Page 112 of Lone Wolf

The tip of a barrel eased into visibility, protruding from the slender vertical gap at the nearly joined seam of the billboards and giving him a second glimpse of the Phoenix-S thermal in front of a Leupold scope.

Lopatina was looking down at the area of operations through the same thermal optics through which he was observing her. For a still moment, the executioners watched their respective targets, taking in the world through matching filters—a poetic observation he chose not to dwell upon.

The tip of her rifle withdrew slowly, steadily, and then she was entirely invisible once more. Shooting farther back from the aperture would hide the minimal muzzle flash and degrade the sound signature even more.

She was gone.

Motionless, he watched the billboards enfolding her and the strip of darkness through which she aimed. No muzzle, no shadow, no movement.

When the wind shifted, he thought he caught a dissipating puff of her breath.

Together and apart, they waited for Russo Dmitri.

In keeping with the First Commandment, Assume nothing, Evan had drilled down on the target and found him to be the bona fide mobster and human trafficker the texts had described.

He felt delighted to have the opportunity to not intervene in his execution.

The RoamZone hummed softly in front of him, caller ID showing Sofia. He clicked his earpiece. “Go.”

“Huh?”

“Sorry. Yes?”

“Someone saw Loco! I got a call from the flyer. They said he was over at —”

“Text location.”

“Please please please call or come over after you check no matter how late.”

“I have to go.”

“Wait! Have you heard from Dad? I’ve called him a bunch and—”

Evan said, “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“I didn’t ask that.”

Smart kid.

Evan said, “I’ll contact you later,” and severed the call.

The night air leaked around the edges of the roller blind before him. The fish tank gurgled. The Hawaiian mister misted.

For a solid twenty minutes he watched the seemingly innocuous billboards and the street below. Barely moving, barely breathing.

And then he spotted it.

A Lincoln Town Car on the approach. As it coasted west down the waterfall of the boulevard, he picked up the license-plate number designated over text. When the car stopped for the light at Holloway, Evan got a good look at the bodyguard driver. Teardrop tattoo by the eye, pistol bulge where a deep-concealment underarm holster would be. His blazer and button-up puffed out over what he guessed was Level IIA body armor, helpful against a 9 mm or a .45 ACP but not so much against a Savage 110 bolt-action with AP projectiles.

The familiar clarity of anticipation came on. He was aware of the soft cadence of his heartbeat and his breath pressing his lungs outward.

His body anticipating the shot as if he were the one taking it.

The light changed.

The Town Car coasted forward.

Evan was the devil on Lopatina’s shoulder or she the one on his and he stared through the same scope and watched the kill zone through the same optics and waited for the bodyguard to be put down by the same sniper rifle he held in his hands. A surreal sensation shifted outside and within him, like a virtual-reality game in which he was playing someone else or she was playing him.