Tuesday, February 7, 4:13 p.m.

He approached James Carrier’s body, not so much to ensure he was dead—the gaping hole in the chest pretty much confirmed that—but because Ray Owens always liked to inspect his handiwork. He had done his job, and he had done it well. He’d studied his target—knew where he lived and worked, what church he attended, even where he bought his cigarettes. Most importantly, he knew James Carrier walked this trail every Tuesday. Ray had waited patiently for the right time, the right shot. Now he congratulated himself on a job well done.

The only blemish on this otherwise perfect job, he thought, was the fucking crows. They cawed in annoying unison, as if to give away his cover. For a moment, he considered using his Remington M24 to shred a few feathers. Nothing ever stops me from enjoying my kill, he scowled. But he lowered his rifle, not wanting to waste bullets on a few pathetic birds. Besides, he knew he wouldn’t stop at one; he’d kill them all.

Ray emerged from his cover in the bushes, slapping snow from his clothes as though swatting away flies. He deftly disassembled the rifle, stowing it away in its case, where it would remain in preparation for the next job. He reached into his tattered trenchcoat and pulled out his cell phone to call his client.

“It’s done.” No response; he didn’t expect one. He dropped the phone into his pocket and grabbed a cigarette. He didn’t know much about his client, and this suited him just fine. All he needed to know was who, when, where, and how he was getting paid.