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land like a real wild animal for years before he learns to get over
it.
He never did figure out how it was that he did what he did,
what had saved him from the rabid wolf pack that night in the
mountains. Mutation? Evolution? Heck, maybe he was one of
those changeling babies his mother had read to him about, the
ones fairies put in cribs in place of real humans.
Shaking off the reminiscence, the assassin checked his
surroundings with his hawk-eyes and, since he had finally reach
Pennsylvania Avenue, decided to perch on a lamp post and
reconnoiter. Mind on the job, he scolded. You know who you are.
You’re the world’s most natural killer. That’s what you’re good
at, that’s all you’re good at.
Not that he was nervous. He wasn’t, certainly not. True, this
was the biggest job in the ten years of his career, never mind the
last fifty years of political history. But, he never put any limits
on the kind of killing he would do, and the nameless Chinese
man in black had paid top dollar for the death of a man so impor-
tant, and therefore so well protected, only the best hunter in the
world would be able to make the kill.
After all, the last time he had thought of the President as his
president, he hadn’t even been able to vote.
As a human, the city light had merely held the darkness
at bay. To a hawk, the White House lawn really was as bright
as day. He could count the buttons on every gun-toting guard’s
uniform. He knew most assassins would start worrying here. But
for Adrian, the first threat would come later.
Taking wing again, he gracefully glided over the concrete
wall, drawing nothing more than a passing glance from the na-
tional guardians below.
Angling himself to take advantage of an updraft, he made
two seemingly lazy circuits of the presidential mansion, all the
while surveying each window as keenly as a real hawk would
stalk a field mouse.

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