Chapter 62 Angel

62

Angel

The man called Angel closed and zipped the carry case for his Sako TRG M10 and laid it on the vast emperor-sized bed.

The apartment he'd rented at extortionate cost was worth the money. 108 Leonard was an iconic building. With iconic apartments. The bathroom had more marble than most hotel lobbies. The price would eat into his bottom line when he collected his fee, but it was nice to enjoy the finer things once in a while. Angel didn't kill people for money. Sure, he got paid for his work, but he killed people because that was what Angel was put on this world to do.

Killing was purpose.

Protect the team.

Take out the target.

There was no team any more. Hadn't been for a while. Now, there was just the missions. Jobs he chose himself. The joy was in the execution of his work, not in the remuneration. Downtime was good. He owned a lot of nice cars. Some decent houses. And a place in the mountains of Ohio that allowed him enough space to practice his craft.

He put on a fresh T-shirt and black jeans.

Then tied his boots. Loosened them and then re-tied them. It was part of his ritual. Make sure your boots are tight – that's what his drill sergeant told him. He'd carried that with him through basic training, then BUD/S: Basic Underwater Demolition/Seal Team Training. This training is designed to be some of the most grueling mental and physical challenges ever devised. Only one in five trainees make it to week four – hell week. Few make it out of that part of the course. Most quit.

Some die.

Angel made it through and carried two friends with him.

Protect the team.

Four years later, he'd carried their flag-covered coffins onto the same C-130 transport plane in Bagram Airfield. And he'd vowed never to load another.

That's when the incidents began.

Children, mostly. Curious by nature, and they liked talking to soldiers. Children who may have had explosives hidden under their clothes, or may not. It stopped mattering to Angel after a while.

Protect the team.

He left the Seals a different man. A man with two hundred thousand dollars' worth of lethal training, who only knew how to do one thing.

How to pull a trigger and hit a target.

Any target.

He hoisted his tactical bag onto his back and his rifle case onto his shoulder, and left the apartment. In the hallway, there was one door to his right. Locked, but not alarmed.

He picked the lock in under a minute, closed the door behind him and ascended the winding staircase to the clock tower. There were two levels. First was the mechanism house, with four windows on each wall. Above were the clock faces. A north and a south face and the bell.

Angel stayed on the first floor, cut out the window overlooking Leonard Street and unpacked his rifle. The Finnish Sato TRG had a cold-hammer forged barrel and was likely the most accurate factory-built sniper rifle in the world. He loaded the weapon, adjusted the sight. The clock tower was two blocks from the front entrance to the Manhattan Criminal Court building on Center Street. The surrounding buildings with a view of the entrance were all public buildings. 108 Leonard was the closest private building, and the clock tower, with its elevated position, gave clear line of sight over the corner of the Family Court Building and Collect Pond Park.

About a quarter of a mile away. Four hundred meters. Maybe five hundred with elevation. The rifle had a factory-recorded accurate range of 1,500 meters.

Angel could put a bullet through a buttonhole with this weapon at 1,700 meters.

He checked his watch. It was coming up on nine a.m. Angel put on his ear defenders. The bell that chimed on the hour, every hour, would be deafening without them. The window was just below head height. He would have to bend his knees slightly but he could get comfortable. He was used to waiting for a shot, if he had to.

Eye on the stock. Sight lined up.

Eddie Flynn got out of the passenger seat of a Pontiac Aztek and stepped onto the sidewalk. The driver of the Aztek had unruly curly hair, and even from this distance Angel could see creases in the guy's shirt.

Angel began his breathing exercises and gently laid his finger on the trigger. Flynn was the target.

And he was on the street.