Two days later, just after sunrise, Kali steered a rented jeep out of the edge of Valshier and into the mist-cloaked wilderness of the Wet Plains.
The road, if it could be called that, was little more than a scar through the overgrowth, a half-erased track of hardened mud and cracked stone. The vehicle rattled with every divot, suspension whining as if protesting the journey. Thin tendrils of vapor curled up from the ground in the cool dawn, clinging to the chassis and seeping through the cracked ventilation ports.
The plains lived up to their name. Low-lying and sprawling, the land stretched out in shallow waves of sodden grass and ankle-deep marshland, broken here and there by clusters of gnarled trees and skeletal ruins from long-abandoned colonial outposts. The air reeked of damp soil and algae rot, carried on a lazy breeze that never seemed to settle.
Kali drove for another hour, watching the landscape roll past in muted greens and grays, until he found a place that fit the parameters, an isolated hill rising like a knuckle out of the flatlands, crowned by a patch of dense brush and thorny creepers. The perfect vantage. Elevated, concealed, and commanding a wide view of the dirt clearing below, just where the intel said Amedeo's meeting would take place.
He killed the engine and let the silence take over. The only sounds were the soft hiss of wind through the grass and the distant hum of insect wings.
Kali stepped out, grabbed his gear bag from the back, and slung his reflective coat over one shoulder. Then he draped the car in bush leaves to camouflage it. The climb wasn't steep, but the earth was slick from recent rain, and the underbrush clung like hands. By the time he reached the summit, his shirt clung to his back and sweat lined his brow.
He crouched low in the thicket and took a moment to catch his breath. Then he got to work.
The longneedle sniper rifle came out of its case piece by piece, frame, barrel, scope, stabilizer legs. He assembled it with practiced ease, each motion silent and precise.
Kali unfolded the bipod and set it against a root-stabilized mound. He tapped the scope's power cell, then let the targeting lens flicker to life, feeding him thermal, wind drift, humidity, and rangefinding data in real time.
He exhaled through his nose. The rifle purred softly in response, syncing to his heartbeat.
Below, the plains lay quiet. But not for long.
He began his readings, checking angles, recalibrating wind compensation, measuring line-of-sight distances. He made a mental note of three fallback routes, two alternate shooting positions, and a quick descent path if things turned chaotic.
Then came the waiting. Kali hunkered down behind the screen of foliage, the butt of the longneedle snug against his shoulder, eye fixed to the scope. The chill of the morning had burned off quickly, replaced by the heavy, sticky warmth of rising sun over wet earth. Sweat prickled at his brow and down his spine, but he didn't move much.
The minutes dragged into hours. Time inched forward in slow-motion, the way it did when you were on the edge of something final. The wind shifted direction once, then again. Insects buzzed past his ears. At one point, a pale marsh-bird landed not five meters away, watched him curiously, then flapped off with a screech.
Still, he waited.
He'd learned patience long ago, sitting by the reeds of a freshwater delta with his grandfather, rod in hand, watching water ripple under gray skies, waiting for the telltale twitch. It was the same lesson here. Quiet. Stillness. And when the moment comes, decisive action.
Eventually, motion stirred on the far edge of the plain.
The first party arrived, a three-car convoy in matte-black syndicate cruisers, kicking up wet soil in their wake. They came slow, methodical, tires crunching softly over uneven earth. The vehicles pulled to a halt near the center of the clearing. Four men stepped out, guards, clearly. They fanned out, two standing at attention, one sweeping the perimeter with a palm-scanner, the last tapping into a comm line.
Kali adjusted his scope, tracking each figure's movements, marking the layout. He kept his breath even, finger loose near the trigger but not resting on it. Not yet.
Thirty minutes passed. Long enough for discomfort to start gnawing at his knees and lower back. But he stayed still. Eyes on the clearing.
Then, at last, the second convoy.
Just one vehicle this time. A heavier rover, armored, dust-streaked but well-maintained. It pulled up slow, as if the driver knew damn well everyone watching had itchy trigger fingers. The doors unlocked with a dull hiss.
Amedeo Rossi stepped out.
Front passenger seat, no hesitation. Expensive coat, pressed slacks, mirror-polished boots. A briefcase in his left hand. He was tall, broad-shouldered, early thirties by the look of him, his father's ironcast features softened slightly by youth and modern grooming. But the eyes were the same as the old man's, sharp, calculating, always moving.
His guards exited a beat later, two from the front, one from the rear. Nervous energy rolled off them. They weren't posturing, they were genuinely on edge. Kali noted the way their fingers hovered near their holsters, how their heads moved just a little too often. They knew this was a dangerous meeting.
Kali shifted his weight ever so slightly, lining up the shot.
He watched Amedeo step forward and offer a handshake to one of the waiting men. The briefcase remained in his grip.
No sign of betrayal. No raised voices. Just a deal. On the surface.
Kali's finger moved toward the trigger.
The window was opening and it would only stay open for so long.
Kali exhaled slowly, settling the crosshairs right between Amedeo Rossi's eyes.
The heir stood casually, half-turned to his entourage, speaking with quiet confidence. Unaware that death waited on a hillside two kilometers away. Kali's finger tightened on the trigger.
And then, an explosion.
One of the vehicles from the first group detonated, a plume of fire and shrapnel rocketing into the morning sky. The shockwave rippled across the plains, sending birds screaming into the air. The blast lit up the foggy light like a second sun.
Kali flinched instinctively, but his finger stayed off the trigger. Through the scope, chaos bloomed.
For a split second, everyone froze, the kind of stunned, instinctual pause that comes before the flood. Then one of the men from the first party raised a pistol and fired, not at the blast, but directly at Amedeo.
The shot rang out. One of Amedeo's guards moved on reflex, catching the bullet in the shoulder and dropping to the ground with a grunt. The rest of the group erupted into motion, but not the way Kali expected.
Instead of fighting each other, both Amedeo's guards and some of the men from the first party moved to protect him, shouting, covering angles, drawing weapons.
What the hell? It was pandemonium, but not betrayal. Not clean. Not coordinated. Kali narrowed his eyes, watching carefully. Something was off.
It looked at first like a single rogue shooter. But then another man broke formation, sprinting toward Amedeo with a blade flashing in the morning light. A second assassin. Definitely not one of Amedeo's men.
Kali swore under his breath.
Someone else had taken the job. Maybe another guild, or a freelance team, or someone inside trying to make it look like outside work. He didn't know. Didn't care. He wasn't about to let his bounty walk. He quickly realigned his scope, switching to predictive tracking. The assassin was closing the distance fast.
He took the shot. The longneedle fired with a whisper of heat. The round tore through the atmosphere, slicing cleanly through the thick, humid air. Two kilometers in under a second. A perfect shot.
But the attacker, split.
One man became two, identical down to the blood-spattered collar and the glint in their eyes. It wasn't a visual trick. It was a hard split. The bullet struck the left copy. It shattered into fractals, dissolving like glass caught in a strobe of light.
The real one lunged forward, blade raised. Before he could connect, one of Amedeo's remaining guards tackled him, and the two tumbled into the dirt, rolling through mud and gunfire. Chaos had consumed the meeting site. Dozens of shots rang out, sharp pops in the open air. Muzzle flashes danced between bodies. Two men were already down. Someone screamed.
Amedeo didn't wait. He threw open the rover's door, ducked inside, and gunned the engine. Tires tore through the muddy ground as he sped away, disappearing behind a low ridge, one rear door flapping open in the rush.
Kali watched through the scope, teeth clenched.
The shot was gone.
And with it, the clean kill, and the easy payday.
But this wasn't over. Not yet.