Free The Silver Bear by Derek Haas Page A

saying; my thoughts were on the file in my backpack.
    When we arrived at my front stoop, I kissed her on the cheek, mumbled a few words of thanks, and hurried up into my apartment without looking back. Already, my heart was beating as though it had been shocked with a charger. I made my way to my closet and selected a pair of brown slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt. Over this, I pulled down a navy blue blazer. The same clothes fifty thousand men in Boston were putting on at that very moment. Nothing memorable, nothing that stood out. There is a way of dressing, of walking, of casting your eyes, that people looking right at you don’t even register your presence. This is a skill boys learn at Waxham, another reason I’m sure Hap recommended me to Vespucci.
    I eased open the suitcase I kept under the bed. Inside, the tools of my trade, given to me by Vespucci when I stepped out of the Columbus Textile warehouse: a Glock 17 semiautomatic pistol; a box of fifty 9-millimeter hollow-point bullets; a serrated knife with a spiked handle; a cache of false IDs, credit cards, business cards. In case I was struck down doing my duty, my identity would be difficult to determine, giving Vespucci enough time to cover his tracks, probably by burning down this apartment.
    I had not graduated yet to a sniper rifle, and though I am semi-proficient in its use now, it is not my preferred modus operandi. There is an adage that says the closer you can get to a mark, the more skilled you are as an assassin, but I think that adage is as porous as a sieve. Some of the dumbest killers in the world have stood two feet from their prey and pulled the trigger, and some of the most skilled riflemen have toppled their marks from distances greater than five city blocks. A close-contact killer may have to negotiate startled bystanders, while a marksman has to balance wind speed, sunlight, elements, obstructions, and the occasional spotter. Each takes expert skill. The trick, even as green as I was then, was to get in a position that would give me the most comfort . . . comfort in locating the target, comfort in killing the target, and comfort in escaping from the murder scene directly after the assassination.
    I was standing near a bus stop on Beacon Street, reading the Globe like any other bored commuter, checking my watch occasionally, humming to myself a bland tune. The door to Janet Stephens’s town house opened and she emerged, wearing a navy dress and white walking sneakers for her short hike to the courthouse.
    As soon as she entered the Common, I folded my paper, tucked it under my arm, and followed from thirty yards away, adjusting my pace to match hers, so that we would remain the same distance apart. I felt certain that somewhere Vespucci was watching me like the eye of God to see how his newest charge would handle the pressure of his first assignment.
    Janet passed a couple of tourists looking at the duck sculptures, then took a left down one of the paths dissecting the park. She walked at a pace somewhere between brisk and leisurely, not enough to break a sweat but quick enough to keep me on my toes. I could feel my pulse rising in my ears, like a phantom drumbeat, pounding, pounding. The middle of her back stayed tight as she swung her arms, and it seemed wider than the way it was described in the file, certainly wide enough to hit, to split open, to shatter the spine, even from thirty yards away.
    She slowed as she left the park and came to a crosswalk. A blinking red hand on the light-box across the street forced her to a stop, and she used the chance to stoop down and tie a loose shoelace. I had no choice but to approach the same crosswalk; there were several other pedestrians also waiting for the light to change, so it wasn’t as though I would be the only one joining her on the corner.
    Still, it seemed like a giant spotlight was trained right on me. I looked past the businessman in front of me and concentrated on the middle of Janet