Prologue

            It had been three hours since the sun had set, which left a slight chill in the night air. The only illumination in the area, to break the monotony of darkness, came from a series of flood light standards placed at thirty-metre intervals along the deserted roadway. With the nearest light source obstructed by a two-story brick-and-mortar building, the contractor, dressed head to toe in black, had a clear view of the North Star, located at the end of the Little Dipper's handle. Crouched between a green recycling dumpster and the cool brick wall of the building, he turned away from the night sky and opened a large blue duffel bag, which rested at his feet. Within the main compartment of the bag, he found a M40A3 bolt-action sniper's rifle. An old weapon, but it was in fine condition as its owner took immaculate care of it. He then pulled a high magnitude, laser-assisted scope from a side compartment of the same bag and slid it across the rails on top of the rifle. A faint click indicated the scope was in place. Next, he reached into an inside pocket of his jacket, removed a long black cylinder and screwed the well-oiled threads of the suppressor on to the end of the barrel. Finally, he pulled an object from his deep jacket pocket and loaded the single 7.62mm round into the chamber. He snapped the bolt closed with a distinct click.

            The contractor concealed the empty duffel bag under the dumpster, slung the strap of the firearm over his shoulder and crept out of hiding. He was unlikely to encounter anyone walking about at this time of night, but he remained cautious. Crouched low in the shadows, he crept around to the back of the building. An iron rung fire escape ladder, affixed to the brick, reached upwards to the rooftop, with an opening on to a grated metal landing at the second story.

            He stepped out of the shadow and began his climb up the cold rungs of the ladder. He paused at the second floor long enough to peer through a window that faced the fire escape. A red glow from two exit signs within revealed an unoccupied floor space, devoid of any furnishings. He continued his ascent to the top, threw his legs over the raised ledge, and landed upon the gravel-covered roof. Crouched low, protected by the short stub walls surrounding the rooftop, he moved toward the southeast corner of the building. Each step crunched on the loose gravel. Nevertheless, with the floor below unoccupied, he was unconcerned that his noisy movements would draw any unwanted attention.

            He pulled a photograph from his jacket pocket and studied it. The subject was a white male with short-cropped brown hair and a hooked nose. He sat alone at table in a crowded restaurant. Judging by the candid nature of the setting, the subject likely had no knowledge of the photographer’s presence. On the back of the photo the words, "Stuart Dawson, level two, fourth window from the left." were written in neat block letters. He returned the photo to his pocket and turned his attention across a courtyard to the two-story building a hundred and twenty yards in the distance. On the second floor, the fourth window from the left flickered with a dim blue light.

            He pulled the M40 off his shoulder and unfolded the eight-inch swivel type bipod attached to its bottom. He swept away a small area of the gravel, knelt down on the rooftop and placed the bipod’s feet on the raised ledge. With the buttstock rested between his shoulder and cheek, he peered through the scope in search of the window in question.

            As the sight panned across the building, it passed three darkened windows before the target's apartment came into view. It was dark within the apartment, but for the television set that flickered with images of a groundskeeper on a putting green, filling a gopher hole with plastic explosives. A large sofa, illuminated by the glow of the screen, faced the television. Though the occupant wasn't visible from the contractor's current vantage point, just a smooth two-foot slide to the right, brought a head and shoulders into view. He adjusted the focus on the scope and centered the cross hairs on the back of the target’s head. Without a clear identification of the man in his sights, he moved the cross hairs to the wall on the target's right. With a flick of his finger on a button on top of the scope, a beam of laser light briefly placed a small red dot on the wall. The mark turned to see what he had caught in his periphery, and with that, the contractor had a clear view of the target's profile. He was a perfect match to the photograph he had in his pocket.

            The target's attention returned to Caddyshack, and the cross hairs once again found the sweet spot on the back of his head. The contractor relaxed and took slow deep breaths. By the third breath, he held it, and remained still. The cross hairs never wavered as his finger tightened on the trigger.

            "Bang", he whispered through clenched teeth.

            There was no shot. No flash from the muzzle, or recoil from the rifle. He hadn't even bothered to take off the safety catch. It was too soon; the contract was for the following day. The last time he completed a contract ahead of schedule there were consequences. He was reprimanded by his employer, who threatened to turn him over to the authorities should it occur again. As it was, he had lost privileges, which had cost him a number of lucrative contracts.

            He lined up the shot once more for good measure, this time he placed a tiny red dot on the base of the target's skull. With a crestfallen sigh, he snapped the shutter down on the scope, ejected the round from the chamber and slid the cartridge into his pocket. He looked down at the cold metal firearm in his hands then back at the target's window. A fiendish grin began to form upon his lips. A mere twenty-four hour wait, and he would be back in that very spot, with the target once again in his sights. Twenty-four hours is an insignificant amount of time in the grand scheme of things.

            Sweeping the disturbed gravel back over the bald spot, the contractor re-slung the rifle over his shoulder then made his way back to the ladder, where he would descend from the rooftop and return to the reality of his daily routine.