CHAPTER 1

Feeling energized by the death that was about to happen, Doug Jacobs adjustedhis headset and brightened his computer screen. The picture was now crystalclear, almost as if he were there.

But he thanked God he wasn't.

There was thousands of miles away, but one couldn't tell that by lookingat the screen. They couldn't pay him enough to be there. Besides, manypeople were far better suited for that job. He would be communicating shortlywith one of them.

Jacobs briefly glanced around the four walls and the one window of his office inthe sunny Washington, D.C., neighborhood. It was an ordinary-looking low-risebrick building set in a mixed-use neighborhood that also contained historicalhomes in various states of either decay or restoration. But some parts ofJacobs's building were not ordinary at all. These elements included a heavy-gaugesteel gate out front with a high fence around the perimeter of theproperty. Armed sentries patrolled the interior halls and surveillance camerasmonitored the exterior. But there was nothing on the outside to clue anyone into what was happening on the inside.

And a lot was happening on the inside.

Jacobs picked up his mug of fresh coffee, into which he had just poured threesugar packets. Watching the screen required intense concentration. Sugar andcaffeine helped him do that. It would match the emotional buzz he would have injust a few minutes.

He spoke into the headset. "Alpha One, confirm location," he said crisply. Itoccurred to him that he sounded like an air traffic controller trying to keepthe skies safe.

Well, in a way that's exactly what I am. Only our goal is death on everytrip.

The response was nearly immediate. "Alpha One location seven hundred meters westof target. Sixth floor of the apartment building's east face, fourth window overfrom the left. You should just be able to make out the end of my rifle muzzle ona zoom-in."

Jacobs leaned forward and moved his mouse, zooming in on the real-time satellitefeed from this distant city that was home to many enemies of the United States.Hovering over the edge of the windowsill, he saw just the tip of a longsuppressor can screwed onto a rifle's muzzle. The rifle was a customized pieceof weaponry that could kill at long distances—well, so long as a skilledhand and eye were operating it.

And right now that was the case.

"Roger that, Alpha One. Cocked and locked?"

"Affirmative. All factors dialed in on scope. Crosshairs on terminal spot. Tunedfrequency-shifting suppressor. Setting sun behind me and in their faces. Nooptics reflect. Good to go."

"Copy that, Alpha One."

Jacobs checked his watch. "Local time there seventeen hundred?"

"On the dot. Intel update?"

Jacobs brought this information up on a subscreen. "All on schedule. Target willbe arriving in five minutes. He'll exit the limo on the curbside. He's scheduledto take a minute of questions on the curb and then it's a ten-second walk intothe building."

"Ten-second walk into the building confirmed?"

"Confirmed," said Jacobs. "But the minute of interview may go longer. You playit as it goes."

"Copy that."

Jacobs refocused on the screen for a few minutes until he saw it. "Okay,motorcade is approaching."

"I see it. I've got my sight line on the straight and narrow. No obstructions."

"The crowd?"

"I've been watching the patterns of the people for the last hour. Security hasroped them off. They've outlined the path he'll take for me, like a lightedrunway."

"Right. I can see that now."

Jacobs loved being ringside for these things, without actually being in thedanger zone. He was compensated more generously than the person on the other endof the line. At a certain level this made no sense at all.

The shooter's ass was out there, and if the shot wasn't successful or the exitcues made swiftly, the gunner was dead. Back here, there would be noacknowledgment of affiliation, only a blanket denial. The shooter had nodocuments, no creds, no ID that would prove otherwise. The shooter would be leftto hang. And in the country where this particular hit was taking place, hangingwould be the shooter's fate. Or perhaps beheading.

All the while, Jacobs sat here safe and drew bigger money.

But he thought, Lots of folks can shoot straight and get away. I'm the onedoing the geopolitical wrangling on these suckers. It's all in the prep. And I'mworth every dollar.

Jacobs again spoke into his headset. "Approach is right on target. Limo is aboutto stop."

"Copy that."

"Give me a sixty-second buffer before you're about to fire. We'll go silent."

"Roger that."

Jacobs tightened the grip on his mouse, as though it were a trigger. Duringdrone attacks he had actually clicked his mouse and watched a target disappearin a flame ball. The computer hardware manufacturer had probably neverenvisioned its devices being used for that.

His breathing accelerated even as he knew the shooter's respiration was headingthe other way, achieving cold zero, which was what one needed to make a long-range shot like this. There was no margin of error at all. The shot had to hitand kill the target. It was that simple.

The limo stopped. The security team opened the door. Bulky, sweaty men with gunsand earwigs looked everywhere for danger. They were pretty good. But pretty gooddid not cut it when you were up against outstanding.

And every asset Jacobs sent out was outstanding.

The man stepped onto the sidewalk and squinted against the sun's dying glare. Hewas a megalomaniac named Ferat Ahmadi who desired to lead a troubled, violentnation down an even darker road. That could not be allowed to happen.

Thus it was time to nip this little problem in the bud. There were others in hiscountry ready to take over. They were less evil than he was, and capable ofbeing manipulated by more civilized nations. In today's overly complex world,where allies and foes seemed to change on a weekly basis, that was as good as itgot.

But that was not Jacobs's concern. He was here simply to execute an assignment,with emphasis on the "execute" part.

Then over his headset came two words: "Sixty seconds."

"Copy that, Alpha One," said Jacobs. He didn't say anything as stupid as "goodluck." Luck had nothing to do with it.

He engaged a countdown clock on his computer screen.

He eyed the target and then the clock.

Jacobs watched Ahmadi talk to the reporters. He took a sip of coffee, set itdown, and continued to watch as Ahmadi finished with his prearranged questions.The man took a step away from the reporters. The security team held them back.

The chosen path was revealed. For the photo op it would present, Ahmadi wasgoing to walk it alone. It was designed to show his leadership and his courage.

It was also a security breach that looked trivial at ground level. But with atrained sniper at an elevated position it was like a fifty-yard gash in the sideof a ship with a billion-candlepower beacon lighting it.

Twenty seconds became ten.

Jacobs started counting the last moments in his head, his eyes glued to thescreen.

Dead man arriving, he thought.

Almost there. Mission nearly complete, and then it was on to the next target.

That is, after a steak dinner and a favorite cocktail and trumpeting this latestvictory to his coworkers.

Three seconds became one.

Jacobs saw nothing except the screen....