Deep Black

74

The car pulled into the lot flanked by two larger limousines carrying the security people. The assassin slid his finger ever so slightly against the edge of the trigger.

This was the difficult moment, the point at which time suspended itself. The moment could stretch to an infinity.

The reticule — the American scope used crosshairs rather than the pointer familiar on older Russian devices — was zeroed in on the left side of the car. He had a good, clean view, would see his target’s face clearly before firing.

One shot. Then out. He could feel the people who’d been sent to get him already working the building, waiting for him to come. They’d have the entrances guarded, be on the roof. But he was ready.

One of the bodyguards knocked on the car window, then moved away. There were others nearby, six or seven people, bodyguards and aides now trotting through the courtyard from another vehicle, a small bus. He ignored them all, waiting for the door to open. Finally, it cracked. His target put his foot on the pavement, hesitated.

There was a noise in the distance as the moment floated in its infinity. A bodyguard moved. The target remained in the limo. The assassin’s finger remained steady on the trigger.