He watched the agent who strode her way over to the target with a measure of fascination. Self-confident, demanding, controlling, authoritative, and wanted to be in charge of everything. He kind of liked her. He studied her back intently, watching her interact with the man of whom he only vaguely caught the name. Victor. Anyone with a dab of sense would know this was a hunt that had been going on for a while. There was a small measure of pleasure in his own gaze as he eyed the man. He would be the perfect distraction. Sure, they would take him back to the precinct. But, with no eyes focused in his direction, it would be easy to slip away. And no one would really bother to look for one waiter.

That was, of course, until the numbers suddenly shifted. He barely caught the flicker. She was going to look over at him. It was only a one percent chance, something as common as the flick of the head to displace a piece of hair that had plastered itself to her forehead. And then, so quickly that even he barely caught the change, the number was one hundred. And not only was she going to look over, she was going to come over. And there was nothing he could do to halt it.

How long had it been since his luck, his honest to goodness luck that had nothing to do with any skill of his, had been that bad? His whole escape plan had been relying on obscurity, of no one knowing or caring about him. But he knew from the look in her eyes that there was no way he was going to be let go. The boss, her fingers clamped uncomfortably around his chin, wanted to talk to him, and nothing was going to stop it. Especially not now that an agent who almost slobbered with eagerness to please had him firmly in grasp.

He had to find a way out of this. He had to find a way to take everyone's mind onto something else, so completely that his own transportation would be relegated to lowest priority again; something done only through ritual. He scrolled through the numbers, paying no attention to where he was walking and only avoiding stumbling because he saw when it was most likely to happen. When he finally stumbled, and nearly fell to the ground, pulling a certain puppy with him, it was entirely on purpose. He had found his one shot. And, in all honesty, Ethan hated it. He was not cold blooded. He did not want to sacrifice others for his own gain. But he did not want to deal with the cops. And he especially did not want to deal with the FBI.

All Victor had to look forward to was a life in jail. And, unless he cut some deal for the wealth of information that must surely be stored away in his head, he would be spending it there. And that was surely exactly what the FBI was counting on. They wanted him to make a deal. And having him shot by a mob gunman would not only divert the FBI's attention, it would send the whole operation spiraling towards chaos. All it cost was the life of one man. Did he take it? Or did he choose to face down the steely grip of the FBI, and see just how far his lying face could get him. They would wonder at the money in his bank account, when the last recorded job he had held was when he was seventeen years old. To them, the only possibility would be that he was involved in something, most likely drugs. Even with the receipt showing he had won small-scale lotteries twice, they would never believe that his income was entirely legal. Well, clean money, at least, if not entirely legal in acquisition, since gambling was illegal in most states. They would want to hold him, would likely stretch as many bogus charges as they could muster, working in an underground den as one of the first. And if he had to break out of jail, they would never stop looking for him.

He couldn't take that chance. He was no criminal, and did not want to live his life under a false identity. He was a free spirit, and while he did not like to be bound by the law, he didn't go about flaunting his ability to beat it, either. Unlike Victor.

The man had to die. That was the only solution. And, as soon as his mind was made up, the numbers came together so clean and neat, it was as if this fate had already been decided upon.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The face of the mob hitman was twisted in disgust. He had warned the boss that this tip-off wouldn't have reached their ears alone, had told him that the very best thing to do would be to bust into the building as soon as they were sure that Victor was in there, and kill anyone who got in the way. But the boss had wanted to do it quietly. If they weren't going to be the only ones there, all the more reason to do it quietly. They didn't have the funds or resources right now to risk giving the cops any more ammunition against them. They would wait for Victor to leave the building, and then they would take their shot. After all, how many cops would come for one rogue accountant?

A whole damn fleet of them, apparently. He had barely had five minutes warning before the fleet of cars had poured into the area, with enough guns to wipe out the whole mob. They had no choice but to announce the retreat. He had been one of the few left behind, strategically positioned to be able to take a single shot if the opportunity presented itself. But the FBI weren't stupid enough to leave a target as valuable as Victor open to sniper fire. He had stopped looking a few moments ago, waiting for the team that had gone below to resurface, the man who knew their secrets rising with them. He swore, and pressed his eye back to the scope.

The sudden burst of swearing that followed that was significantly more violent. There was a man in the scope, staring directly at him with blazing green eyes. He pushed himself backwards. How on earth could a cop possibly have figured out his position that easily. He pressed forward again, staring intently at the man. He would swear he was looking right at him. But he wasn't a cop. He was dressed like one of the staff in the casino. But there was no doubt that the man was staring at him.

And then, he winked. The hitman swore again, violently, but kept his eye pressed to the scope. How was that even possible. The green-eyed man was pushed to the side by an irate looking SWAT man, and he was about to look away again when he noticed something. A head, a very familiar looking head.

It only took him half a second to identify it. That was Victor's head, lined up right in the center of the crossfire. There was no time to question his good luck. he squeezed the trigger quickly, sending one massive bullet flying on a path destined to strike its target. There was no way for it to miss.

The gunshot would have been heard, and the sudden spray of blood would be impossible to ignore. The other hitmen would have heard the shot, and everyone would be scrambling to get away. It was time for him to follow suit. Leaving the FBI to deal with one worthless corpse.