Here's the untilted story I'm working on...it was originally titled "Angels and Demons," but obviously I can't use that one now...
Prologue
Three years ago...
Lucifer walked down the streets of New York, his long black coat fluttering behind him, his steel briefcase at his side. The general chaos that was New York surrounded him like the darkest of nights. His brown eyes darted from side to side from behind his black Foster Grant sunglasses. People walked all around him, and he could take no chances in his line of work. He pulled back his sleeve and glanced at his Rolex. Three fifteen. Everything about this man screamed perfectionist; from the shine of his black leather shoes to the very last hair on his head, not a single thing was out of place. He stopped at the corner, along with a crowd of people. He glanced about nervously. There were far too many people around him for his liking. He felt claustrophobic. He felt helpless. He ran a gloved hand through his dark, graying hair.
“Excuse me, sir?” Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled about.
“What!?” He responded harshly.
“Sorry to startle you, do you have the time?” the young man asked.
“Oh, yes. It’s three-seventeen,” Lucifer told the man, putting on a slight smile. He fingered the goatee that encircled his jaw.
“Thanks,” the young man replied, turning away. Lucifer took a deep breath and held it. He mentally scolded himself for responding so irrationally. The crossing signal changed, and everyone began walking. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed.
At the other side of the street, he stopped and glanced around him. This was not the correct street for his job. Looking down the street both ways, he saw the corner he was looking for. He thought about the instructions he was given. Be there by three-thirty, get the job done by three-thirty three, be gone by three forty. He understood that if he didn’t follow the timeframe exactly, he would not get the job done which meant not getting paid, something he definitely would not want. Money, however, was not the issue. His offshore bank account held over thirteen million dollars, but his record was spotless; he would not allow a single mistake to poison his record.
As he neared the corner of the next block, he saw the building. The cheapest apartment complex in the area, where many immigrants had been known to live. It was the tallest building in the vicinity of where he needed to be. It allowed him a perfect view of the street below. He tilted his glasses to get a better look at the building. He waited at the corner again with a different group of people. Someone bumped into him from the side. He felt a hand dart into his coat. With his free hand, the one not holding a steel briefcase, he grabbed the arm that was attached to the hand. Looked at the person the arm belonged to. A young man no older than eighteen stood before him. He leaned in close to the frightened youth.
“I think you should choose a different profession, young man. Pocket-picking doesn’t suit you,” he whispered so that only the youth could hear him. Louder, he said, “Do watch where you’re going young man.” The youth looked incredulously at him, then turned away and hurried through the crowd. Lucifer looked after him and sighed. In his younger days, he had killed younger children for smaller offenses. But his many years of work had changed him, and his pride was all but forgotten. Besides, he couldn’t afford to risk the job. He continued to watch the youth until he disappeared into an alley, then glanced down at his watch again. Three-twenty.
“If only it were that simple,” He whispered to himself. The signal changed, and people walked. Once again, he followed the crowd. Halfway across the street, he passed a black limousine. He watched it out of the corner of his eye, noting the license plate number. He looked further down the street, glancing at a large, fancy hotel. Reaching the front step of his target building, he looked around to make sure no one was paying any special attention to him. It didn’t appear that anyone had, so he opened the door to the establishment. As he walked in, the portly, Hispanic man at the counter looked up. Lucifer was careful to put his back to the man.
“Hello sir, and what can I do for you today?” the man asked pleasantly.
“Nothing thanks, just here to visit a friend. Actually, you probably know him. His name is Usman Khalib? Middle eastern, black hair, brown eyes, about my height?” Lucifer asked in a fake Brooklyn accent.
“Ah yes, he lives in room 202,” The man told him, stroking his long black moustache. Lucifer moved toward the stairs. “...But he’s out right now, won’t be back for another five, ten minutes,” the man called to him. Lucifer turned back.
“That’s all right, I’ll just wait there for him.”
“Well, okay, if you say so.”
“Thank you,” Lucifer replied, turning toward the stairs. Keeping his face away from the man, he pretended to be suddenly fascinated by a painting of a landscape on the wall. He hurried up the stairs to the second floor, and looked around cautiously. No one was in the hallway, so moved quickly to room 202. He checked his watch. Three twenty three. He reached into his pocket and pulled forth a police-issue lock release gun. Inserting the prongs, he pulled the trigger on the gun four times. The lock opened on the fourth pull, and Lucifer opened the door quietly. He quickly put the lock release gun away and reached into his coat, pulling forth a 0.22 caliber pistol fitted with a silencer. The door swung open, revealing the room of Usman Khalib. It was evident that Khalib hadn’t been in the country long, for he had no personal affects at all on the walls, nor any furniture, save a couch and a small television. Lucifer nodded, relieved that his information had been correct. After checking the apartment over, he moved quickly to the window overlooking the street. He looked further down the street and saw his target; the black limousine was parked in front of a large hotel, awaiting its passenger. The driver stood nonchalantly near the passenger side door. Lucifer unbuttoned his coat and laid it on the floor near the window. He put the 0.22 into his side holster and placed his suitcase on the ground on top of the coat.
Reaching onto either side of the case, he undid the two clasps holding the case closed. The top sprung open, revealing his weapon. A sniper rifle lay in pieces, neatly set in foam within the case. He reached into the case and grabbed the butt of the gun. Reaching into the back of the butt, he pulled forth the main casing and a small barrel. He set the barrel to the side while he attached the casing. Within the gun case laid another barrel, this one longer and fitted with a silencer. He pulled the barrel out of the foam and screwed it on to the front of the casing. He grabbed yet another piece to the gun, a shoulder rest, and attached it to the back of the butt. He carefully set the rifle down and reached in for the final piece to his weapon. He pulled the scope out of the case with great care, and attached it to the rifle quickly and efficiently as he had done countless other times. Five bullets were lined up in a row within the case. Pulling them forth, he placed four on the windowsill and the remaining one in the chamber of the rifle and loaded it up. Placing the rifle carefully on the coat, he removed the foam from the gun case. Beneath it lay a manila folder. He opened it, revealing all the information he needed; his target’s bio, the bio of the immigrant whose apartment he now occupied, and a plane ticket to Iraq, for one Usman Khalib. He placed the ticket within easy reach inside his pocket, and turned back to his weapon.
Hefting the rifle, he glanced at his watch. Three thirty. He looked out the window just in time to see the limo pull away from the hotel. Raising the rifle to his shoulder, he sighted though the scope. Though he could not see through the tinted windows of the limo, he knew exactly where his target was. His finger tightened on the trigger. When he was absolutely confident that he had the target in his sights, he pulled the trigger.
The tiny bullet hole appeared on the back window of the limo, and he saw flash of red gore. He quickly dropped the rifle and ran, picking up his coat on the way. Grabbing the now empty briefcase, he ran out of the room while putting on his coat. As he moved toward the stairs, he brushed past a man in the hallway.
“Pardon me,” the man aid in heavily accented English. Lucifer grinned inwardly at his timing. This was Usman Khalib, the immigrant of whom the landlord had spoken. As he brushed by the immigrant, Lucifer slipped the ticket into Khalib’s pants pocket. Unlike the youth outside, Lucifer was an extremely accomplished pocket picker.
“Excuse me,” Lucifer said. He rushed down the stairs and into the lobby. He put on a frantic look for the landlord.
“What’s wrong?” the Hispanic man asked.
“It’s my friend. He’s just shot someone outside!” Lucifer said frantically, laying the Brooklyn accent on nice and thick.
“What!?” The landlord exclaimed. By that time Lucifer was already out the door and walking calmly toward a bus stop nearby. He glanced at his watch. Three thirty-five. The bus rounded the corner, and Lucifer pulled his ticket out of his pocket. He glanced at the time and destination a final time; Mexico, three forty. The bus stopped just as Lucifer got there.
“Wow, cutting it a little close, aren’t you Mate?” asked a nearby tourist as Lucifer brushed by him.
“Yes, I was running a bit late this morning,” Lucifer replied casually, still using the Brooklyn accent. He stepped on to the bus. The tourist sat down near the front of the bus, and Lucifer glanced around the bus. A seat way in the back was waiting for him.
“Perfect,” he mumbled. He sat down and discretely unbuckled the pistol strapped to his waist. Snapping open the briefcase, he slipped the pistol inside. Removing his coat, he folded it and slipped that too into the briefcase. Finally, he pulled his gloves off and tucked them into the briefcase alongside the coat. He closed the case and locked it, then leaned back to enjoy his ride to Mexico.
The police eventually arrested one Usman Khalib, an Iraqi immigrant from Baghdad. He had gunpowder residue on his coat where he had allegedly fired the rifle, the rifle lay in his apartment, as well as ammunition for it. He was even caught with a plane ticket, destination Baghdad. The ticket had been purchased online by Khalib, using his credit card and his personal password.
Lucifer had had this planned to perfection and timed to the second. He had used his coat as a drop-cloth, which gathered the gunpowder residue onto the coat itself. When he brushed the coat against the immigrant, it left residue on him, providing evidence that he had fired a weapon recently. Lucifer had slipped the plane ticket into Khalib’s pocket when they had collided in the hallway. Soon after getting off the bus in Mexico City, he had proceeded to destroy the briefcase and everything within it, leaving no evidence it ever existed. He never once looked at the dossier of the man he shot. He didn’t know if the man had family, nor did he care. He had once made the mistake of getting close to a target, and he had deeply regretted killing her. He found that if he did the job quickly and with as little contact as possible, he could go on with his existence without much sorrow for his sins. After all, he was Lucifer, the fallen angel.
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