The sniper rifle is long and dark and sleek, gleams with an oily and lethal sort of shine in the morning light. The fox stands before the open window in his boxers. A crisp spring wind breathes life into diaphanous curtains so thin and so white one could imagine they were the wings of an angel, and as they swirl around him, brush him with their silky and sweet caress, he studies the street six stories below.

A soft smile crosses his face, a broken smile that doesn’t touch his sad, blue eyes. He doesn’t have to worry. This is the best position he could hope for. There’s no such thing as perfect, yet the room, it’s window, was about as far from imperfect as could be imagined.

He glances sidelong at the rifle, propped there in the corner behind the vibrant, viny curls of a Pothos. It’s like looking into an abyss, a hollow point hell whose black floors are made from the cold bricks of grim guilt and exultant triumph.

It’s never about the money, he thinks. In his heart, his soul (if he has one), he knows that even though what he’s about to do is evil it serves a greater good…and that’s enough.

He’ll pull the trigger, pull it while a hurricane of confetti spirals down and a crowd screams the name of a stranger, and when it’s over he’ll board the plane that will carry him across the sparkling blue of the Pacific…or he won’t.

If it’s time…it’s time.

He resists the impulse to pick up the rifle, check everything one last time. He’s already done that half a dozen times, spent most of last night doing that. He had the faith. All that was left was the leap.

The fox checks his watch. Three hours and seven minutes left.