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six-year-old puma could be.

  Mom and Dad had him unexpectedly late in life, supposedly, long after I had already enlisted and toured overseas. Part of me always wondered if they had had him unconsciously as a replacement in case I died in war.

  I shuddered. Not a good time for family thoughts.

  I dug through my tool box and pulled out the components for my high powered Bruugermeiser sniper rifle and assembled them, willing my mind to focus on the job at hand. Rifle armature and bolt. Butt stock. Long sniper barrel. Scope. Bipod. And finally the magazine. Ten rounds of .338 Lapua magnum. Ten rounds were far too many -- if I didn’t do this in one, I wouldn’t get a second chance -- but I wanted a full magazine to balance the thing. After I finished setting up, I checked my watch. 2:34PM. Roughly six minutes until I could expect Trecheon’s call.

  To pass the time, I double checked the earpiece buried out of sight in my ear, then the tap tracing the call to apartment 42, then the sabotage job on the AC unit. A two-minute job if I was quick. I disconnected the electricity, fixed the part, and dug into my backpack for the last components needed for this job. A smoke bomb and sound card designed to make it look like a part of the unit burst. With luck, the smoke and sound would muffle the sound of the rifle. I embedded the bomb and card, then walked to the rifle and pressed the tiny trigger mechanism behind the rifle’s trigger. Satisfied, I settled next to the gun, checking street names near my four possibilities.

  This was the worst part of being an assassin. The waiting. My heart raced, no matter how much I told it to slow down. I nearly jumped when Trecheon’s call went through.

  This is it. No backing down. I pressed the earpiece button.

  “Uh, hello?”

  “Brett Vernon, you simple minded idiot, where the hell have you been?” Trecheon’s angry voice came up through the earpiece. I pictured him sitting at the tiny outdoor café near my target buildings, probably sipping a black coffee to keep his own nerves down.

  I searched his speech for a hint. Vernon. There was a street named Mt. Vernon. I scanned street names through the scope, but I needed time.

  “What?”

  “Work, you asshole,” Trecheon growled. “I haven’t seen you in twelve days.”

  Twelve. Floor numbers. That eliminated two of the buildings. Another second of searching and I found Mt. Vernon. Both possibilities sat on the street. I needed a cross street. I eyed the two streets left. Lincoln or Weir. Last names. Good.

  “Sorry, Mr. Lincoln.”

  “It’s Weir, you moron,” Trecheon said, finally narrowing down the building. “Don’t you know the name of your own employer?”

  “Yes, Mr. Weir,” I confirmed. “Sorry, I’ve been busy.” I eyed the building. The farthest one on my list. Of course. This wouldn’t be an easy hit.

  “Busy doesn’t cut it, son,” Trecheon said. “You can’t just come and go as you please. I ain’t running a country club, you know.”

  The code words and phrases bounced around in my brain. “Son” meant small party – limited witnesses. Restricted comings and goings meant high inner security. Unwanted guests would not be allowed in. But it was the use of “country club” that lifted some hope in my chest. Relaxed guests. No one suspected anything. No rooftop guards. In other words, no one to check the bullet’s trajectory and pin it on me, at least not if I got off the roof fast enough.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “When should I come in next?”

  “The third,” Trecheon said. “6PM. I’ve got a hell of a job for you.”

  Shit. Third floor, sixth window from the right, difficult to see. I checked the window, but I didn’t see anything. “6PM, sir?”

  “Hmm, maybe 5PM,” Trecheon said. “Six might not give you enough time.”

  I checked the fifth window. There she was. Laughing quietly, sitting in a big plush red chair, drinking a glass of some variety of mixed drink. Her earrings caught the low sunlight. “Gotcha.”

  “Don’t be late,” Trecheon said. “This is your last chance before I just flat out terminate you.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry sir.” I double checked my magazine, tested the relative wind speed, confirmed my math on the Coriolis effect with my phone, and prayed the window wouldn’t send the bullet tumbling. One ear pointed forward and one pointed backward, covering all angles. “I’ll be there.”

  “You better.” Trecheon hung up.

  I waited a breath, then squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet flew, triggering the smoke bomb and explosion sounds behind me, successfully muffling the rifle’s report. The glass window disintegrated in my scope, and found its mark.

  The Matron’s head exploded. Just exploded. I allowed myself half a heartbeat of disgust and shock before backing off the rifle.

  Quickly, but calmly, I disassembled the rifle and packed it up. Grabbing the spent casing, I waved the smoke away from 42’s AC unit and started the electricity through it. A second later, the remains of the smoke bomb and sound card were also packed. I allowed myself a smirk as the unit started up and then headed for the door.

  My earpiece vibrated. Breathless, I answered it. “Mr. Weir?”

  “One more thing, Brett,” Trecheon said. “Make sure you come okay? You do good work. I’d hate to lose you.”

  I pressed back the smile building on my lips. Target eliminated. Magic hit acquired. Now it was just time to bask in the glory and watch the dominos fall. “Yes, sir.”

  Three

  “Oh, Neil, honey, it’s so good to hear your voice.” Mom’s relief was thick, like honey in the ear, even through the phone. “I was so worried for you when I saw the paper this morning.”

  I entered my scruffy apartment, careful not to dislodge the earphone from my ear. Mail in one hand, a paper in the other, I swung my body around the cheap, particle board desk that Trecheon had assembled for me last year. I collapsed into the shredded chair, tossing the paper on the desk.

  A handsome picture of Matron Fawn placed next to a censored picture of the crime scene took up the full top half of the front page. The words “Felicity Fawn, CEO of Fawn Inc. Murdered” blazed above the pictures. It had been a week since the hit itself, but I suspected that her presumed mob affiliation delayed the papers’ reports.

  “I don’t know why you were worried, Mom,” I said, sorting through the variety of bills and junk mail. “It’s not like I would be a target.”

  “I know, sweetie, but I also know your business frequently does work downtown,” Mom said. “You could have been hurt!”

  “The killer obviously had a specific target,” I said, consciously reminding myself to be vague. “She was the CEO of a big company. I’m a piddly HVAC man.”

  “You’re a CEO too,” she said with a huff.

  “Only by default,” I said, laughing. I tossed two bills into the bills owing file on my desk. “And I don’t run a multi-million-dollar corporation.”

  “Give yourself more credit, hon,” Mom said. “You’re doing okay for yourself.”

  The “okay” instead of an expected “well” stung, but as I glanced around at the scratched couches, stained carpet, and cheap desk, I knew she was right. “I suppose, Mom.”

  “Speaking of that, sweetie, your father wants to know if you can visit this weekend,” Mom continued. “The air conditioning unit is acting up again.”

  I rolled my eyes before turning my attention back to my mail. A small card in a cream colored envelope caught my attention. I unsheathed a claw and ripped through it. “Mom, when are you guys going to let me just replace that old thing?”

  “When you’re well off enough that the frequent repairs won’t be necessary for you to make ends meet,” Mom said. “Or when you learn to come visit without the incentive of a job.”

  I frowned. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come this weekend, okay?”

  “I’m kind of busy this weekend,” I said, sliding the card out of the envelope. I lifted an eyebrow and twitched my tail. It was a funeral
invitation. “Mom, did someone in the family die recently?”

  “Not that I know of, though it could be argued that your Uncle Zander has been trying most of his life,” Mom said. “Why?”

  I flipped open the card. Black letters with pink accents danced across the cardstock.

  Dear Mr. Neil Black,

  We formally require the pleasure of your company at St. Buck’s Cathedral on the fifth of May to honor the passing of Matron Felicity Fawn.

  An RSVP card has been attached, but will not be required to attend.

  Reception to follow.

  Sincerely,

  Triple Fawn Inc.

  My heart stopped. Completely. The world melted away. Impossible. Impossible. How did they find me? How did they figure out where I had been? My name? My address? And the words they used. . . Require your presence. Using the term Matron, which would only be used in reference to her mob status. Triple Fawn Inc.

  The Triple Danger. They meant business.

  Oh, hell. Oh, shit. I was a dead man. What should I do? What could I do?

  “Honey?” Mom said, “Are you still there?”

  No. . . Mom. If they knew my address, what was to stop them from tapping my phones? She could be in danger. And so was Trecheon, and Dad, and. . . and Philip. “On second thought, Mom, I think I could squeeze you in this weekend.” How I managed to speak without cracking my voice, I have no idea. “I’ll be there. Okay?”

  Mom went quiet, and for a brief, terrifying moment, I pictured The Triple Danger invading her home, cutting her down, pulling out a pistol and-- “Okay, Honey,” she finally said.