Icarus

James Hardley lay on a slab of warm limestone, the Amalfi cliff face dropping away beneath him into the blue Mediterranean. The sun sat low over the water, and the light came in at a sharp angle that threw long shadows across the white stucco of the villa a full kilometer away. He adjusted the focus on the spotting scope and watched the terrace where Slaven Vulcović sat with a glass of red wine in his hand. The man wore a cream silk shirt open at the collar, gold chains resting against thick chest hair. Around him moved a dozen men who never seemed to relax, even when the wine was flowing.

Hardley had already chosen his firing position two hours earlier. The rock shelf gave him cover from the road above and a clean line of sight through the terrace glass. He rolled onto his side and opened the rifle case. The rifle, a 7.62X51mm AR Platform rifle with collapsible stock came out in two pieces, matte black and already fitted with the Dead Air suppressor. He threaded the pieces together, seated the magazine, and worked the bolt carrier. The round chambered with a quiet metallic click that was lost in the steady wash of waves below.

He brought the scope up and found Vulcović again. The target leaned back in his chair, laughing at something one of the guards had said. Hardley measured the distance with a laser range finder and checked the "dope" or ballistics chart that came with the custom set of cartridges and the weapon system. The wind was light that day. He factored the slight crosswind coming off the Med. He did the fine tuning on the elevation dial and settled the reticle on the man's right temple. He slowed his heart rate and took a deep breath and then slowly let it out, patiently waiting for the interval between heartbeats. The safety glass of the terrace doors would not be a problem for the heavy high-velocity round. The real question was timing. The round's flight time would be just over one second. He waited until Vulcović settled before applying pressure to the trigger that would break at about 3 pounds.

A speedboat passed below the cliff, its engine note rising and falling as it moved parallel to the shore. Hardley waited. The boat throttled up, the engine roar climbing toward him. He exhaled, let the reticle center settle, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet left the suppressor's muzzle before going supersonic with a muted pop. The sound was swallowed by the boat's engine. The glass of the terrace door starred and then spider webbed. Vulcović's head snapped sideways and he dropped the wine glass. The red stain spread across his shirt and down the front of the chair.

Hardley kept the scope on the scene for a few seconds longer. None of the guards moved at first. One of them finally noticed the broken glass and stepped closer. Another pointed at the spreading blood on the carpet and from their principal's temple. Then the shouting started. Hardley lowered the rifle and laid it on the rocks. He didn't want to be found with it later. It was a shame to leave it, especially with the Night Force optic which he loved. He worked fast but without hurry, rolling a large rock into the backpack with the case and pushed it into the water from the cliff's edge. 

He stood, stretched the stiffness from his legs. He picked up the spent casing lay on the rock where it had ejected. He laid the rifle on the rocks and tossed the cartridge into the water below. It was already sanitized of fingerprints and DNA.  The weapon system had been engraved by Mongoose with a serial number and manufacturer from an ATF database that supposedly belonged to an FBI section chief in Washington. The joke never got old for the armorer, and Hardley saw no reason to break the pattern now. He loved thinking of the authorities chasing their tails.

The trail led up and away from the cliff, threading between scrub pine and low stone walls that marked old, terraced fields. Hardley walked at a steady pace, listening for sirens or the sound of vehicles on the road above. None came. He reached the small parking area where he had left the rented Fiat, unlocked the door, and slid onto the seat. The engine caught on the first turn, and he pulled onto the narrow road that would take him north toward the border. Just another Fiat in a country lousy with them. Forgettable.

Traffic stayed light as the sun dropped behind the hills. Hardley kept the radio off and drove with the window cracked, letting the evening air clear the smell of gun oil from his hands. He passed through small towns where people sat at outdoor tables eating late dinners. The smell of grilled fish and garlic drifted across the road. He thought about stopping for a plate but decided against it. The longer he stayed in one place, the more likely someone would remember the American.

He continued going north. The roads north still carried plenty of evening traffic. If authorities had established temporary checks, his clean passport under a different name and a believable story about business in Milan would carry him through. Once he was across, he could leave the Fiat and pick up the next car his handler, John Weatherby, had arranged.

Hardley checked the rear-view mirror out of habit. Nothing followed. He reached into the glove box, pulled out a bottle of water, and took a long drink. The job had gone exactly as planned. Vulcović was dead, the guards had reacted too late and Hardley was already putting distance between himself and the scene. Still, he felt the familiar tightening in his chest that always came after a clean kill. It was not regret. It was the awareness that one more name had been crossed off the list, and the list kept getting longer.

The road climbed into the hills. Headlights from oncoming traffic swept across the windshield and then disappeared. Hardley thought about the next name on Weatherby's list, a man based in Zagreb who ran protection rackets for the same organization. That job would require a different approach. The Spetsnaz detail around Vulcović had been professional but predictable. The next crew might learn from this one and tighten their perimeter. Hardley would have to adapt.

He reached the outskirts of a larger town and slowed for a roundabout. A police car sat at the entrance to a side street, lights off, the officer inside staring at his phone. Hardley kept his speed steady, gave the officer a casual glance, and continued through. The Fiat's tires hummed on the pavement. Somewhere behind him the alarm would be spreading through the Croatian network, but the Italians would treat it as another mob hit and file the paperwork accordingly.

Hardley allowed himself a small smile. The local seafood really had smelled good from the overlook. Maybe next time he would stop long enough to try it. For now, the border waited, and after that the next target, and after that the one after. The sun stayed low behind him, and the road ran straight into the gathering dark.