Page 1 of Count Down

1

LUCA BARONE

I wipethe morning dew from the scope of my gun. The weather conditions are ideal. The ground is wet from the light spring rain last night. The sun just barely rising. I’m ready, waiting for my prey to wander into my trap.

I shift my weight and look through the scope at the oncoming car. White Toyota Prius. Not him.

This kind of work puts me in some strange places. This morning, I’m lying on my stomach on top of the overhang of a drive-thru ATM surrounded by an empty parking lot. As weird as it is, it’s the perfect perch. I’ve got a clear view, but I’m hidden from sight. I can clearly see any car coming north on Bustleton Ave. Someone could drive right up to the ATM and they’d never see me.

I’ve been waiting long enough that I start to wonder if he’s going to show. But I know he will. Evsei Novikov is consistent. It makes him an easy target. Friday and Saturday night he goes out in downtown Philadelphia. And then just before sunrise, he rides back home to Northeast Philly.

Novikov is a Captain in the Bratva. The Russian Mob. And he’s a damn good Captain, even if his travel is predictable. The fact that he’s a skilled Captain is exactly why I’m taking him out. As hitman for the Barone Syndicate, I’m called on every now and then to prune some members from our competition. The Italian Mafia has been growing its control of Philadelphia for the past few decades. But our competition is growing too. Mainly the Russians and the Irish.

We work with the Russians quite often, but we have to keep them in check. Their leadership is getting older. Novikov could be contender for the new Bratva heir, and if that happens, we can say goodbye to any kind of alliance between Russians and Italians. Novikov is smart, but impulsive. Strong, but greedy. The only thing predictable about him is which route he takes home from the clubs. Not someone we could trust as a boss or an ally.

So, he’s got to go. But killing a Bratva Made Man would start an all-out war between us and the Russians. That’s why this is my job. My forte is making assassinations look like accidents. As far as the Bratva will know, Novikov will have died in a car crash. Simple bad luck.

This is a powerful skill to have. We can make the moves we want to make, taking out our opponents’ chess pieces without them knowing it. It requires discipline, planning, preparation. And most of all, creativity and attention to detail.

I’ve spent almost two months setting up this hit. I’ve watched Novikov’s routes. I’ve found his patterns. I’ve uncovered his weak spots.

Like this one. Every Saturday morning, after conducting business and having a few drinks, Novikov and his driver take this route back home. The roads are quiet. Very few cars are out. The perfect time to let his guard down.

I’ve been watching the weather. Last night’s rain was just what I was looking for. There’s a curve in the road before the intersection in front of me. Over time, oil has built up on the tarmac in front of the stoplight. In the overnight rain, some of that oil will have floated up to the surface of the road.

That extra slickness isn’t usually a problem for a car. Only if something else goes wrong. Like if a tire blows out. A blowout on a slick corner could be dangerous.

I see another car coming up Bustleton toward me. I look through the scope. Escalade. License plate matches. A driver and a passenger. It’s him.

I aim the gun at the front passenger-side tire and wait for it to be in the perfect spot. I’ve got a modified high-powered air rifle. It will barely make a sound. Instead of a bullet, I’m using a glass cartridge. It normally has about a 50% chance of puncturing a tire, a bit less of a chance on the tires of a fairly new Escalade.

But I don’t take chances. Not if I can avoid them. Two weeks ago, I removed the valve stem from the tire on Novikov’s Escalade and poured in a catalyst agent that’s used for breaking down rubber. I put the valve stem back on and refilled the air in his tire. But while they’ve been driving around, the chemical has slowly been eating away at the tire from the inside out. Like I said, lots of preparation and attention to details.

I track the tire in my scope as the car approaches the bend at the intersection. I hold my breath. I pull the trigger. The gun makes a sharp and fast hiss.

Then I see the tire pop beneath Novikov, like a small explosion. The driver loses control of the Escalade as it slides on the oily road. Instead of going around the turn, they smash head-first into the telephone pole on the corner.

The front of the car crumples and the airbags explode. I sling the air rifle over my shoulder, put my gloves on, and jump down from the roof of the drive-thru. I check the surroundings as I sprint toward their car. Nobody around.

I run up to the passenger side. The driver is out cold. Probably still alive by the looks of it. Novikov is dazed and bloody. The airbag has deflated in front of him. Before he can figure out what’s going on, I reach through the door’s broken window and grab the back of his head. I smash his head against the dash hard enough to kill him.

When the first responders show up, it’ll seem obvious that Novikov died in the car accident. Even if they investigated it thoroughly, the best they could find is that the roads were wet from the rain and some broken glass caused the tire to fail. Novikov’s driver looked like he would survive, so he could validate the story to his bosses.

When we hear about it, we’ll send our condolences.

Car accidents are all too common. One of the leading causes of death in the United States. I’m too familiar with that. Not just because I’ve caused some of them, but because the closest thing I ever had to a mother was killed in one.

Now that Novikov is taken care of, I can move on to my next target.

2

GINA NICOLETTI

I wipethe sweat from my temple. That was my most solid performance yet. It felt together. I felt on. I like when dress rehearsals go that well. People say a bad dress rehearsal means a good show, but I’m not superstitious. In my experience the dress rehearsal just shows me if I need to get my head in the game or if I’m actually ready. In this case, it feels like a good sign for the actual shows.

After the 3rdAct is done, Alvaro Perez, the Artistic Director for Philadelphia Ballet Theater calls all the performers back on stage. I squeeze into the back of the group and sit down on the black marley next to Lexi.

Alvaro stands downstage in front of us, giving out his final notes. I can’t help but stare at the empty seats behind him. This theater is old and grand. I don’t think I could ever get sick of performing here.

---