Hardly any sunlight filtered through grimy windows of the dusty, empty corner office. Victor Alexi Chernyenkov knelt on a cushion of neoprene coated foam, listening, settling his mind and doing what any sniper does best—waiting patiently.

Located in a disreputable part of Washington D.C, the abandoned top floor office in a derelict building suited his needs perfectly. The previous week, his widowed sister-in-law had provided the details he needed. After gaining undetected entry to the building’s fire exit, Victor had planted telltales. This morning, before setting up in the hide, he made certain the upper floor was clear, not wanting some homeless person or crack addict interrupting his task.

A nondescript man of moderate build, neither tall nor bulky, Victor had features that allowed him to blend in almost anywhere in Europe or America. Raised in the Soviet Union, educated, conscripted during the invasion of Afghanistan, Victor was singled out because of his marksmanship, becoming a Spetsnaz the sniper. After two years of intense fear and tenuous survival, he returned home, discontent, all too aware that his Motherland was crumbling into the hands of rich oligarchs, mobsters and corrupt, incompetent apparatchiks.

Determined to find a better life, Victor used his training and black market contacts, making his way through Hungary to Austria, and from there to an American embassy. After long and detailed debriefing over weeks, he was put on a transcontinental flight to the United States, taken into probationary employment with a government organization that technically didn’t exist. After a year, he was fully engaged in ‘black ops’ missions that utilized his sniper skills.

The Berlin wall came down and the Soviet Union imploded. Thanks to contacts and a tidy bank account, Victor was able to help his younger brother Stanley immigrate with his wife, Nadyah. Within months, Stanley was recruited by the CIA, returning to Moscow three times on covert missions. A brilliant systems analyst, Nadyah was eventually recruited by the NSA, her skills helping crack coded Russian radio traffic.

Slowly, Victor eased the long barrel of a Bullpup Barrett M95 through the rectangular hole he had neatly cut from the plate glass window. Not bothering to fold down the bipod, he settled the barrel on a foam pad duck taped to the corroded aluminum sill. Once steadied, he looked into the complex scope, taking deep, steadying breaths, drawing within, emptying thoughts of all distractions. He blinked, eye adjusting to the sight picture.

Over a kilometre distant, a plaza entrance leapt into view. There was a typical sidewalk scene with pedestrians. Only a peripheral blur, Traffic was streaking past on the avenue. A quick scan picked out the ubiquitous doorman, a cluster of reporters, a few news photographers and a couple of television cameras with crews. They too were waiting.

Victor quickly identified two Secret Service agents. One was a young, competent-looking woman. No matter that they were trying to look inconspicuous, Victor picked up that they were scanning everybody, checking out pedestrians, journalists and nearby buildings.

Victor Chernyenkov worked the action, chambering a specially modified fifty calibre BMG cartridge. It slid into the breech with a quiet ‘snick’. Like others in the magazine, the slug had been carefully machined, the bullet core partially drilled out, filled with a suspension of lead bird-shot in mercury. The tip of Each bullet was a ballistic cone of carefully crafted polymer composite. On impact, that tip would be driven back into the mercury, exploding the slug with devastating results.

Close behind a motorcycle escort, the senator’s silvery grey limo came to a stop. Doors opened.

One of the Secret Service agents moved into position, opening the rear door, his head rotating, sharp eyes looking everywhere. Victor adjusted his aim, aligning cross-hairs, zeroing on the man’s forehead.

Twelve hundred metres distant, a secretly planted, carefully positioned electronic tell was transmitting encrypted data bursts, giving Victor’s ballistic computer the wind velocity and direction. At his side, the small unit was decoding information. Connected to the tablet computer by a thin cable, his complex scope was constantly receiving miniscule adjustments. Victor willed his heart to slow, settling his thumb on the button of a laser rangefinder.