw the deadbolt and entered the code into the panel. She plodded to the kitchen in desperate need of a glass of wine and a bag of something salty. She patted her thigh for Coco to join her.
“Hey, sweet girl. Did you have a good day? Get all your naps in?”
Coco wagged her stubby tail and preceded her into the kitchen barking her pleasure.
Calliope smiled down at her phone, reading the incoming text from Tox: On my way.
It was such a simple, meaningless text. From anyone else, she would have acknowledged it and moved on. But with Tox, it held such promise, such reassurance. She stifled a giggle. And she was unequivocally not a giggler. Still staring at the banal message like it was a love letter, she headed for the fridge and her much-deserved wine. Coco barked again.
Fifteen minutes later, the assassin sighted the woman through the large bay window across the street. She had changed clothes. Probably had a date tonight. She wasn’t going to make that date. Her long dark hair hung around her shoulders like a veil, or, more accurately, a shroud. She was pacing, and the hitman was momentarily reminded of the rows of rabbits and bears that moved mechanically back and forth in an arcade. He allowed himself a smirk then returned his attention to the scope. He adjusted his angle, allowing for wind speed and the slight drop in elevation. The target was forty-three yards away. As his sniper school instructor used to say, a one-armed blind man could make that shot.
He was preparing for a moving target when she stopped. Her back was to the window, her arms akimbo. He moved his finger from the trigger guard to the trigger, slowly, silently blew out a breath, and fired. The suppressed subsonic bullet wasn’t silent, but it wouldn’t disturb the neighbors. Target down. The assassin packed up, gathered his shell casing, and five minutes later was in the back of a cab heading for the airport with ample time to make his flight. Easiest eighty grand he had ever made.
In the taxi, he checked his phone and saw the encrypted message from a client he had worked for numerous times. He studied the information and almost burst out laughing. The new target? The man who had hired him for this job. Using the app on his phone, he made sure he had been paid in full, then he changed his flight.
Tox rounded the corner and, at the sight of the flashing lights and black-and-whites parked at an angle across the small street, he took off at a run. The cop on the stoop made a cursory attempt to stop him, but Tox was an irresistible force, and the young rookie was hardly an immovable object. He bounded up the ten stairs in two strides and burst through the open door. There was a hive of activity in the front hall and Tox glanced into the living room where a photographer partially obscured the body of a dead woman prone on the floor.
“Tox!”
Calliope stood at the back of the hall, pale-faced and unsteady, wrapped in a throw. His icy expression morphed into relief as he swept her up and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
“Thank God.”
Her pale eyes were wide and watery but she smiled at him. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“So…that happened.”
“What exactly was that?”
“I got home from work about an hour ago. She just appeared in my kitchen. I don’t know how she got in.”
“Let’s worry about that later. What did she want?”
“The sketches. She said they were hers. She said the easy way to do it was for her to pay me a finder’s fee and hand them over. She didn’t say what the hard way was.”
Tox eyed the Glock 43 the tech was bagging for evidence as he emptied the woman’s purse. “I can guess.”
“When I told her I’d given them to the authorities, she got upset. She started pacing around the living room. Then she just collapsed. I didn’t even realize she’d been shot until I saw...”
Tox enveloped Calliope in a hug and she buried her face in his chest. Detective Pete Brigger cleared his throat and Tox swiveled Calliope around to his side and faced his friend, a look of implacable focus quickly veiling the myriad emotions written in his eyes a moment before. The two men shook hands. Brigger didn’t mince words.
“Name’s Elizabeth Brewer. She’s some muckety muck from Boston. She got in through the apartment downstairs.”