The wind was calm, the conditions ideal.
The sniper's world narrowed to the crosshairs of his scope, to the unnaturally still chest of the target. Whatever that was about, he didn't care. He'd been paid for one job only and it wasn't to ask questions.
He breathed in. He could almost feel the satisfaction of a job well done, the cold efficiency of a perfect kill.
But then, just as he began to squeeze the trigger, the target moved. With a fluid grace, he moved from the window, setting the glass of wine down on the table beside him. The sniper cursed under his breath, adjusting his aim, trying to track the target's movements. But the target was already out of view, disappearing deeper into the penthouse, shielded from the sniper's line of sight.
