A window was open on the vacant house. Someone standing watch would not want nor need the window open. That only left one explanation, and the realization chilled him. A sniper. A stupid, unobservant or sleeping sniper because he, Victor, was still alive.

Vic partially unzipped the plastic rear window of the convertible top. Sitting sideways in the passenger seat, Vic had a clear view through the 22s oversize scope. With his other hand he made his phone call.

Hello

Uh, Don? This Don?

Vic! Where are you?

Don, listen carefully. You have a sniper targeting the house. I know it sounds nuts. Dont turn on any lights, and dont wake up Ellen or Monica, OK?

A sniper!?

Im sorry I got you into this, Don.

Where is he?

Dan Wilders house. Upstairs window. Its open, and the place has been vacant for months.

I can see it, No one Wait! No, I see him! Vic, You wont believe it, I think its Frank Wentworth, the Assistant prosecutor! With one of the new tactical team rifles!

I see him too. Im going to take him out from here right now while hes in sight, gimme a second.

Vic, no! You cant just kill him, just like that!

Youre right, and I wont have to. If he had the phone tapped, he would have ducked when I said that. He didnt even flinch.

Clever, how did you ever think of that?

Training. If I draw him away can you get out of there with Ellen and Monica?

Im alone. Theyre out at my place with Melody.

Good, go out the back and jump the fence. Ill pick you up on the other side of the block. Be careful.



Mary Poling was lying between the side of the house and the ceringa bushes. Her concealment was complete as long as it stayed dark, about another thirty minutes. She had been sure Victor would come back tonight and she was running out of time. She was not very comfortable, but she knew exactly what she was doing. In fact, she was more in her element than shed been in years. The daughter of a Mob boss, shed originally learned the skill intending to use it for the Family. Later, she had become a lawyer for the same purpose. Her first job with a prosecutors office had carried two paychecks, one from the city, one from the Family. New Ashgrove had unknowingly given her her first legitimate position. Her first job ever had been as a hitter. This would be her fourteenth hit, and the mark was her own Assistant Prosecutor. As soon as he killed Victor Maxwell, shed whack Frank. She would say shed learned of his plan to discredit Mr. Maxwell, and when it dawned on her that he might be contemplating murder she had gone to warn the family, arriving a few seconds too late. With Frank dead, the entire affair would be blamed on him. If an investigation were required she would assign Ella Fowler to head it up.

From her position she had a clear view of the window Frank intended to fire from and knew he would have to lean out slightly when the time came. Being right handed, he would sit on the sill with his back outside to get a reasonably stable firing position. A pro would set up back inside the room in the shadows, staying completely out of sight and letting the building absorb the sound. He would thus have needed only to open the window a few inches. Frank had it all the way up.

Her aiming point would be center of mass under the left armpit, diagonally through Franks chest. He would die almost instantly. She hoped Mr. Maxwell did also. If Frank failed to take him out cleanly she would be unable to finish it for him. Frank was an expert marksman, but this would be his first, and last, human target. Her only real concerns were Franks determination and her own bladder control.

Ordinarily, no rational person would knowingly take a pistol up against a sniper rifle, but hers was no ordinary pistol. A .45 auto, much like the Army had used up to 1985, except for its 7 inch ported barrel, in her hands it was very capable of taking Frank at this range.

She cursed her luck this was going down so close to daylight. She wished she had some idea what kind of vehicle Victor would be using. The only car shed seen in the last hour or more had been some kid in one of those souped up four wheel drives with a convertible top and big tires. It was thankfully gone now.

A door suddenly opened not ten feet behind her.

Don had gone out the side door mistaking it for the back and took a couple steps before he realized he was running parallel to the street. The sniper could see him! He lurched right just as Franks 180-grain hollow point .308 slug cracked through the space he would have been in. Startled, he slipped on the damp grass and fell hard on his right side, getting the wind knocked out of him.

For just a moment Frank Wentworth knew hed screwed up. As he fired, he saw the man jerk away as his feet went out from under him. Then he saw it wasnt Vic Maxwell. It was Don Butters. He didnt really know Butters, but had faced him as a defense attorney a few times. What the hell was he doing here?

Then he coughed. Or so he thought. A sharp, almost violent cough, involuntary and completely unexpected. His feet come up and hit the lower edge of the open window, smashing it. He sort of burped, and puked up a teacupful of blood as the ground came up and siding rushed past. He knew Saint Peter instinctively. He did not look pleased.




3