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CHAPTER ONE
Alessio
A Siderno rooftop on a warm September afternoon
The Calabrian sun beat down on the roof, hot and unrelenting. Familiar.
I was in position early. The view from up here allowed me to see the whole street. I slipped a slice of fresh fig into my mouth and slowly chewed.
Most of my time was spent alone, waiting. I didn’t mind. I didn’t play nice with others. This was one of the many reasons the army and I had parted ways.
I pulled on the brim of my baseball cap, keeping to the shadows. There was a slight wind out of the east today, but nothing I needed to worry about. I could almost do this job in my sleep.
Killing was the one thing I excelled at, and the Italian Army had rewarded me for it. I served for eight years, the most decorated sniper in the 1st Bersaglieri Regiment. We saw combat in Afghanistan, Syria, Iraq, and other places I wasn’t at liberty to divulge.
When I left the service, people wanted me to keep killing for them. I liked this better. It allowed me to travel and keep my own schedule. And I made a fuck lot of money.
After the number of kills climbed beyond fifty, I lost track. It wasn’t important. Until my hands started to shake and my eyesight failed, this was my purpose. No one is better at it.
My phone rang. I looked at the display. Normally I wouldn’t answer while on a job, but there were a few pieces still unknown today. This might be one of them.
I tapped the glass. “Pronto.”
“Everything is in place,” said Vito D’Agostino, the brother and consigliere to a Napoli mafia don. “Our man on the inside said we’re a go in forty-five minutes.”
I checked my watch. One o’clock exactly. I set my timer to begin a countdown. “Va bene.”
“As soon as it’s done we’ll wire your assistant the remaining half of the money.”
This was standard, but unnecessary. I never failed. “Of course.”
“This could get ugly once word gets out.”
Vito had mentioned this before. I didn’t care. There was a reason no one could find me unless I allowed them. “Don’t worry. I’ll forget our association just as soon as I’m paid.”
“Good.” Vito hung up.
I didn’t care about repercussions. To me, this was just a job. The reasons why, or what the target had done to deserve death, didn’t matter to me. I was collecting a paycheck for services rendered.
Once I fired the shot, I would stow my rifle and head for the Ducati waiting at the base of the stairs. Minutes later I would jump into a car and drive into the mountains. Then I would disappear for a few weeks at one of my many homes around Europe.
The weather in the French countryside was particularly nice this time of year.
Thinking of wine and cheese, I carefully unpacked my rifle from its case. It was the same type used by the British Special Forces, the L115A4 Long Range Rifle. Portable and concealable, the weapon has excellent low light and daylight optics, a double turn telescopic sight, and a suppressor to reduce the flash and noise. And it had never let me down.
I unpacked it methodically, each piece in the same order. I never deviated. The others in my unit had called me superstitious, but they were superstitious, too. Many Italians were, but snipers even more so.
With my rifle assembled, I approached the edge of the building. I kept low, a dark dot on a random rooftop. I sat with my rifle and case by my feet. The roof’s temperature was nearly unbearable on my skin, but I forced myself to wait it out. I’d endured worse.
Soon my body adjusted and I maintained my slow and steady breathing. Twenty minutes. My target would be well guarded. I examined the address across the street, where the wife’s doctor worked. They would undoubtedly pull the car directly out front and try to hurry inside.
I needed to be quick.
I loaded the rifle. These bullets were low drag, heavier, and specially made for me by a man in Berlin. I found them more accurate than the kind I used in the military.
Ten minutes.
I flexed my fingers. Re-tied my shoelaces. Verified the wind and distance. Adjusted my sight. There was no room for error.
