In Code Blood by S.W. Frank

Author:S.W. Frank [Frank, S.W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-08-30T16:00:00+00:00

|Cyrus

Prone, Cyrus quickly checked the time.

Let’s hope Vishal is punctual.

Behind him a roof condenser hummed. Fumes from the stack wafted in the air along with nocturnal sounds. Headlights traversed the street lined with eateries and private clubs.

Cyrus peered through a scope, checked his watch again and then stuck his eye back to the lens. “You’re late,” he said as a vehicle rolled to a stop at the curb. He scooted forward, and then scoffed when a guy got out and lit a cigarette. It wasn’t Vishal.

Cyrus panned left to a group on the corner. The night vision magnifier brought their faces closer. “Not you…not you…not you or you.”

A foot itched inside a boot and with a quick rub on tar, the sensation subsided. Under the stars, he breathed slowly.

Patience is a sniper’s friend.

The blare of car horns entwined with music provided the stimuli he needed to stay alert. A late model Ferrari rolled slowly forward and then reversed into a spot. Cyrus’ stomach tightened; he blinked and angled the barrel downward, past the cornice.

The car’s polished monochromatic chrome emitted a glare and he looked away and then back again in time to view the target.

Night a cloak, he got in a sniper’s position to follow the target like he’d done many times when hunting deer. He ignored the wheel rings’ aqua under glow and raised the barrel.

A person exited the club, and said something to the target and Cyrus breathed until he went back in. The moment the target stepped a shiny shoe on the curve, Cyrus stilled and only his finger twitched.

The target’s skull exploded.

Stone-faced, Cyrus slid backward and in a sitting position hastily unscrewed the suppressor. The specialty gloves, although thin, added time to the disassembly. Without them, he would’ve finished.

He rose in a squat, collapsed the tripod and moved fast until each piece fit in their slots. Then he slung the case’s long strap over his neck and hurried to the rear of the roof, and climbed over the edge with weight on his back. He straddled a thick metal pipe; biceps and calves bulged during his rapid descent.

Once on the ground, he sped through a narrow gap in the buildings. A jagged brick punctured his skin and he stopped. Blood is evidence. Since he hadn’t brought along an anticoagulant spray—he improvised, pissed on the ground, and mixed the dirt with urine to rub on the bloody grains. Then he continued onward and emerged at an unlit street where he parked the SUV.

Whooshing noises echoed overhead. He pressed the remote and hurried inside, tossed the case in the back and listened to the blades rotate.

NYPD choppers were equipped with infrared; he waited until the bird passed before cruising out. Once he merged with traffic, he exhaled.

That was close.

A pulse at his waist brought a hand off the steering wheel to seize the phone from the encasement. At a stop light he viewed his home security notification. Someone trespassed on his property and the person on camera got his heart racing.

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