We parked across from the target's brownstone. Fifth Avenue, near the Met. Old money neighborhood. Trees lining the street, doormen in every building.
"There," the handler said, nodding toward the door.
The target emerged at 9:43 AM—exactly on schedule. Mid-forties, expensive suit, smug face I recognized from the photos. He looked ordinary. Successful. The kind of man you'd see at charity galas or business conferences and never think twice about.
The kind of man who hurt children and got away with it.
A black Mercedes pulled up. He got in. We followed.
Watched. Waited. Four hours sitting in that car, eating shitty deli sandwiches, saying nothing.
The handler pointed out patterns. Routines. Weaknesses.
"Thursday is poker night," he said quietly. "Warehouse in Red Hook. Perfect."
"Perfect for what?"
"Robbery gone wrong. You go in during game. Shoot him. Take the cash. Leave. Maybe that will be the plan. But we think Friday, at home is better. Even though there might be people at his house."
I stared at him. "And the others?"
"Depends. If they see your face..." He shrugged.
"Jesus Christ."
"No Jesus here." He smiled without humor. "Only business."
• • •
We followed the target through his day. Office. Lunch. Mistress apartment in Chelsea. Back home by eight.
Normal fucking life.
I used to have one of those. Or tried to.
Now I was sitting in a car, planning murder, becoming exactly what my father wanted.
The handler drove me back to the safe house in silence.
Inside, he handed me another folder. "Study this. Memorize exits, timing, backup plans. I'll be outside during execution. You fuck up, I clean it. Understood?"
"Yeah."
He left. Guards took his place at the door.
I sat on the couch, opened the folder.
Floor plans. Photos of the warehouse. Escape routes marked in red. A Glock with suppressor wrapped in cloth—clean, untraceable, ready.
Everything I needed to become a killer.
My phone buzzed. Klaus.
Another photo. Alena sleeping now—taken through her window in London. City glow on her face. Peaceful. Unaware.
Text below: Remember why you're doing this.
I stared at her face for a long time.
