OUTSIDE THE WHITE tower, Mr. Stryke sat on a bench in the light drizzle, killing pigeons. The slingshot the little man used was almost invisible. Two flesh-colored thimbles slipped over the index and middle finger of his left hand. A clear rubber band, with a clear cup that could hold ball bearings of various sizes, connected the thimbles.
By resting his left arm on his knee, hand palm down, he could pick off the birds with no witnesses. He killed without looking at his prey. His peripheral vision was excellent.
After a moment, he’d stroll over to the dead bird, shaking his head as if in sympathy. Like a good citizen, he would carry the pigeon to a garbage can, enjoying the bird’s fading warmth in his hand. He’d then move on to another bench.
For four hours, he’d watched the white tower
