A female target. Unusual but not unheard of.
Jericho laid flat; his body pressed against the cold concrete as he peered through the infrared scope.
It was the perfect setup: an unfinished office on the third floor of a high-rise directly across the street from her hotel.
He exhaled slowly, waited. Only two minutes if the intel was accurate. It always was.
But then the skies opened. An unexpected and torrential downpour.
Jericho pulled his high-powered rifle away from the window, quickly unscrewed the suppressor.
He’d extend his trip and come back tomorrow.
And tomorrow she won’t be so lucky.
The Weekday One Hundred 