The sniper’s target was supposed to be alone, but either the target or his security detail had ordered a teenaged prostitute, and she was throwing a wrench into the sniper’s plan.
This was not optimal, the man behind the SR-25 concluded.
The girl would see the muzzle flash, and the girl would point to the rooftop upon which the sniper had set up his hide, and the target’s security would run to the window, scanning for the sniper, and then they would rush down to the streets, cutting off the sniper’s escape.
They would call the police, as well, and roadblocks would be set up and patrol cars would start pulling over anyone driving around at four in the morning.
The sniper wanted to wait until the girl turned away, but his target was taking his sweet time, and the sniper knew that at any moment, the man’s bodyguards in the next room might come to the window there and gaze out, putting even more eyes on his position.
No, this hit was not optimal. Not optimal at all.
But it was doable.
The sniper decided to proceed. He would send a round into the back of his target’s head.
And then he would shoot the hooker.
Quickly the sniper scanned the bedroom, determining where the girl would go after her john’s brains blew all over her naked body. Most likely, he decided, she would just stand there in shock, giving the sniper plenty of time to line up a second 220-meter shot with his semiautomatic rifle. He’d need no more than a second for this, and he expected the girl would not process the danger in so little time.
But if she did drop to the ground, or move left or right, the sniper saw that she had no cover that would protect her from a .556 copper-jacketed bullet.
The girl was not his target, but killing the girl was necessary for a smooth egress from the target area, so he gave it no more thought.
Satisfied that he had prepared for any eventuality, the sniper recentered the crosshairs on the back of the man’s head, thumbed the safety off his rifle, then placed his finger on the trigger. He slowed his breathing, even exerted control over the beating of his heart by consciously relaxing his blood pressure.
A beep in his left ear caused the sniper to blow out the air in his lungs in a soft sigh. He allowed himself a moment to regain his normal breath; his fingertip left the trigger and rested on the trigger guard, and his left hand moved out from under the weapon. He touched the button on his Bluetooth earpiece.
Softly he said, “Go.”
“This is Metronome.”
“Bad timing,” the sniper muttered. And then, “Say iden, Metronome.”
“Two, seven, seven, four, nine, two, four, three, eight.”
“Iden confirmed. This is Dead Eye.”
“Say iden, Dead Eye.”
“Four, eight, one, oh, six, oh, five, two, oh.”
After a quick pause on the other end, the man on the roof heard, “Good evening, Whitlock.”
“It might be evening where you are, Parks, but it’s four A.M. here.”
There was no response to this. Instead Parks said, “Execute immediate stand down. We need to get you moving to the airport.”
The man prone on the rooftop kept his eye in the glass a moment more; he watched the man kneel down and begin pulling off the girl’s panties. But the sniper did not continue to watch. Why should he? His mission was over. He rolled away from the gun, crawled back a few feet, and dragged the weapon back to him by the butt stock. He closed the bipod, unloaded the rifle, and began dismantling it. While he did this, executed with efficiency gained from many years of practice, he said, “Only one reason you would pull me right now.”
As a confirmation Parks said, “The primary target has been located.”
The sniper smiled, but his smile did not carry over into the tenor of his voice. He kept it clipped and professional. “At Sid’s palace in Rochino.”
“Affirmative.” A pause. “You were right, Whitlock.”
Whitlock continued breaking down his weapon as he said, “Of course I was right. You have real-time viz?”
“He is inside the main house now. We’ll have eyes on via the ScanEagle when he comes out.”
“Understood. Is the audio equipment picking up anything?”
“Quiet as a tomb.”
The sniper was pleased for many reasons. He opened a black Pelican case and placed the disassembled rifle in it. He kept his voice soft, though he was alone on the rooftop and the offices below him were vacant. “Expect that to change. He won’t get out of there without it going loud.”
Parks said, “We are moving you to St. Petersburg this morning. Get to the airport; we’ll have the plane prepped and ready by the time you arrive.”
Quickly Dead Eye entered the stairwell and began descending swiftly and silently in the dark, a penlight in his left hand leading the way forward and his Pelican case in his right. “Why would I go to St. Petersburg? Gentry isn’t going to St. Petersburg.”
“Probably not, but we need to get you into the area. St. Petersburg is closest. We can update the flight plan while you are in the air if we track him somewhere else.”
“Is Jumper on alert?”
“Negative. Trestle is the alert team. They are in St. Pete. Heading to the X now. Jumper will come up from Berlin, if necessary, to back them up.”
“Bad idea, Parks. Both strike teams need to stay out of sight until Gentry goes to ground after the operation. Keep the ScanEagle overhead and lead me into his path; I will surveil and then set up the strikers once I’m on station.”
Parks replied dismissively. “I will pass on your thoughts to Babbitt. For now, Russ, just get moving. Graveside out.”
Russell “Dead Eye” Whitlock tapped his earpiece and continued down the stairs. He was disappointed about his mission tonight. He’d been working on this Bucharest op for weeks. In theory he could have gone ahead, shot the target and then shot the girl, and in so doing achieve his objective here in Romania, but this would have slowed his ability to get out of town quickly and cleanly, and that was paramount.
Court Gentry was one hundred times more important than this Muslim Brotherhood terrorist. Moreover, someone else from Townsend Government Services would show up here, in a few days or in a few weeks, to finish the job.
It did not matter to Dead Eye. He was a prideful man, but in his eyes, he’d long since outgrown ops like tonight. To him there was no real challenge in this hit, which meant there was no real pride in this hit. A two-hundred-twenty-meter shot through window glass into the heads of an unsuspecting tango and his teenaged hooker.
So fucking what?
Dead Eye was out for big game.
Hard targets.
And very soon it would be time to go after the hardest target on earth.
On the ground floor of the darkened office building he passed a security guard sprawled on the floor, arms and legs askew, his eyes wide open in death. Dead Eye shined his penlight over the body quickly as he headed for the exit and saw the rich bruising around the neck, a single band of color from a garrote’s bite.
Dead Eye regarded the wound as he passed, acknowledging a job well done. The guard never saw him coming.
But as he reached the lobby door, he allowed himself no more time to think of tonight’s action. There was much work to do in the days ahead, and he needed to focus all his attention on his new mission.
Back on the street now, Russ Whitlock climbed into his BMW after tossing his Pelican case in the trunk. He drove off through the cool, dry morning, heading toward Borg El Arab airport. There would be a Townsend jet there ready to take him to St. Petersburg.
But Dead Eye would not be boarding the airplane. He would, instead, take a domestic flight to Berlin, and from there he’d catch a second plane heading north. Lee Babbitt and Jeff Parks and the other Townsend suits would be pissed, but Dead Eye did not give a damn.