Claude spent almost a week in painstaking reconnaissance, trying to plot his attack.

 The muffler shop was located in a business–industrial area of town, off a street that was almost desolate, with few pedestrians and hardly any traffic. He quickly realized that parking a car there without it being noticed is not an option. The one possible place for it to blend in was a parking lot between the muffler shop and a furniture factory next door. But it was always full and likely under the surveillance of Iron Ghosts. A neighborhood grocery store down the road would not provide much cover or distraction either, because its visitors were very occasional, as well—workers from the area or residents from a row of single-family houses that ran along one side of the street, further south. The opposite side of the street had no buildings, only a small park.

 Hans suggested using the park—a small Japanese motorcycle, he told Claude, could be easily hidden behind one of the benches. From there, it would take him less than half a minute to get to Claude, pick him up, and escape. Claude agreed that the suggestion was a good idea and they began to finalize plans for the hit.

 A few days later, Claude received the secret combination of numbers on his pager. The message was from Marcel and the display on the screen meant one thing: Ready. Claude called Hans, who arrived on a stolen bike ten minutes later. He was not as nervous as he had been in previous hits. Practice and Claude’s exemplary behavior had slowly made him more confident in his skills and in the existence of Lady Luck.

 They traveled to the park’s rear entrance as planned, via a twisting side road. Nobody was there, as the time was only 10 o’clock in the morning. Blue-collar workers would not be arriving until later, during their lunch breaks to eat, drink, and chat. Hans turned the engine off and rolled the bike inside the park. Holding the handlebars as if they were a stubborn goat’s horns, he pushed the bike toward the nearest bench, which was littered with remnants of food and paper bags.

 For the end of September, the weather was still warm but the trees, tired of making new blooms and fresh leaves all summer, had begun to fade. Their dry, gray branches were shedding an amazing number of tired lifeless leaves, dropping them to the ground, one upon another, to create a rustling, red–yellow carpet with all the beautiful colors of death. Some of the tree branches were almost bare, which enabled Claude to peer between them to observe the muffler shop, from which Stanley must eventually appear.

 “I still don’t know exactly who we’re after,” Hans reminded Claude.

 “As I said, it’s a muffler shop owner,” Claude said. “Five grand in two hours—not bad, eh? That’s all you’ve got to worry about.” If Hans had known who they were actually after, he might have refused to take part in such a dangerous hit.

 Now, sitting behind the thinning veil of yellow foliage, Claude was beginning to realize that the success of the task was almost entirely in the capricious hands of fate. If Stanley exited the building unaccompanied by his bodyguards; and if there were no pedestrians on the street, in the line of fire at that one, specific moment; and if there was sufficient time to approach him without being noticed so Claude could reach a distance short enough for an accurate shot; and if Stanley was not armed . . .

So many if’s.

 Of course, Claude could allow Stanley to get into his car and then shoot him at the first stop sign or traffic light. The option of killing Stanley inside the muffler shop was definitely out of the question as Marcel had told him that the Iron Ghosts inside would be armed. Considering everything, the best decision would probably be to cancel the ambush altogether and tell Marcel the reasons. That, however, would require another team to find out exactly when Stanley was visiting his muffler shop again. And, who knew if, and when, such a chance might come along?

 On the other hand, the success of this hit would make Claude one of the most respected of the Devil’s Knights. The road to the gang’s higher circle was over Stanley’s dead body.

 Watching the entrance into the muffler shop, Claude felt sweat gathering in his palms and under his armpits. Staying cool when one’s death might be a few minutes away was not that easy even for the toughest guys. Having a steady arm and fast, precise reactions at such moments was the ability of a select few. He was sure of being one of them.

 “Anything wrong?” Hans asked, giving Claude a sharp look.

 “Not at all,” Claude responded in his usual confident tone. “It’s just taking a bit longer than I had thought.”

 At last, a man about thirty years old, with hair receding from his forehead, came out of the main entrance of the muffler shop. He was dressed in a business suit; holding a briefcase in one hand, he adjusted large glasses on his nose with the other, and walked briskly to the parking lot, where he climbed into his car, and drove away. A minute later, an old woman appeared on the sidewalk as if from nowhere, pushing a stroller with a baby inside toward the grocery store. Suddenly, Stanley came out of the building and headed toward the grocery store, a few steps ahead of the woman with the baby. Claude touched the gun that was stashed beneath his belt and stood up.

 Stanley briskly crossed the road. Claude followed closely and moved up to hide behind the woman. He sped up, shortening the distance between himself and Stanley, and then pushed his mask up to cover the lower part of his face in case the old bitch might recognize him later. He passed her, his hand still on the hidden gun. Stanley was about twenty yards from the grocery store when he looked back. In an instant, he darted forward and disappeared behind the corner of the building.

 Roll the dice, Claude said to himself, rushing into a deadly game with Lady Luck. Whatever comes . . . His gun ready, he turned the corner.  The hand of Providence, though, did not throw the dice in his favor.

 He saw Stanley—standing still, his outstretched arms steady, holding a gun. Stanley fired. Claude pulled the trigger, too, but he was on the run and well aware that the accuracy of his shot, even at point-blank range, would never match that of his stationary adversary. The mingled sounds of gunshots reverberated along the narrow street, and Claude saw a flash of fire coming out of Stanley’s barrel. At the same moment a crushing blow hit his chest below the left shoulder. It seemed to him that a huge, red-hot boulder had been thrown by a powerful force, knocking him down and incapacitating his body and mind.

 Claude collapsed onto the pavement, face down, hands stretched forward. He was suddenly disoriented, his body in the tight grips of pain. By sheer effort, he managed to raise his head and look forward, hoping to find his gun and take another shot at his target before passing out. But his gun was three feet away—it had fallen from his hand when the bullet slammed into his body—and Stanley was nowhere in sight. Claude let his head drop—the right side of his face hitting the coarse surface of the sidewalk. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the growling sound of a motorcycle engine approaching. His first thought was that Stanley had come back to finish him off. But when the bike stopped nearby, he saw that it was Hans, not Stanley. Hans jumped off, the engine still running, picked up the gun, tore away Claude’s mask, hopped back on the bike, and raced away.

 Claude closed his eyes, and in his mind, he saw a long, red band flying into eternity. Good, clever Hans, he thought. Now there will be no evidence against me. I will be a victim, not a hit man. Pity, I never got trained by Techie’s guys. That was his last thought before his mind plunged into darkness.