Page 54 of Azrael

The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of grilled seafood from the café’s kitchen.I made a slight adjustment to compensate, my fingertips tingling against the cold metal of my rifle.Three stories up gave me the perfect vantage point and a clean exit route.A fire escape on the north side of the building would take me down to the alley where my motorcycle waited.

Through my scope, I watched the target laugh at something on his phone.This piece of shit had been trafficking girls through the port for years.His connections had kept him protected until now.

The crosshairs settled on his temple.I could see the beads of sweat on his forehead, the way his fingers nervously tapped the side of his coffee cup.Did he sense something?Some men seemed to develop a sixth sense for danger after living on borrowed time.If so, his instincts were right, just not quick enough.

I slowed my breathing, finding the perfect rhythm where my body became absolutely still between heartbeats.The café was busy -- maybe twenty civilians within fifteen feet of my target.Not ideal, but unavoidable given his patterns.

“Nothing personal,” I whispered, though it was a lie.Everything about this job was personal for me, and for the women he’d hurt.

I’d been given this assignment three days ago.I’d intended to start immediately but it had taken longer to plan than I’d anticipated.Especially after one of my targets had changed their schedule.After this asshole, I had less than four days to make the other two targets and haul ass back to US soil.Which was why I’d decided to get all three done on the same day.Not to mention, there was less chance of the others getting the sense something was off and increasing their protection.

The target stood suddenly, nodding to a waiter.Shit.Was he leaving?I tracked him through the scope, finger tensing on the trigger.No -- just heading to the bathroom.I eased my grip slightly, waiting.A bathroom shot would be messy, confined.Better to let him return to his table.

Five minutes passed.I didn’t move a muscle, barely blinked.Perfect stillness was a skill I’d mastered years ago.Finally, he emerged, stopping to chat with someone at another table.A business associate, maybe.Or just another scumbag.Not my concern today.

He sat back down, signaling for the check.Time was running out.I took one final breath, held it, and gently squeezed the trigger.

The rifle kicked against my shoulder.Through the scope, I watched as the bullet traveled the distance in a fraction of a second, then entered my target’s skull.The impact jerked his head back, a spray of red misting the air behind him.His body slumped forward, face hitting the table with a finality that confirmed the job was done.

For a moment, the café continued as normal -- a strange pocket of time where death existed but hadn’t yet been acknowledged.Then, a woman screamed.Chaos erupted as people realized what had happened, scrambling from their seats, diving for cover, pointing wildly in all directions.

I didn’t linger to watch.Already, I was breaking down my rifle with practiced efficiency, each component sliding into its designated compartment in my case.Thirty seconds -- that’s all it took.Nothing left behind, no shell casings, no fingerprints, no evidence I was ever here.It was a good thing I’d come prepared for anything.Using a borrowed rifle for this would have made things more difficult.

The adrenaline came now, after the job was done.My hands tingled as I secured the case, my senses hyperaware of every sound.Sirens in the distance.Shouts from the street below.I moved to the fire escape, descending quickly but controlled.No use surviving the hit just to break my neck falling down rusty stairs.

The alley was empty when I reached the bottom, my motorcycle exactly where I’d left it.I strapped my rifle to my back and pulled my helmet on, the dark visor concealing my face.By the time police would cordon off the area, I’d be miles away, my existence here nothing but a ghost story.

I eased into traffic, riding conservatively -- nothing to draw attention.Unless people knew what to look for, the rifle on my back could pass for the case to an instrument.I felt the familiar emptiness that always came after.Not guilt.Not exactly satisfaction either.Just a hollow space where emotion should be, like I’d pulled the trigger on myself in some way too.One name crossed off the list, two more to go before nightfall.I wanted this done.

My phone vibrated in my pocket at a red light.I didn’t need to check it to know it was Stripes, confirming the hit.The light turned green, and I accelerated through the intersection, leaving death and chaos in my wake.The sea breeze followed me for a while, carrying the salt and the memory of a single perfect shot.

Three more miles and I pulled into an abandoned gas station, exactly as planned.I dismounted, removed my helmet, and ran a hand through my sweat-dampened hair.My heartbeat had returned to normal, my breathing steady.Professional.Detached.The way I needed to be to do this job right.

I pulled out the phone, typed a single word.Done.

The reply came seconds later.Second target confirmed for Club Vortex.Move now to have time to plan.

Back on the bike, I plotted the fastest route to the nightclub.The day was still young, and I had more work to do.I needed to scope the place out, get an idea of when the target would be there, and figure out the best entry and exit for the job.Seeing things on paper wasn’t the same as viewing them in person.The club wouldn’t be in full swing for hours.

As I rode, I thought about the fact this was personal for me.If I didn’t do this, I wouldn’t get Mazida back.There was no way I could go home without her.Not and face Zara.

Family.That’s what Mazida was to me now.The word still felt strange to me, even after all these years with the club.But I understood loyalty.I understood debt.And I understood sometimes justice came from the barrel of a gun or the edge of a knife rather than a courtroom.

The second target would be trickier -- close quarters, witnesses, security.But I needed this done today, all three targets eliminated before midnight.

I merged onto the highway, pushing the bike faster.The emptiness inside me began to fill with purpose again.By nightfall, three men would be dead by my hand, and maybe -- just maybe -- we’d be one step closer to bringing Mazida home.

* * *

Seven hours later

I stepped from the cool night air into a wall of sound, heat, and sweat.Club Vortex lived up to its name -- a whirlwind of bodies, lights, and pounding bass that hit my chest like physical blows.My ears adjusted slowly as I scanned the crowd, the knife tucked into my boot suddenly feeling inadequate compared to the rifle I’d left behind.This would be messy.Personal.I’d feel my target’s last breath against my skin, watch the light fade from his eyes.Some might call it more honest that way.I just called it necessary.

The place was packed wall-to-wall with bodies, writhing and gyrating to music that seemed designed to scramble the brain.Lights pulsed in violent blues and reds, casting strange shadows across faces, making everyone look slightly demonic.I pushed through the crowd, keeping my movements casual but deliberate, another face in the sea of night crawlers looking for a good time.Except I was hunting.

Stripes had given me the intel on this one.“Real sadistic fuck.Likes to cut people up while they’re still breathing, make examples out of them.”

He’d said this was the place the man would be, and I’d watched and waited.He’d finally shown up an hour ago.I’d hoped it had given him enough time to get drunk and relax.

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