The Assassin (Max Doerr Book 1) by Jay Deb Page A

his
smartphone. Samuel showed him a picture.
    Irene
was a young woman in a pink blouse, and the photo showed Samuel kissing her
left cheek. “Oh, come on,” Doerr said. “You’re still at it behind your wife’s
back.”
    “At
what?” Samuel unlocked the door and stepped one foot in. “Remember she’s just a
friend. Now come on, time is running out.”  
    “Oh,
yeah,” Doerr knew Samuel’s nature. Once a womanizer, always a womanizer.
    Doerr
knew Samuel’s first two marriages had ended badly, all because of his cheating
nature, and he lied a lot. He had once boasted that he had a girlfriend in every
European country he had visited. Between Amsterdam and Paris, he had a half
dozen of them at one time.
    Doerr
raised his foot, about to enter the condominium. But his foot stopped in the
air. “Wait, Samuel.” His uneasiness about the operation was growing. “Can you
show me something written, some official confirmation for this operation?”  
    Samuel
turned; he was inside the condo, and Doerr stood outside. “All right, I knew
you might ask for that. Here it is. Take a look.” Samuel took out a paper from
his pocket and held it out for Doerr.
    Doerr
took it and read. It was a letter, written and signed by the agency director,
approving the operation, on the official CIA letterhead.
    Doerr
handed the letter back and followed Samuel inside, doubts still lingering in
his mind. But he had already decided to go along with it; the letter was all
the proof he needed.
    Samuel
placed the duffel bag on the shiny, dark granite countertop. “Now you go to
work.”
    Doerr
opened the bag, took out the parts and assembled the M107 long-range rifle in
exactly three and a half minutes. He took the magazine, already loaded with .50
caliber bullets, and clamped it to the rifle. Doerr knew an M107 was overkill
for the job. A good-old M16 would have been enough.
    Samuel
placed the black bipod on the windowsill and handed the telescopic sight to Doerr.
“Now, do what you do best. We’ve got only one shot. If we miss, he will hide,
and we will never get the bastard under a crosshair again.”
    Doerr
clipped the sight to the rifle and took aim through the open window. The target
stood in the park, near a large oak tree, surrounded by around twenty-five
people. He wore a black blazer and a pair of black pants. His black beard and the
thin mustache were the exact same as the photo Doerr had seen in the dossier.
    “Shoot
him,” Samuel hushed as he moved his lips closer to Doerr’s ear. “That’s the
bastard.”
    Doerr
moved his rifle a few inches to the left and then to the right.
    Samuel
took out a photo and showed it to Doerr. “This is the man. Do you see him?”
    Doerr
nodded.
    “ Shoot
him ,” Samuel said. “We have to take him out with a single bullet and get
the hell out of here. Quick!”
    Doerr
checked the picture on the paper. It was the same man. He settled the crosshair
on the man’s head. He had a bald spot at the front, right above his forehead.
It looked like he was giving a speech, and the folks around him were listening.
    Doerr
pulled the trigger.
    The
sun was bright, and the grass in the park had started dying. The man dropped to
the ground. A few people around him swooped in, but most took a step back. A man
nearby, who was making a balloon for his customer, stopped momentarily. The
young boy, who extended his hand to receive his favorite ice cream from a seller,
froze. Doerr saw them in his telescopic sight.
    “Let’s
pack up and get out of here,” Samuel said.
    Doerr
disassembled the rifle quickly, and Samuel put the magazine and the barrel in the
top left cabinet in the kitchen, and then he put the rest under the bed inside the
first bedroom. He came back to the living room, rubbing his hands. “We have to
get going now.”
    As
planned, Doerr and Samuel took two different elevators down. When Doerr exited
the building, he saw neither Samuel nor the doorman. He kept his head down at
the door to stay