CHAPTER 1 – Shadows Before the Shot
The message came in at 02:17.
No greeting. No name. Just a string of numbers, a city, and a date.
Null stared at the glowing text on the encrypted chat window, the only light in the cramped apartment. He let the information settle in his mind like a puzzle piece clicking into place. The numbers formed an address in the heart of Antwerp. The date—three days from now.
Underneath, a single sentence:
"One shot. Discreet. Payment confirmed."
The cursor blinked in the darkness. Null's hands didn't move to reply. There was no need. In this corner of the underworld, a reply was a liability. You took the job, or you didn't. And Null always took the job, provided the money was right.
He closed the laptop, slid it into a custom steel case, and locked it. The apartment around him was sparse—no photographs, no personal items, no hint that anyone actually lived here. In truth, he didn't. This was one of seven safehouses across Europe, each as anonymous as the man who used them.
---
By morning, he was behind the wheel of a nondescript grey Peugeot, heading north. The city blurred past, his focus locked not on the road but on the rhythm of the task ahead.
Null's real name was long buried. To clients, he was only Null—an absence, a void. The name carried a weight in the encrypted channels where killers, smugglers, and ghosts of governments traded work. People claimed he had been a soldier once. Others said he was a phantom from some intelligence unit that didn't officially exist. Nobody knew for sure. Null never corrected them.
He arrived in Antwerp just after nine and drove past the target location without slowing. The building was easy to miss—stone façade, wrought-iron balconies, a discreet brass plaque: Van der Meer & Associates. Lawyers, on paper. Something else entirely behind the curtain.
He kept driving, blending into the morning traffic, until he found the underground parking garage he'd scouted months before. Camera blind spots, two exits, cash payment only. He switched cars—this time a stolen Opel parked days ago under a different name—and circled back on foot.
---
The target was easy to spot once you knew what to look for. Male, mid-fifties, expensive suit that didn't quite fit his frame. He stepped out of the building at precisely 09:42, flanked by two men who screamed "security" without saying a word. Broad shoulders. Thick necks. Eyes that never stopped moving.
Null followed from across the street, keeping pace but never looking directly at them. The trio moved with practiced efficiency—black sedan waiting at the curb, engine running. The target took the back seat. The guards took front and rear.
It was a short drive to a riverside restaurant, high-end, the kind where every table was booked weeks in advance. Null didn't bother going inside. He already knew the layout. Instead, he positioned himself in a public park across the street, camera lens hidden inside a coffee cup, and watched.
The man met with others—well-dressed, mid-conversation even before they sat down. No smiles. No warmth. Just deals. From the body language alone, Null read power, money, and something darker binding them together.
---
For the next two days, he built the pattern.
The target arrived at the office every morning within a three-minute window. Meetings at predictable intervals. Lunch at the same riverside table. Return to the office. Departure at 18:15 sharp.
The security detail rotated every twelve hours. Four men in total, all trained, all alert. That was fine. Null had dealt with worse.
By the end of the second day, he had already decided where it would happen. Not at the office—too many civilians. Not at the restaurant—security cameras in every corner.
It would be during the walk from the office door to the sedan. Sixteen meters. Three seconds.
That was all he needed.
---
The weapon he carried now was functional, but not yet special. The Specter was still a concept in his mind, something he would commission later for jobs that demanded perfection. For now, his current rifle—well-maintained, untraceable—would do.
He set up in an abandoned apartment across from the office building, one floor above the street, window overlooking the exact stretch of pavement the target would cross. The room smelled of dust and mildew. He liked it. Empty rooms didn't talk.
Through the scope, he watched the office door. He didn't think about who the man was or why someone wanted him dead. Those questions were for amateurs, for people who didn't last long in this line of work. Null's job was to remove a problem, nothing more.
Still, as he checked the wind through the broken pane, he noticed the security men again. Not just trained—coordinated. These weren't ex-cops. Military, most likely. Which meant the man in the suit wasn't just some crooked lawyer.
Null filed that away.
---
On the third morning, he was ready. Rifle assembled. Sight aligned. Exit route planned. He could be gone in under two minutes.
At 09:41, the brass handle of the office door turned. The first guard stepped out, scanning left and right. A second later, the target emerged, buttoning his jacket.
Null's finger rested against the trigger.
The reticle settled over the man's chest.
Wind speed—2.4 meters per second, west to east. Adjust for drift.
Through the glass, he saw the man say something to the guard, who nodded. They moved toward the sedan.
Null exhaled, slow, deliberate—
—and stopped.
From the corner of the street, a school group appeared, led by a teacher. Children, maybe twelve years old, crossing directly into the line of fire.
He eased his finger off the trigger. Waited. The sedan door opened. The man ducked inside.
Shot lost.
Null didn't curse. Didn't slam the rifle down. He simply began dismantling it, piece by piece, movements smooth and unhurried. There would be another opportunity. There always was.
---
That night, he returned to the chat. The same client. The same encrypted channel.
Null typed a single message:
"Adjustment. New window required."
A reply came within seconds:
"Understood. Priority unchanged. Bonus approved."
He closed the laptop. Outside, the city slept. Inside, Null's mind was already moving three steps ahead.
The target was still breathing. For now.
But not for long.