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.Both are cute, with red cheeks and bright smiles, and I can tell by their happy faces they don’t have a care in the world.It’s clear family life suits Mr.Henderson, yet at the same time I note his constant alertness.There’s no question in my mind he was trained by some branch of the military in special ops, and a quick peek inside his mind reveals a cold darkness I have seldom seen in a human being.But I don’t recoil in disgust.He is a curiosity.On the outside, Mr.Henderson looks like the perfect family man, but if his interior life could be displayed on a poster, it would probably be blank.He’s unlike Danny Boy, the rapist, who took pleasure in taunting his victims.In a sense Marko is a consummate professional—he kills for money, nothing more, and when he’s with his family, he’s able to block his secret life out so well he hardly thinks about it.He’s like a robot with two sets of hard drives that he uses for memory.Two storage units that seldom connect.The guy would undoubtedly fascinate most psychologists.At some time in the past a switch must have broken inside him and cut him off from his humanity.He does not appear to mind.To draw him outside, I use a simple approach.His kids might have better hearing than their father, but it’s Daddy who’s been trained to listen to every tiny noise.Gathering a handful of pebbles, I stand near a window on the other side of the house from the living room and gently toss them at the glass.I throw four stones, each one a minute apart, until I finally hear him rise from his chair.“Is something wrong, dear?” his wife calls.“The pigs are squealing,” he calls to her as he climbs the stairs.“I just want to have a look.”“Should we stop and tape the show?”“That’s okay, hon.I won’t be gone long.”Upstairs, I see him move to the window, and I hide by pressing my body against the house wall.He doesn’t turn on the bedroom light, but I know why he’s upstairs.He opens a desk drawer, with the help of a key, and takes out a semiautomatic.I can tell the type of weapon by listening to what follows.He loads it with a clip, screws on a silencer, cocks it, and slips it under the back of his belt.He’s outside a minute later, standing on the porch, listening to the night.In this respect he is like me—his first line of defense is his hearing.I let him hear my footsteps as I scurry away from the house and into the nearby cornfield.He dashes around the side of the house, but already I’m invisible in the tall stalks.There’s no moon—the night is black as ink.I have to admire his patience, his courage.He knows he has a visitor, and in his line of work he knows that can only mean bad news.But he doesn’t turn on any lights, nor does he run back inside and call the police.He doesn’t want to alarm his family, and he’s confident he can deal with the situation.I wait and listen as his heartbeat slowly accelerates from ninety beats a minute to a hundred and twenty.Fortunately, I can see as well in the dark as in the daytime, and I’m able to follow his every move.He probably has infrared goggles in his private arsenal, but he did not bring any with him.I understand.How would he explain them to his wife if she stopped him leaving the house? Still, with each passing minute I note the frustration on his face, the tension, the smell of sweat on his skin.My goal is to lead him deeper into the field, farther away from the house.I don’t want to involve his family any more than he does.After five minutes of sitting, I shake a branch and dash another hundred yards deeper into the corn.He does not hesitate but follows quickly, making almost no noise.He’s an experienced fighter, on all terrains.He has wisely removed his shoes.Any leather shoe or boot, no matter how broken in, makes a faint squeaking sound.I, too, am barefoot.We play the same game for the next ten minutes, with me pausing to let him catch up, and then dashing away again.I never let him get close enough to hit me with a lucky shot.But I know the game is stressful for him.His heart jumps to a hundred and seventy beats a minute.He has begun to pant, and sweat drips from his forehead.His well-lit house, only a half mile away, must look a lot farther in his eyes.I crouch low and let him come within twenty yards of my position.“Had enough, Marko?” I say casually.He freezes, then scans the area in my direction, his gun held ready.“My name’s Joe Henderson,” he replies.“What are you doing on my property?”“Randy Clifford.New York.”He sighs faintly.He knows now that he’s the contract.It must be a novel feeling for him, to be on the other side of the equation.His heart is a hammer in his chest.He’s scared.“What do you want?” he asks.“Information.In exchange for your life and the lives of your wife and children.”“You’re a professional.You won’t kill them.”“Not if I leave here with what I want to know.By the way, I have you in the crosshairs of a sniper rifle.The scope is infrared.If you reach for a match or cigarette, I’ll shoot.” Although I have no need of a scope at this distance, he’s expecting me to give him these instructions.The flare of a match in an infrared scope would blind the person who’s using it.“You sound close,” he replies.“I am.”“Maybe too close for safety.”“Be my guest, go ahead and take a shot.Just as long as you know I’ll take a shot of my own and you’ll be missing your right knee.”He considers this for a moment, then lowers his gun.“You have the advantage,” he admits.“Drop your gun.Now, on the ground.”He drops his gun.“Kick it away from you.”He does as he is told.“Randy Clifford,” I say
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