CHAPTER 1

 

The killer still felt a bit unsteady from the night before. He’d had entirely too much to drink and knew he needed to quit. It was affecting his efficiency.

Not acceptable.

He stood in the dim light, his senses on overload, keenly aware that at any moment his next victim would emerge from the apartment building. James Wielding was predictable to a fault, yet the killer had to admit that he admired the man’s work ethic. Little wonder why he had gone so far at the company in such little time, with a yearly income of 175K.

That figure enabled his young family to thrive in an economy that was not so good for the millions of others less fortunate who were struggling just to make ends meet.

But that would all change very soon.

The entrance to Wielding’s ailing father’s apartment building was a little over two hundred yards away from where the killer now stood. Through the scope of the high-powered rifle the place looked so close it seemed like he could lob a rock from where he was standing and hit the door handle with pinpoint accuracy.

Every Wednesday evening, Wielding dropped by his father’s apartment on the way home from work to check in on him. Like clockwork, the younger Wielding arrived no later than six o’clock and promptly left at seven.

The old man had a weak heart and would probably croak within the next year—he had buried his long-ailing wife only a couple of months ago. Losing a spouse often did that sort of thing to the survivor.

The killer brought his eye away from the scope just long enough to check the time. It was six-fifty-seven. James Wielding didn’t know it yet, but he had only three minutes more of living to do. Enjoy it while it lasts, Jimmy-Boy.

This was definitely the best part of all. After all of the research, planning and plotting finally reaching this magical climactic moment. The last few minutes before the hit—that moment when everything in the world suddenly felt right. If only that feeling would last forever! He would be in heaven. Knowing that it was the man’s swan song on earth was absolutely awesome. Indescribable ecstasy. But all too short-lived.

He would need to get back that feeling again. And the sooner the better.

The door suddenly opened. The killer rested his finger on the trigger just firmly enough to avoid shooting prematurely. James Wielding came into view as he exited the building. He had a glum expression on his face. Pops must not be having a very good day.

The killer took aim so that Wielding’s nose was dead center in the crosshairs. He had two seconds to fire before the man would turn left and head down the street to where he had parked his shiny new Mercedes.

Pop!

The killer saw the bullet strike its mark, pulverizing Wielding’s head into tiny fragments that literally sprayed outward symmetrically by the sheer velocity of the hit. What was left of the man dropped like a sack of potatoes onto the pavement.

A direct hit. A perfect kill.

A thin trail of smoke wafted from the rifle directly in front of the killer. He breathed in the cordite vapor like it had come from the business end of a hash pipe. So sweet the smell.

He ejected the spent shell and caught it in his latex gloved hand before it hit the ground. But instead of hiding it away, he held it in his palm as he fished in his coat pocket with his free hand. He pulled out a tiny strip of paper and deftly peeled the barcode away from its adhesive backing.

He then pinched the rifle’s spent shell between his thumb and index finger and meticulously applied the barcode, keeping the label perfectly aligned with the base of the casing. After examining his handiwork closely, he tossed the shell in the nearby bushes, retrieved his rifle and walked away.

I’m back baby, he thought to himself as he headed to his car.