Then, a cold feeling washes over me.
I can’t ask Nick for help. Nick will take this man out with a bullet to the brain. And while I don’t think the world will miss Saul, I can’t allow Nick to kill someone again. He’s no longer a hit man. He can’t solve things with the barrel of a gun any longer.
If I’m to save Christine from Saul, I’m going to have to do it myself.
Chapter 10
Nikolai
I do not like that Daisy leaves for classes, but I know by now that she would like it less if I protest. Quietly I follow her. One day we watch a James Bond movie and she proclaims I am Bond. But I am no spy. Spies can lie, change their appearance, seduce without effort. I am a poor liar and have never once had plastic surgery as many spies do. My work is done in the background, where I watch and wait. I am a ghost and a hunter.
Today I hunt. After seeing her safely to the building where her classes are today, I take an easel and set it up close to the security building. I have a sound amplifier in my bag, which I point toward the small concrete slab where the security officers congregate to smoke. With my earphones and my paint supplies, I believe I look like an average student.
Settling in against the cold, I take out my pencil and begin sketching the mane of a lion. My patience is rewarded. Within fifteen minutes, one guard and then another appear. The conversation is easy to pick up. In between the strands of fur on my sketchbook, I take notes.
“I heard they found three shell casings on the roof of BF.”
BF would be Blackfriar, the main residence and dining hall. There are several exits and entrance points, and according to the young girls who sit in the front, students often sit on the roof and smoke—often illegal substances.
“Yeah, a .222. One of the detectives said it looked like it came from a bolt action. Someone had been lying there.”
“Bolt action? What’s the point of that?”
“No idea.”
I did. Bolt-action rifles were precision tools used by military snipers . . . and men like me.
“No injuries, though. That’s good. Think we’ll actually get some working cameras?”
The companion snorts. “Yeah, right. I saw a requisition order on the desk today, so it’ll be weeks before they go in.”
“It was weird. Like the guy was playing target practice. Hit a stop sign, and it looked like he was aiming for the middle but none of the shots were in the middle. One missed entirely and went through a car window. The other two were in the metal, but mostly around the white part.”
I’ve heard enough. Packing up my materials, I head for Blackfriar. There is no lock on the entrance because the building contains a dining hall available to the entire campus. It takes almost no effort to step into the stairwell and climb the stairs. I spot the black half circles in the ceiling that are apparently empty. Blackfriar is five stories tall, and the dining hall is on the first floor with a few student rooms. Residential housing comprises the remaining four floors.
A sign above the door to the roof says that it is an emergency exit only and that an alarm will sound if the door is engaged. Using a screwdriver secreted in my art supply bag, I quickly dismantle the door latch. As I suspected, the alarm wires are not hooked up. Either the shooter undid them or, as is the more likely case given the lack of actual security cameras inside the domed glass coverings, the wiring was never attached.
Yellow police tape surrounds the area where the shooter was lying. I search around the taped area but there is no debris. The police department has picked it over carefully.
As I crouch near the tape, I breathe a sigh of relief. The shooter is an amateur. His body print is still visible on the concrete. He should have brought a mat. Or not rested so long as to leave a stain. The three points of a barrel rest are still evident. Did he miss killing because he was a bad shot? Or because this was a warning to someone?
If it is someone sent to dispatch me, former Bratva hit man, it would not be an amateur. A paid killer would easily be able to hit the middle of the stop sign that is only a few hundred feet away, particularly lying down bracing his gun with a stand.
The phone buzzes in my pocket, alerting me that classes for Daisy are nearly completed. I gather my paint supplies left inside the stairwell and move swiftly down the stairs.
In the dining hall, I pay for two sandwiches and then eat them both as I jog toward Daisy’s building.
She is standing in the lobby, frowning when I open the double glass doors.
“Who has made you unhappy?” I ask immediately. Looking around I see only average students. Have any of them insulted her? I will demand they apologize.
“No one,” she mutters and then tucks her hand around my wrist. I do not believe her but willingly follow her out into the cold.