1.1 Nathaniel J. Costin (+1)

Better late than never was a saying that had always caused the young woman in the room, who’d been there for one and a quarter hour now on the nose, a great deal of mental agony. It was the dismissiveness of it, the rude, backhanded implications that said volumes about its speaker. As far as Sylvia was concerned, she would not be keeping company with type of person that would say such a thing, regardless of the how or the why. Tardiness could be forgiven under certain circumstances, rudeness could not. Certainly Mr. Harold Stupski would have agreed had a bullet not gone through his skull exactly an hour and twenty seven minutes ago.

She found, having gone through his things while blood and cerebral matter dribbled from the back of his skull and onto the polished granite tile of his extremely well designed master bathroom, a man of very fine taste who was by all accounts just as punctually insistent as she was. He had calendars and logbooks written in very neat, small, but perfectly legible hand writing, detailing every moment of his waking hours, and timers set to match. His morning alarm went off at four thirty, his workout room (which had a fantastic view of the city she had to admit) was set to begin cooling at four so that it would be ready for the exactly half an hour workout routine carefully detailed in his daily planner. This was followed by a shower in the master bathroom he was currently retiring in, whose floors began to heat at precisely four fifty two am, and then morning coffee and the modern day equivalent of the paper; a name brand e-reader in the higher of price ranges. The machine that served the former of which would begin brewing at quarter after five, while the latter was left out on the table and could be turned on at its master’s leisure.

A look into his hand held device, which was found to be in its proper place on the cordless charging station, revealed that his work habits were just as rigidly scheduled, right down to when and where he would go for his two fifteen minute breaks and what he would be having for lunch. Today had been a very simple chicken cordon bleu salad at a local restaurant whose name she was familiar with, but had never had the pleasure of eating at. She sincerely hoped he had enjoyed it since he would not be able to make his dinner plans tonight at eight. Perhaps, following this, she would take advantage of his unfulfilled reservation, as so far the late Mr. Stupski had proven to have very good taste, with one notable exception: Mr. Nathaniel J. Costin, who was, at this moment, an hour twenty eight minutes late in meeting with the deceased.

Why Harold Stupski would choose to associate himself with such a man for whom time seemed to be a flexible, unimportant detail was beyond her comprehension. Had it only been this one occasion, or an infrequent, but scheduled occurrence, she would have assumed it a necessary part of climbing the corporate ladder. All the right friends in all the right places, her father would describe it. However, she had discovered that this happened quite often and that, on occasion, Stupski would clear out a spot in his very busy schedule, at the last minute none the less, just to accommodate this man. This act caused him great intestinal distress, of that she was certain, as evidenced by a few of the prescriptions sitting in his medicine cabinet.

Their friendship however, unlikely as it seemed to her, turned out to be extremely beneficial for her when she received this job, though it was a great deal less so for the two men. After all, Stupski had not been her target; his death had only become necessary to avoid variables and therefor possible complications. It was actually his unreliable friend, Mr. Costin, who was the mark, and a difficult one at that.

Sylvia had a great and intense dislike for complications; they were to be avoided at all costs even if it required an extra, unfortunate death. In this case, Mr. Stupski’s very nice apartment was the only place in which Mr. Costin did not come accompanied by guards and was not being monitored by security cameras. While such things weren’t entirely a hassle for her, they became an unknown quantity. There was a chance that the guards could be of the gifted sort, much like herself, or augmented in a way that might give them an advantage against her. Having been inside some of the most highly guarded, supposedly impenetrable laboratories, she was more aware than most of the technology that was currently available. For the right price, any private contracting company could fix up some of their men with the best biotic augmentations money could buy, then turn around and charge quadruple for their already overpriced services. 

It was doubtful that Costin was among the small number of affluent folk who had the money and the awareness of this extremely illegal option of paid protection, but still, variables. Cameras she avoided with an almost religious fervency. Her ability was unique, as far as she was aware, and she prided herself on remaining faceless and anonymous in that respect. Video evidence of her gift would make hiding in plain sight a great deal more difficult. After all, she had a life outside of these jobs.

The door finally opened to sound of Mr. Costin loudly insisting that his armed escorts go down to the sandwich across the street for bite to eat before him and Harold went out for dinner downtown. She’d planned on a very brief window with which to exit the scene after the gun went off, planning on them bursting in after hearing the sound of a suppressed gun shot. If they were to go Sylvia would instead have time to leave at her leisure, and that was always preferable. From her position in the study adjacent to the living room, she couldn’t hear the guards much softer responses. She would have to assume that they would remain at post then.

“Sorry for my tardiness, but you know what they say better late than never, am I right?” She heard him say as the front doors shut.

Sylvia allowed an expression of distaste to come across her face, but with a gloved hand raised a glass of scotch on the rocks and shook it so that the cubes jingled merrily within their confinement. She set it down on the edge of bar and stepped back a few paces, counting backwards from twenty under her breath; he would have removed his jacket first, then moved into the living room from the foyer as he waited for a response from his host. If her timing was right, and it normally was, he would have been heading in this direction already when she rang his bell so to speak. The young woman slipped behind the partially ajar door mere seconds before Costin opened it. Perfect.
“Harold, you polish son of a bitch, where are you at?” 

As planned, he glanced to the glass she’d left for him on the bar and, while she couldn’t see the expression on his face, she fancied that she could hear the grin in his voice as he walked over.

“Don’t mind if I do. This your good stuff Harold?” He called out. As he was lifting it for a sip, he noticed the patio door patio door she’d left open for him and approached it. “Harold?” She followed behind the man with quiet, quick steps and came up on him just as he was stepping through the egress.

“If you think I’m gonna play some hide the sausage with you-”

Sylvia did not allow him to finish his joke. There was a loud, muffled bang and then pieces of Mr. Costin exploded outwards as the bullet tore through skin and bone and brain and came out the other side of his face. Sylvia assumed it would go over the ledge and end up somewhere in the city street below, but it hardly mattered. His nose and the brand new hole in his head began leak profusely, a brilliant crimson puddle forming around his head. It was a mess, but a small one at least. She thought as she took her position in a pre-designated spot on the floor in time to hear the loud slam at the apartment’s entryway and men’s voices yelling Costin’s name.

Before they even made it into the room his killer was gone, appearing a comfortable fourteen stories straight down, inside of a locked women’s restroom. She slipped off her generic brand tennis shoes, slid on the heels she’d discarded earlier as well as the blazer hung neatly on the coat rack and tucked shoes and weapon into her fashionably large handbag. Turning to the mirror she reapplied her red lip stick and smiled at her reflection, then took her leave of the bathroom, a cozened smile plastered on her face.