long sustain paranoia.
As if he owns the place, he follows the circular driveway to the portico at the main entrance, climbs the steps, and pauses at the front door to unzip a small breast pocket in his leather jacket. From the pocket he extracts a key.
Until this moment, he was not aware that he was carrying it. He doesn't know who gave it to him, but at once he knows its purpose.
This has happened to him before.
The key fits the dead-bolt lock.
He opens the door on a dark foyer, steps across the threshold into the warm house, and withdraws the key from the lock. He closes the door softly behind him.
After putting the key away, he turns to a lighted alarm-system programming board next to the door. He has sixty seconds from the moment he opened the door to punch in the correct code to disarm the system, otherwise, police will be summoned. He remembers the six-digit disarming sequence just when it's required, punches it in.
He withdraws another item from his jacket, this time from a deep inside pocket, a pair of extremely compact night-vision goggles of a type manufactured for the military and unavailable for purchase by private citizens. They amplify even the meager available light so efficiently, by a factor of ten thousand, that he is able to move through dark rooms as confidently as if all of the lamps were lit.
Ascending the stairs, he removes the Heckler & Koch P7 from the oversize shoulder holster under his jacket. The extended magazine contains eighteen cartridges.
A silencer is tucked into a smaller sleeve of the holster. He frees it, and then quietly screws it onto the muzzle of the pistol. It will guarantee eight to twelve relatively quiet shots, but it will deteriorate too fast to allow him to expend the entire magazine without waking others in the house and neighborhood.
Eight shots should be more than he needs.
The house is large, and ten rooms open off the T-shaped secondfloor hall, but he does not have to search for his targets. He is as familiar with this floor plan as with the street layout of the city.
Through the goggles, everything has a greenish cast, and white objects seem to glow with a ghostly inner light. He feels as if he is in a science-fiction movie, an intrepid hero exploring another dimension or an alternate earth that is identical to ours in all but a few crucial respects.
He eases open the master-bedroom door, enters. He approaches the king-size bed with its elaborate Georgian headboard.
Two people are asleep under the glowing greenish blankets, a man and woman in their forties. The husband lies on his back, snoring. His face is easily identifiable as that of the primary target. The wife is on her side, face half buried in her pillow, but the killer can see enough to ascertain that she is the secondary target.
He puts the muzzle of the P7 against the husband's throat.
The cold steel wakes the man, and his eyes pop open as if they have the counter-balanced lids of a doll's eyes.
The killer pulls the trigger, blowing out the man's throat, raises the muzzle, and fires two rounds pointblank in his face. The gunfire sounds like the soft spitting of a cobra.
He walks around the bed, making no sound on the plush carpet.
Two bullets in the wife's exposed left temple complete his assignment, and she never wakes at all.
For a while he stands by the bed, enjoying the incomparable tenderness of the moment. Being present at a death is to share one of the most intimate experiences anyone will ever know in this world.
After all, no one except treasured family members and beloved friends are welcome at a deathbed, to witness a dying person's final breath.
Therefore, the killer is able to rise above his gray and miserable existence only in the act of execution, for then he has the honor of sharing that most profound
As if he owns the place, he follows the circular driveway to the portico at the main entrance, climbs the steps, and pauses at the front door to unzip a small breast pocket in his leather jacket. From the pocket he extracts a key.
Until this moment, he was not aware that he was carrying it. He doesn't know who gave it to him, but at once he knows its purpose.
This has happened to him before.
The key fits the dead-bolt lock.
He opens the door on a dark foyer, steps across the threshold into the warm house, and withdraws the key from the lock. He closes the door softly behind him.
After putting the key away, he turns to a lighted alarm-system programming board next to the door. He has sixty seconds from the moment he opened the door to punch in the correct code to disarm the system, otherwise, police will be summoned. He remembers the six-digit disarming sequence just when it's required, punches it in.
He withdraws another item from his jacket, this time from a deep inside pocket, a pair of extremely compact night-vision goggles of a type manufactured for the military and unavailable for purchase by private citizens. They amplify even the meager available light so efficiently, by a factor of ten thousand, that he is able to move through dark rooms as confidently as if all of the lamps were lit.
Ascending the stairs, he removes the Heckler & Koch P7 from the oversize shoulder holster under his jacket. The extended magazine contains eighteen cartridges.
A silencer is tucked into a smaller sleeve of the holster. He frees it, and then quietly screws it onto the muzzle of the pistol. It will guarantee eight to twelve relatively quiet shots, but it will deteriorate too fast to allow him to expend the entire magazine without waking others in the house and neighborhood.
Eight shots should be more than he needs.
The house is large, and ten rooms open off the T-shaped secondfloor hall, but he does not have to search for his targets. He is as familiar with this floor plan as with the street layout of the city.
Through the goggles, everything has a greenish cast, and white objects seem to glow with a ghostly inner light. He feels as if he is in a science-fiction movie, an intrepid hero exploring another dimension or an alternate earth that is identical to ours in all but a few crucial respects.
He eases open the master-bedroom door, enters. He approaches the king-size bed with its elaborate Georgian headboard.
Two people are asleep under the glowing greenish blankets, a man and woman in their forties. The husband lies on his back, snoring. His face is easily identifiable as that of the primary target. The wife is on her side, face half buried in her pillow, but the killer can see enough to ascertain that she is the secondary target.
He puts the muzzle of the P7 against the husband's throat.
The cold steel wakes the man, and his eyes pop open as if they have the counter-balanced lids of a doll's eyes.
The killer pulls the trigger, blowing out the man's throat, raises the muzzle, and fires two rounds pointblank in his face. The gunfire sounds like the soft spitting of a cobra.
He walks around the bed, making no sound on the plush carpet.
Two bullets in the wife's exposed left temple complete his assignment, and she never wakes at all.
For a while he stands by the bed, enjoying the incomparable tenderness of the moment. Being present at a death is to share one of the most intimate experiences anyone will ever know in this world.
After all, no one except treasured family members and beloved friends are welcome at a deathbed, to witness a dying person's final breath.
Therefore, the killer is able to rise above his gray and miserable existence only in the act of execution, for then he has the honor of sharing that most profound
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