“No.” Leon pushed the scope’s cover back down. “They’ll see you from a mile away, he pointed up. “Sunlight. It’ll reflect off the glass. Wait until the last second.”
Half a mile away Todd Ellison was tugging on his track jacket, trying to hide his gut. These jogs he went on in Central Park were a show. Something he could point to standing in a high school auditorium talking to his constituents. Say, “Look folks, working out, even a jog a week, it’s good for your health.” Make a quip about how he’s a mama’s boy, loved him some down home cookin’, but you gotta mind your health. All you got was your health. Rural folks liked that sort of language. Simple talk. If it wasn’t for the votes he’d never jog—not once ever.
“Who should I hit?” Mathilda asked.
“No woman, no kids—right?”
She removed the scope’s covers, put her eye to it, took slow breaths like he’d told her. This was fun. Up on the roof. Even getting here had been fun. Taking the cargo elevator to the top floor, watching him pick the storage room door, finding the ladder in the back corner that led to the roof hatch. The things he knew, the gum over the view piece on the door, that was great. Other stuff too, about history, how things worked, why people did little things they did. Like drinking sparkling water before they had their tiny cups of coffee made in the loud machines. She’d asked him about that. “The water washes your palate out, your mouth. You taste the espresso better,” he’d said.
“Jogger in the yellow?”
“Follow him, watch his movements, put yourself right in front of him, feel where his next foot will land.”
Coming down the path, his gut bouncing, what a fatso, that’s where she’d hit him, right in his stupid fat gut.
“Take a deep breath.”
Lungs full, chest pressed against the thick moving blanket he’d brought along. The sun on her legs.
“Now let it out. Easy—slow.”
Out her nose, the taste of the espresso tickled the back of her throat. A strong taste, not bad, but not something she liked. She wanted to and knew she would, in time.
As the last of her breath left her nose Mathilda pulled the trigger. The paint pellet hit the jogger a few inches from stomach’s center. Not bad for her first shot. Yeah, this was fun. The scene around the jogger turned to mayhem. Men wearing black dove to cover the guy. Weird.
“Let’s go,” said Leon.