Wanted

Prologue

• Prologue •

Unknown

Wind out of the Northwest at seventeen miles per hour. Downward trajectory of 58 degrees. Shoot straight. Aim to kill. I traced the words onto the roof of my mouth with my tongue, repeating the motions until I practically breathed the same pattern. Invading memories - a lake glistening in the sunlight, sides sore from laughter, her smile - were cast aside, shut out. In that moment, I needed to focus every part of my conscience on the assignment at hand.

I adjusted the scope of my long-rifle and watched the crosshairs flit in and out of focus until they settled into the correct position. From my perch on top of a low building, I had about as clear a view as you could hope for of the spot where a couple of fellow gang members and I had taken out a target less than five hours earlier. Shifting my gaze slightly upward, I admired the poetry of the dangling corpse for a few seconds before I tore my eyes away from the scope to glance down at my TouchPad. The harsh red words displayed on its screen branded their message onto the backs of my eyes: Blonde, early-twenties, medium height. Journalist -- Grade 2 security threat.

I chuckled to myself. It was just like the Boss to send me out to drop some innocent girl for the sole purpose of covering himself once he realized he'd given a reckless order. To murder Detroit's Vice President of the Treasury may as well have been the textbook definition of a reckless order.

I rested my cheek on my arm, peering through the scope at the street below once again. Waiting. Watching. In the silence of the desolate alley, the patter of her footsteps preceded her. As she emerged hastily from the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings, I surveyed her movements completely undetected. Soon, she was furiously scribbling away on a pad of paper.

I supposed the Boss was justified in not wanting any more news about his gang's doings out on the streets. Wanteds, or those of us with super powers, were already persecuted enough without having our victims splayed across the front pages.

Regarding the girl, I cared about her story about as much as I loved staying in the city: not at all. It was better to stay away, at a safe emotional distance. Knowing personal information about a target just made the killing harder to do, and when I was given an assignment, I made certain it got done.

I trained my sights on the spot right between the girl's eyes.

"Hunt or be hunted," I whispered, then slowly started to squeeze the trigger.