Prologue
Asher
The city looks different through a scope. Smaller. Simpler. A problem with one clean solution. I’ve solved it a hundred times and never once lost sleep. Tonight will be the first.
I crouch at the edge of the rooftop. One knee pressed into rough concrete, rifle steady against my shoulder. My breathing is slow. Controlled. Measured. Always measured. My job requires it. Through the scope, the world narrows down to a single window.
Third floor. Lights on. Curtains half-drawn and target confirmed. Victor Hale. Mid-forties, trafficker, dirty money. Dirtier business. I think back to the file I got about him. It contains his logged patterns. His habits. His weaknesses.
He is always alone. That’s what the file said, and that’s what I confirmed. My finger rests lightly against the trigger. One squeeze. That’s all it takes. Clean and quiet. I exhale slowly, lining up the shot. Hale steps into view, pacing across the room with a phone pressed to his ear. Agitated. Distracted.
Good. Easier that way.
He’s talking to someone, phone pressed to his ear, free hand carving the air. Agitated. Whatever the conversation is, it’s not going his way. I don’t need the words. The body language tells me enough.”
He stops. Turns and moves out of frame. I shift slightly, adjusting my angle.
“Stay still,” I mutter under my breath.
A flicker of movement catches my eye. I freeze. There’s someone else in the room. My grip tightens on the rifle as Irefocus the scope. It’s a child. A boy, maybe five or six years old, wanders into view, clutching something in his hands. A toy.
My chest locks. “What the hell…”
The kid climbs onto the couch, legs dangling, absorbed by whatever’s on the screen. Oblivious. He has no idea that a man on a rooftop three hundred yards away already has the shot lined up.
Hale comes back into frame, still on the phone. My finger doesn’t move.
No women. No children. No innocents.
That’s my rule, and the rule is simple. I pull back slightly from the scope, jaw tightening. This wasn’t in the file.
“Fuck.”
The boy laughs softly at something on the TV. The sound doesn’t reach me. But I see it. Hale drops onto the couch beside him, still talking, still distracted, dragging a hand over the kid’s hair without even looking. The move is casual. Almost human. As if those hands haven’t ended lives.
My mouth curls at the thought. Every despicable act done by him that I’ve read about floods my mind. My hands tighten around the rifle, and my finger curls slightly against the trigger.
But the kid is innocent…
I lower the rifle.
“Fuck.” The word escapes under my breath.
This job is blown. I know it the second I pull back. I disassemble the rifle with practiced efficiency, hands moving on instinct. With my weapon arranged, I zip the bag shut and stand, casting one last look at the window.
By the time I get back to the motel, the adrenaline has worn off, leaving something colder in its place. Annoyance. At the job. At my handler. At myself.
The room smells like stale air and cheap detergent. Same as every other place like this. Temporary and easy to leavebehind. I drop the duffel on the chair and run a hand over the back of my neck, tension coiling tight under my skin.
I pull my phone from my pocket and stare at the screen for a second before dialing. It rings once.
“Yeah,” Emerald answers, voice smooth and controlled. “That was fast.”
“There was a kid in that apartment.”
Silence. Then, the man exhales slowly. “There shouldn’t have been.”
My jaw tightens. “He was sitting on the couch, Emerald. Not exactly hard to miss.”
