Sevastyan

Sevastyan’s first target lived by themselves in a remote house high in the Cuyamaca mountains, surrounded by pale pink-and-salmon colored rocks.

Sage brush littered the hillsides, growing up around burned-out husks of trees and sprigs of new growth.

This area of North America burned regularly, fires thousands of acres large rolling through, fed by winds moving at the speed of cars on a highway.

Despite it all, people still found a way to live and even thrive with the venomous snakes, the lack of water, and the multiple species of scorpions and centipedes, some longer than a man’s foot.

The coyotes were the cute species of the region.

Sevastyan readied his rifle, lying flat on the ground.

The sun had already set. He’d been in place for three hours, enough time to see the target come home and lock himself in behind his gate.

There were at least two guard dogs. One of them was lying on the front porch watching the road, and the second one prowled the fence.

They’d just been fed. It was almost time to make his move.

The question was whether anyone else was inside. He didn’t want to just torch the place. There was enough blood on his hands. Burning down a hundred square miles wasn’t something he wanted to add to his list of crimes. Surgical was what he was known for.

Hence the rifle. He raised it, aiming at the one dog as it wandered into sight again, and pulled the trigger.

Before he could see the result, he shifted to the second.

The first dog yelped, rousing the other one to a standing position.

Sevastyan fired immediately. The second dog flinched and jumped down from the porch.

The door opened and the target looked out. He looked left and right, saw the dogs still standing and hollered something in annoyance. The door slammed shut again. Sevastyan let out a careful breath.

Both dogs started to sway. Then one after the other, they sank to the ground, shaking their heads and slumping over.

Sevastyan eased back from his location, erasing his presence as he moved.

With the dogs tranqued, all he had to contend with between the gate and the house would be any cameras.

He’d yet to spot any. The target placed a lot of faith in the dogs.

It wasn’t misplaced. They were massive, beautiful beasts with a high level of awareness. And they’d live to see another day.

Sevastyan raised his mask and slipped over the fence with a folding ladder, avoided the electric wire running around the top, and strolled up towards the side of the house.

In one hand he carried a heavy black bag and in the other he gripped a handgun.

No one inside seemed to realize he was approaching.

There were no cameras on the front porch.

It fit the profile he’d been sent. The front entry was in two parts, an outer metal screen door and an inner solid door.

Kneeling, he attached prongs to the outer latch of the screen door, the same kind used to jump start cars.

The prongs were at the end of thick jumper cables leading into the black bag.

He reached inside and flipped the switch on the battery inside, then silently backed away.

The high voltage capacitor in the battery was far stronger than anything found in a car or house, specially built for the purpose it was about to carry out.

The last thing he wanted was to be anywhere near it. But he didn’t have to be.

All that was left was creating the one thing he’d been avoiding: noise.

He picked up a large rock from the generous supply underfoot and threw it at the porch from a good distance. Sometimes the simple method was best.

A shout came from inside the house. Footsteps thudded across the floorboards. “I swear, one more goddam interruption . . .”

All words suddenly ended. There was no sound for a long moment, and then a crash. Sevastyan crept forward.

The target was still gripping the screen door from the inside, with the solid outer door standing open. His body was half in and half out of the house, fallen forward, slumped on its knees, eyes staring at nothing.

Sevastyan reached into the bag and flipped the switch. The electrical current stopped flowing through the door, releasing the target’s hand. He snapped a picture. There was no need to touch the target to confirm death. The evidence was obvious.

It was the work of less than a minute to retrieve the cables, stow them, close the bag, and stroll into the yard.

He found the dogs, close together, and pulled out the tranq darts.

If anyone looked, all they would find would be small punctures.

It might be two or three days before they were found.

They wouldn’t starve. He checked their water bowl.

It was a horse trough. Probably because their master could be gone for days at a time. It was full. Good enough.

He went back to the ladder and climbed back over, made certain the imprints of the ladder were erased and then started his long, careful trek back to the rental car.

One target down, two to go. But first there were galleries to visit and some movers and shakers in the art world to charm.

And after all that, there was a specialist to meet.

An extra detour he hadn’t told Rei to plan for.

It would be fine. He could use a version of the gallery outfit for this jaunt. It would fit right in at the bar where he’d meet her.