I made my way around the apartment easily; its dimensions were just as the blueprints showed. No surprises this time, a luxury in my line of work.
The target’s apartment was clean, a painting here, a photograph there. But what struck me most was the bar kept in the corner. Magnificent scotchs, bourbons, and ryes filled the glass casing. But, as any whisky drinker knows, nobody drinks them all. One finds a whisky, and we stick to it. That’s just the way it is. Sure, maybe one strays for a night or two when on the town, but at home, where there are no advantages to lying, we drink our brand.
As I looked over his impressive looking collection of the best Kentucky and Ireland have to offer, I landed on my decision. After pouring two fingers of the 15 year old Macallan single malt, I brought the glass to my nose and let the energy from the liquor envelop my nose and brain. It would be easy to be philosophical in that moment so I stuck to tangibles. This scotch needed a nick of water to bring it out.
Turning on my heel, I walked to the sink, which was easy enough in this open concept apartment. The space was, I admit, lovely. After expertly dropping some cold water into the scotch, I took my first taste, and admired the view from the living room window. A quiet night had fallen on this near, north London neighborhood but to a trained eye, there was always a sense of possibility.
Even though it was technically north London, the neighborhood lacked the everyday aesthetic that many of its neighbors still maintained. In that way it was the perfect place for the target to live. Close to his base of operations, but not amongst it. After all, one only has to be one inch out of sight to be unnoticed.
No sooner had that thought exited my mind when the lock began to turn on the front door. I took my final swig of the Macallan and strode to the shadows of the apartment. Eventually, I would be revealed but not yet.
The target entered the door with a cool, athletic ease. Setting his keys on the counter, he took off his designer loafers, and put on a pair of slides. As he moved toward the couch, I could’ve sworn I saw him take a glance at his bar but before I could process the look, he stopped, sniffed the air, and had a little chuckle.
It was at this point the target launched himself over his bar and counter top with the spring of a rabbit bounding away from a predator. The lights suddenly, harshly, came on, and within a moment I realized I was in the sights of a fully loaded .38 magnum.
“Don’t you think of moving,” the target commanded, steely and serious, yet quietly.
“Impressive, quite impressive” I said, flashing the target a sheepish grin.
The look on his face was more confused than I anticipated. How nice, I thought to myself, it is to still be capable of surprising someone.
Finally the target’s face twisted from fear and confusion into calmness.
“Ryan, is it really you? Ryan Mason?” he said.
“It is Yves,” I replied. “I’m still a bit thirsty; join me for a drink?”