MANHATTAN, NEW YORK 2:18 PM . . .

HE TOOK SEVERAL breaths, going through the routine that he had gone through so many times before. After a while, it just becomes habit. The sky was filled with dark clouds that seemed low enough to touch. As he relaxed his body he took five breaths, nice and slow. He had to lower his heart rate way below one beat per second.

The best—trained snipers in the world could lower their heart rate to the same speed as a person who was asleep. Ty Jacobs—Voodoo, as he was called by the few people who actually knew him—could lower his heart rate to 42 beats per minute. Only, he wasn't sleeping . . . he was waiting.

Watching.

He was a messenger.

And the message that he delivered was a mercury—tipped bullet delivered as several thousand feet—per—second. He was several stories up, watching the small pieces of string he had tied up hours earlier, to see if the wind would affect his shot. The streamers were barely moving, so there was no reason to readjust the scope for windage. He settled his body flat on the piece of black plastic. It was all about trigger control, now. No reason to rush. He did his homework, so there was no need to cut corners. Then came the eyes. He blinked, in succession, 10 or 15 times to coat his eyes with liquid. That way, once he settled into the scope, he wouldn't have to blink as often. On either side of the sheet of black plastic were several small bags of rice, wrapped in socks. These would steady his rifle, a Remington 700, in .308 caliber. This rifle was not designed for anything other than killing humans. Just a messenger. He spread his legs, keeping them straight, his toes facing outwards as his heels dug into the edges of the plastic. His knees, thighs, stomach, and chest were flat on the ground. His right arm was bent, his palm and fingers holding the rifle tight to his right shoulder. His left hand was folded under the stock of the gun, with one of the rice bags in his hand. With just the slightest pressure from his left hand the back of the rifle would lift, bringing the scope down on his target. His eyes instantly picked—up the limousine making its way down the street below. Beside his rifle were six gray canisters that looked like coke cans, with key rings hanging from the tops—flash and smoke grenades. Even the busy New Yorkers took a second to glance at the stretched, white Lincoln Limo. The kind of ride that makes a statement. His right eye was looking through a 4 ½ by 14 scope that could see well past 1000 yards. But this was going to be a relatively easy shot. From this distance he could put out Washington's eyes out on a quarter. As the shiny white limo came to a stop, the doors popped open and several well—armed men in high—dollar suits jumped out of the front and back, clearing the area from the edge of the street to the entrance to the Tiffany's Jewelers. People that rode around in limos like that, with bodyguards that sharp, were usually very important, or very powerful. Voodoo didn't care which. His finger tightened down on the trigger delicately as the tiny cross—hairs found a beautiful, dark—complected Latin woman with shoulder—length black hair. She took her time stepping from the limo. She was wearing tinted Gucci sunglasses. She had on a brown leather coat that probably cost as much as most people's cars. She was model thin, with long legs, and wore black pants that might have been sprayed on they were so tight. Voodoo took several breaths, then slowly let the air escape from his lungs. He released all of the tension in his body. Perfectly in focus, the Latin woman turned and reached a hand out to a small boy, probably five or six—years—old. She led him, with his curly black hair, out to the sidewalk where they were immediately flanked by several bodyguards on each side. Each of the bodyguards had their arms floating near their jackets, where pistols and small machine guns were waiting to be put to use. Voodoo took one final breath, and then he slowly exhaled half of the air and waited. This was where a sniper was most deadly . . . the half—breath pause. No movement. No shaking. No anxiety. Nothing other than mathematics. The cross—hairs sat near the woman's head until the child with his mange of hair and his blue sweater turned to look at something in the street. Without hesitation his left hand tensed ever so slightly, bringing the cross—hairs down to the child, the tiny dot in the middle of the cross—hairs floating near his upper lip. Without guilt or remorse, he added just the slightest extra pull on the trigger. And then, as he watched through the scope . . . everything seemed to slow down. The mother started to say something to the little boy. . . . the bullet racing down! She blinked between words. . . . the bullet racing down! He turned the side of his mouth into something that might have been a smile. . . . Thump! The mercury—tipped slug entered just above the small boy's top lip, folding the upper teeth, and everything else in his mouth into the shock wave that folded the bullet through his brain. Instantaneous kill shot! And because of the speed of the travelling bullet, his head exploded before anyone on the ground even heard the shot. One second he was a smiling, happy child. The next . . . he was an inanimate piece of flesh and bone, no more alive than the mailbox or a street sign. The mother, several of the bodyguards, and most of the sidewalk below were painted in a red and gray splatter with bits of white bone and curly black hair. The bodyguards immediately tackled the mother, protecting her, and what was left of the child, gun barrels pointing in every direction. Voodoo turned away. Still, there was no nervousness, no apprehension. He was as relaxed as if he had just finished watching the weather report. As disinterested as if he's just read the ingredients on the back of a cereal box. He was just an anonymous guy delivering a message. With a quick but controlled cadence, he began to strip down the rifle like he had done it a thousand times before. He broke it into several smaller parts that were then wrapped inside of the plastic sheet he had been laying on. Below him there were screams and horns and alarms echoing between the buildings, but none of that was his concern. His first job was finished. 28 seconds later, the rifle was wrapped in plastic, unrecognizable. Now he had to affect his escape from the area. That's where the grenades came in. He grabbed the smoke grenades, one after the next, pulling the pins, and throwing them over the right, front, and left sides of the building. They would quickly blanket the area in a thick grey smoke that people would instantly take notice of. The flash grenades came next, in the same pattern, following the smoke grenades down to the ground where the ear—shattering explosions would surely startle the crowd of unknowing onlookers. With the buildings being as tightly packed as they were, the ensuing echoes and explosions that they would make would startle most people into a panic. He was, of course, playing off of the hysteria that 9/11 had created. You even mention bomb in New York and you have yourself a stampede. And so he pulled the pins and tossed all of the grenades as he counted in his head the seconds until chaos would ensue. 5 . . . 4 . . . He got to his feet. 3 . . . 2 . . . He started towards the stairwell. Boom! Ba—boom! Boom! Voodoo wasted no time in making his way into the stairwell and entering the building as the explosions from the flash—bangs were still rattling the air around him. There were already people evacuating, running and screaming, thinking the worst. With his glasses on, his black leather jacket hanging loosely over a clean white t—shirt, he could have been anybody. Just another scared New Yorker, hoping that jets weren't crashing into the buildings again. With his dark skin and chiseled features, he was just another worried guy, trying to get to safety . . . wherever that might be. An elderly woman wearing a white jogging suit and tennis shoes bumped into him, causing the rifle parts in the plastic bag to rattle together awkwardly. "What's going on?" she said, her face twisted with fear. He shrugged, glancing back over his shoulder, "Al Qaeda, maybe." The woman's face flushed white as she turned back to the crowd of people going in every direction. He toggled the cell phone in his jacket pocket that called a pre—programmed set of numbers. Each number was to a different cell phone in the surrounding buildings. And each of those cell phones was wired to the fire alarms in those buildings. With each call a new alarm would go off. Another building thrown into chaos and panic. Thousands of people would be pouring into the smoke— and blood—filled streets. Confusion and disorder . . . the perfect cover. He would be hidden in plain sight. Hearing the words "Al Qaeda" come out of his mouth the woman's eyes grew three times larger as she fought her way down the stairs, pulling and clawing past her neighbors. Like a log caught in a rushing river, Voodoo flowed among the terrified mothers and frightened children as they descended to the street. In a situation like this, there was no right way to run. So he went left. He found the alley, and made his way to the third blue dumpster. Without missing a beat he pushed the dumpster aside to reveal an open manhole. He dropped the plastic bag, and all of its parts down into the darkness below, not waiting for a noise. He then slid the heavily rusted cover back over the manhole and re—positioned the dumpster back over the hole. He began to fast walk down the alley, to another dumpster, where he took off a pair of silicon surgical gloves, wadding them up in a ball, and placing them in an unfinished carton of Sweet—n—sour pork. He tossed the carton back into the dumpster. Time to play scared, he thought to himself as he exited the alley. New York's finest were skidding around, jumping curbs, and flashing sirens. Fire trucks and ambulances were appearing from every direction. He was three blocks away from the site of the shooting, figuring that in the next few minutes they would send somebody up to the roofs of every building in the area. They would do their dusting and printing, and look for trace evidence. But there wouldn't be any of that. They would look for a bullet casing, like the one he had dropped down into the manhole. Good luck with that, he thought. As he descended the stairs that led to the subway he looked for a public phone. At the bottom of the stairs, about 10 feet from the turnstile, there was a pay phone. He slid some quarters in and dialed the number that he had committed to memory. And he waited. A voice with a thick Russian accent answered, "Hyello?" "Excuse me," Voodoo said, " . . . may I speak to Ari?" "No Ari live here," the voice growled. "My mistake," Voodoo apologized, "I must have miss—dialed." "Yeah . . . may—bee so," the voice replied. Click. And then the line went dead. Voodoo placed the phone back on the metal hook and headed for a subway car. As he was walking a few policemen had made their way down into the subway station, and they were asking if anyone had seen anything strange in the last few minutes. One of them glanced over at Voodoo and lifted his hands as if to stop him. "Foreigners," Voodoo snorted to the cop, shaking his head as he walked by. The officer nodded and then turned back to the gathering crowd of frightened onlookers. 37 minutes later he was walking out of an elevator with a large bag full of Chinese food, making his way to the front door of his loft apartment. As he reached forward with the key, his neighbor, Antonio Ferretti—a New York Police officer—backed out of the next door down the hall. He seemed to be in a hurry . . . more so than normal. Antonio was dressed in his cop's uniform, with a bulletproof vest half on, dangling from his left arm as he locked the door. He noticed Voodoo. "Ty!" he said, surprised to see his neighbor. "Total mess out there. Did you hear?" Voodoo furled his eyebrows curiously, shaking his head. "Total fuckin' nightmare," Antonio said. "Somebody shot a kid in front of Tiffany's. Kid was the son of some El Salvadorian mob boss," he explained, his voice thick with a Brooklyn accent. "Geez," Voodoo said, his face looking shocked. "I gotta go do an extra shift. People think it's the end of the world or some shit. Total fuckin' nightmare. I gotta go!" And with that he raced down the hall towards the elevator. "Hope you catch 'em," Voodoo said as he turned to his door and inserted the key. But it was all a facade. Voodoo took no pleasure in his work. He felt no pain or sorrow. He didn't get happy or sad or depressed or elated. He was a tool . . . an instrument like any surgeon might use. There was no emotion in how he made his living. He was just the messenger.