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carrier's one vulnerable spot was the strip of metal between the two panes.
He took the sturdy metal loop attached to his harness and snapped himself to the taut line. Behind him,
he heard the rebels burst through the door, emerging onto the roof a hundred feet away. Spotting the
assassin, they swung around to fire on him as they ran toward him, setting off an unnoticed trip wire.
Immediately, they were engulfed in a fiery detonation from the last remaining packet of C4 the assassin
had planted the night before.
Never turning around to acknowledge the carnage behind him, the assassin tested the line and then
launched himself from the rooftop. He slid down the line, lifting his legs so that the spikes were aimed at
the windshield divider. Everything now depended on the speed and the angle with which he would strike
the divider between the bullet-proof panes of the windshield. If he was off by just a fraction, the divider
would hold and he had a good chance of breaking his leg.
The force of the impact ran up his legs, jolting his spine as the titanium and corundum spikes on his boots
crumpled the divider like a tin can, the panes of glass caving in without its support. He crashed through
the windshield and into the interior of the vehicle, carrying with him much of the windshield. A chunk of it
struck the driver in the neck, half-severing his head. The assassin twisted to his left. The bodyguard in the
front seat was covered in the driver's blood. He was reaching for his gun when the assassin took his head
between his powerful hands and broke his neck before he had a chance to squeeze off a round.
The other two bodyguards in the jumpseat just behind the driver fired wildly at the assassin, who pushed
the bodyguard with the broken neck so that his body absorbed the bullets. From behind this makeshift
protection, he used the bodyguard's gun, fired precisely, one shot through the forehead of each man.
That left only Khalid Murat. The Chechen leader, his face a mask of hatred, had kicked open the door
and was shouting for his men. The assassin lunged at Murat, shaking the huge man as if he were a water
rat; Murat's jaws snapped at him, almost taking off an ear. Calmly, methodically, almost joyously he
seized Murat around the throat and, staring into his eyes, jabbed his thumb into the cricoid cartilage of the
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Chechen leader's lower larynx. Blood immediately filled Murat's throat, choking him, draining him of
strength. His arms flailed, his hands beating against the assassin's face and head. To no avail. Murat was
drowning in his own blood. His lungs filled and his breathing became ragged, thick. He vomited blood
and his eyes rolled up in their sockets.
Dropping the now-limp body, the assassin climbed back into the front seat, hurling the driver's corpse
out of the door. He slammed the vehicle into gear and stepped on the gas before what remained of the
rebels could react. The vehicle leaped forward like a racehorse from the gate, hurtled over rubble and
tarmac, then vanished into thin air as it plummeted into the hole the explosives had made in the street.
Underground, the assassin upshifted, racing through the tight space of a storm drain that had been
widened by the Russians, who had intended to use them for clandestine assaults on rebel strongholds.
Sparks flew as the metal fenders now and again scraped against the curving concrete walls. But for all
that, he was safe. His plan had concluded as it had begun: with perfect clockwork precision.
After midnight the noxious clouds rolled away, at last revealing the moon. The detritus-laden atmosphere
gave it a reddish glow, its lambent light intermittently disturbed by the still burning fires.
Two men stood in the center of a steel bridge. Below them, the charred remains of an unending war
were reflected in the surface of the sluggish water.
"It's done," the first one said. "Khalid Murat has been killed in a manner that will cause maximum
impact."
"I would expect nothing less, Khan," the second man said. "You owe your impeccable reputation in no
small part to the commissions I've given you." He was taller than the assassin by a good four inches,
square-shouldered, long-legged. The only thing that marred his appearance was the strange glassy utterly
hairless skin on the left side of his face and neck. He possessed the charisma of a born leader, a man not
to be trifled with. Clearly, he was at home in the great halls of power, in public forums or in thuggish back
alleys.
Khan was still basking in the look in Murat's eyes as he died. The look was different in every man. Khan
had learned there was no common thread, for each man's life was unique, and though all sinned, the
corrosion those