The heat hit Knox like a wall as he stepped off the plane.
Marrakech was a furnace, the air thick with dust and the scent of spices. He moved through the airport with practiced ease, his eyes scanning for threats, his hand never far from the concealed blade in his jacket. He'd been tracking Steven Hayes for weeks, following the sniper's trail through a maze of dead-drops and cutouts.
He's here. He's hiding in the medina, waiting for his next contract.
Knox had studied Steven's profile obsessively. The sniper was a creature of habit—he practiced at the same shooting range every day, took his meals at the same café, slept in the same safehouse. He was arrogant, confident, convinced that no one could get close enough to hurt him.
He doesn't know I'm here. He doesn't know I'm coming.
Knox
