The assassin stood alone at the edge of the cliff, a shadow against the vast expanse of the Alaskan sky, his figure cutting through the soft, golden hues of twilight like an ink stain on untouched parchment.
There was no hesitation in the way he held his rifle, the Garand M1 resting against his shoulder with the ease of a tool well-used, an extension of his own body. The barrel, still warm from the shot, pointed downward toward the river below, as if tracking the path of his victim even after the deed was done. He did not move, did not rush to leave the scene. Instead, he stood there, watching, waiting—not for confirmation, not for guilt or regret to take hold—but with the silent patience of a predator who already knew his kill was certain.
The sky behind him stretched endlessly, a maste
