Excerpt

Kyla knew she had to kill him. An old man in a tailored suit was in the cross-hairs of her scope. For days she hid in the shadows watching, waiting, and plotting the best way to carry out her burden. She could buy a gun and be done with it, but they were traceable and her employer warned her to keep her profile low. Silent weapons were a rare find in the town, more likely to be seen in a museum than on the streets. Although her client was vague on how to dispatch the old man, she knew she did not want even a drop of blood spilt. She would have to make it look like the hand of nature. She knew he had to be dead by a few days, and the brevity in that gave her no rest.

Her target spent the whole of his afternoon enjoying a leisurely walk in the park, stopping to cool himself off at a small patch of shade covering the water fountain. He hailed the lemonade man who rode a tricycle with a cooler attached to it. He was later observed sitting on a bench throwing birdseed to the jays and warblers at his feet. They chirped and seemed anxiously poised between feeding and fleeing.

Why out of all of the lowlifes and creeps out there do I have to whack this harmless old man? She asked herself. It would have made her burden easier had it been a drug dealer or a pimp she set her cross-hairs upon. No such luck. She wondered at what possible transgression he had done to merit a death mark. No sooner did she have doubts about carrying out her mission when flashes of adolescent teachings began to resurface in her head, mysteriously coming from out of nowhere.

This was her only terrible route to freedom. She had been a slave to Syndicate for far too long. Seventeen years to be precise. Her contact within the organization had guaranteed to release her of her obligation to Syn Corp, just so long as she completed this one final hit. Rather sacrifice an old mans life for the chance to start her own.

At seven-thirty sharp the mark stepped into the delicatessen around the corner from his apartment. It was a small deli lined by patio sets at the bottom corner of a four-story building hewn out of pink granite. Cipriano Brothers Bakery & Deli. Kyla was unaware she was repeating the name with silent lips.

He leaned over against the cylinder glass with wide eyes, deciding what to order. The boy behind the counter patiently waited, then smiled when the old mans head rose to meet his eyes. He pointed at several points on the counter, the boy nodding and preparing a hoagie roll for him. As the boy went to the counter, the old man pointed to a rack stuffed with small bags of potato chips and to the cooler where bottles of soda were neatly stocked. He pulled out a bottle from the cooler and had to lift himself by his toes to reach the rack. The boy went to the register and punched a few keys upon it.

Kyla was distracted by a buzzing noise coming from her dark lentsuit. She peeled off a square patch on her left thigh. One side was slivered with Velcro. The patch was no larger than her open palm. Thin, bright lettering appeared on the opposite side:

She knew the data was coming from the register. She was too much the techie to know that streams of data were whizzing back and forth from that quaint little deli on the corner to computer banks in that particular branch. Ultimately it fed into the old mans checking account in Quantum City hundreds of miles away. It was regarded as the gloriousness of Computer-Age living: the ultra-fast electronic relay. The device she held in her hand was tapped into the tightly woven mesh of fiber optics and sonic pulses, and right now it was receiving and recording the old mans purchase. She slapped the patch to her thigh after the message cleared out.

The man waved to the boy before exiting the deli. He passed the park and continued down Bleecker at a steady pace. The avenues limestone path was almost glimmering in the final few rays of sunset. It was dotted with small buildings spaced close together. None of them stood over five stories. Bleecker boasted many shops, offices, and tenements: all existing just as harmoniously as the people who populated the town.

The small town of Sawyer was proud of its low decibel levels. Mayor Wilkins once joked to the Quantum Free Press that his robot police force could jail a man for the heinous crime of farting way too loud. It was the perfect retirement locale or for someone who was sick of big city living. Noisy machinery was forbidden. Sky cruisers were forbidden. Even emergency services like Fire-Bots and ambulances had to adhere to Sawyers strict decibel codes. Any violation of the noise laws in Sawyer resulted in jail time and ridiculously high fines. In order to get around town, citizens had to walk, ride bicycles, or, because of its vast elderly communities, ride noiseless air scooters.

It became clear to Kyla that her target was returning to his apartment. She kept her distance as she followed him, careful enough but not too far away. Again she wondered why he was marked. He doesnt seem like a domestic terrorist or some kind of sleeper, hes just a nice old man who seems to value his final years in peace, taking time to smell flowers and feed the birds.

Shades of pink and lavender clouds began to darken overcast. The orange sun buried itself deeper into thick concentrations of oaks in the park. Street lamps turned on one at a time. Police androids floated down the streets, reminding citizens in gentle tones: Curfew is in four hours, fifteen minutes minus. Anyone breaking town curfew will be detained and questioned. Mayor Wilkins wishes you a good and peaceful evening...

The old man paced up the stairs to his building, a charming sand-colored brick tenement fronted by a flared archway. A black iron door swung open on its own accord. Before he went in, he stopped and turned back around.

It was at that moment when Kyla went to the closest kiosk she could find. Stacks of papers were hanging up above while assorted cards were carefully separated into bins. The bearded man behind the register stared intently at Kyla for a moment then resumed watching Net-TV. She pretended to scan through a current issue of The DibbleDay Sports Card. The Card was a review of sporting events, local and global, condensed into a 10 x 7 cm cut of Electro-Filament. She sneaked glances at the old man. He was distracted by a group of children who gathered around an ice cream robot, fashioned as a happy clown with a jolly voice. He smiled at the sight of children revved up by the promise of free ice cream, but only to those who were well-behaved. He turned back around and went inside his building.

Kyla let out a relieved sigh, putting the Card back where it belonged and walked away from the kiosk. A dreadful thought became clear to her, clearer than any sobering thought had ever been. It came from the darkest corner of her mind, and it threw her once again into uneasiness. All of her training and experience now depended on this one moment, this undeniable moment of clarity, and there was no mistaking what she must do to stop it.

The old man has to die, she thought, and it has to be tonight.