Dragons Luck

The assassin glanced out of the apartment window. It was early yet, barely six, and he could just barely make out the sign of the target’s favorite pub. An Irish joint from the sign, but he had no plans to approach closer than he was now. The contract had come with surprisingly good information on the target’s activities, but it had also come with a time limit. Two days was almost no time for a true professional hit, and if the money hadn’t been as extraordinary as the intel, he would never have taken the job.

According to the intel, the target, one Griffen McCandles, tended to drink late and often. Quite regularly, he didn’t leave till closing, around two to four in the morning. A perfect time, minimizing threats and potential witnesses and casualties. This area was far too heavily patrolled for the assassin’s liking during the day and evening, but early morning the police presence should be reasonably lax.

The assassin almost smiled. In some ways this town was the worst and best environment for this kind of hit. Getting away with most scenarios would be difficult, but afterward . . .

A crowd to fade into, a city of roads to get lost on, and the chances of making the newspaper slim to none. Griffen McCandles would be reported as a surprisingly violent mugging, if he was reported at all. The police would know the truth, but no one would want the newspapers to frighten the tourists. Any investigation’s hands would be tied as a result, not that he was particularly worried about local cops.

If the target didn’t come to the pub tonight, tomorrow night the assassin would have to move to Plan B. The target’s home. Not only wasn’t there as accessible a vantage point, but it would make escape much more difficult. He would have to take the shot just as the target passed through the security gate. The timing would be bad, but it was worth it.

If the intel was wrong entirely, he would have to trace things back to the client himself. That would be much more work, with no payment for the hit. Still, one had a reputation to maintain.

Early or not, the assassin began his preparations. He had already cleaned and prepared himself at another site. The outfit was brand-new—well, actually bought years ago elsewhere and put aside, like all of his other “work clothes.” Easily disposed of if necessary, and a white shirt and a pair of blue shorts would make him into an entirely different person if he needed to strip. He pulled out his rifle, which he knew enough. Fired in a private range enough times to break it in. Also easily disposed of. He could leave it on-site or on the target’s body, and it would still give no help in tracking him down.

Just to be safe he broke it down, cleaned it, and reassembled it, setting it on a small table by the window. No balcony in this place. With a balcony, people tended to look up. Without one, they almost never did.

With that he settled in to wait, watching the street via a mirror aimed toward the window. It was enough to watch by, and he was good at waiting. A few hours without moving, a single shot, and he would be much richer. Well, two shots, both to the head. For some reason the contract insisted. As if one would not be enough? The assassin pondered this to pass the time.

“You present a real quandary for me,” a voice said behind him.

What the assassin did not do was jerk around in surprise. He was astonished he hadn’t heard anyone enter; he was 90 percent sure that was impossible. Impossible or not, if the speaker had wanted him dead, he would be dead. He was 99 percent sure of that.

He turned slowly and took in the plain-looking man before him, holding a pair of semiautomatic pistols. The grip on the pistols, and the cold gaze, identified him as another professional. Though his dress was far too stylish and noticeable. There was a low table between the two professionals.

“What sort of quandary?” the assassin asked.

“I have decided to thwart your client. You are my best opportunity, or at least preventing your hit is. And I see before me a professional of such quality that I know I can’t talk or bribe you out of a contract taken.”

“You talk too much, and I see no quandary. You should have shot me.”

George sighed, and the barrel of one pistol wavered a fraction of an inch. The assassin noted this but did not yet see how to turn it to his advantage.

“Yes, you are a professional, but I am a bit of an artist, you see. I haven’t hunted a . . . person of your quality in quite some time. I find taking such an easy shot distasteful,” said George.

“Then you are in the wrong line of work.”

“This is not my line of work. I am on vacation. Slumming as it were. Don’t take this the wrong way. I am well and truly impressed by you without seeing you take shot one, but I am used to much more dangerous opponents.”