Chapter 4: FIRST BLOOD — Part 1
The dumpster stank of rotting fish and something worse.
I pressed my back against the rusted metal, knees bent, Glock in both hands. The warehouse door was fifty feet away. Yuri Petrov was somewhere behind it, probably finishing dinner, probably counting money, probably not thinking about the stranger crouched in the dark waiting to end his life.
My watch read 6:58 PM.
Two minutes until the smoke break. Two minutes until he walked outside alone, lit a cigarette, and gave me the clean shot I needed.
"Breathe. Just breathe."
My hands wouldn't stop shaking. The tremors ran up my arms and into my shoulders, turning my grip into something barely functional. I'd fired thousands of rounds in training. Hundreds more in combat. But this was different. This wasn't returning fire at muzzle flashes in the dark. This was execution.
The brand on my forearm pulsed. A reminder. A threat.
[KILL WINDOW: 130 HOURS, 12 MINUTES.]
"I know. Shut up."
The System didn't respond. It never did when I actually wanted it to.
I checked my sight lines for the dozenth time. The alley gave me cover from the street. A row of parked cars—delivery vans, a sedan with flat tires, something that might have been a pickup truck under all the rust—provided concealment for my approach. Once Yuri stepped outside, I'd have maybe thirty seconds before one of his guards noticed he was taking too long.
Thirty seconds to cross fifty feet, aim, fire, and disappear.
The math worked. Barely.
7:00 PM.
The door stayed closed.
I shifted my weight, trying to keep blood flowing to my legs. The concrete was cold through my jeans. Moisture seeped into my shoes from a puddle I hadn't noticed in the dark.
7:05 PM.
Nothing.
7:10 PM.
My jaw clenched so tight I tasted copper. The inside of my cheek, bitten without realizing.
"Come on. Come on, you fat Russian bastard. Step outside and smoke your goddamn cigarette."
7:15 PM.
The door remained shut. No movement behind the grimy windows. No shadow of a man reaching for his lighter.
Something was wrong.
I ran through possibilities. Maybe he'd quit smoking. Maybe he'd changed his routine. Maybe yesterday was an anomaly and I'd built my entire plan around a single data point like a fucking amateur.
"Should have watched longer. Should have confirmed the pattern."
But I didn't have time for longer. The clock was ticking. The System was waiting.
7:30 PM.
My legs cramped. I shifted again, nearly lost my balance, caught myself against the dumpster with one hand. The metal groaned. Too loud. I froze, waiting for shouts, for gunfire, for anything.
Nothing.
The neighborhood was dead. Red Hook after dark—warehouses, empty lots, the occasional car passing on distant streets. No witnesses. No help if this went wrong.
7:45 PM.
The door opened.
I snapped to full alert, Glock coming up, finger finding the trigger guard. But the silhouette was wrong. Too many shapes. Too much movement.
Three figures emerged. Yuri in the middle, flanked by two of his guards. They weren't stopping for a smoke break. They were walking toward the parking lot.
Toward the cars.
Toward escape.
"No. No, no, no—"
My window was closing. If they got in that vehicle, if they drove away, I'd have to start the entire process over. New surveillance. New planning. Time I didn't have.
[TARGET MOVEMENT DETECTED. WINDOW NARROWING. RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE ACTION.]
The System's voice cut through my panic. Cold. Clinical. Pushing me toward violence like a hand on my back.
I didn't have a choice.
I moved.
The first ten feet were easy—dumpster to delivery van, shadow to shadow. My feet found the pavement without sound. Military training taking over, muscle memory older than fear.
Twenty feet from target.
Yuri was laughing at something one of the guards said. His gold tooth caught the streetlight. He reached into his pocket for keys.
Fifteen feet.
The guard on the left—younger, faster-looking—turned his head. Not toward me. Toward the street. Checking for threats in the wrong direction.
Ten feet.
I stepped around the sedan with the flat tires. My shoe crunched on broken glass.
The sound was tiny. A whisper in the urban noise.
The guard on the right heard it anyway.
His head snapped toward me. Eyes widening. Hand moving toward his waistband.
"Too late to stop. Too late to run."
Time stretched like taffy. I saw everything in crystalline detail. The stubble on the guard's jaw. The stain on Yuri's tie. The rust eating through the sedan's wheel well.
The taste of copper flooded my mouth. I'd bitten through my lip.
I raised the Glock.
The guard's mouth opened to shout.
My finger found the trigger.
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