Sanderson was fifty-nine, five-six, a hundred and sixty pounds. A short man, with a short-man complex. You don’t fuck with me. You don’t fuck with the Man.

He thought like that.

He thought like a TV show.

THE SHOOTER was waiting behind a rampart of limestone blocks next to the monument. Not tense, not anything-not thinking, just waiting, like a rock, or a stump, or a loaded bullet. Waiting… Then two words in his ear: “He’s coming.”

He heard first the click of the dog’s toenails on the sidewalk. The animal probably went a hundred pounds, maybe even one-twenty. Had to take him smoothly…

Close now.

The shooter’s hand was at his side, with the pistol dangling from it. When they’d scouted Sanderson on a previous walk, they noted that the dog was always on a long lead-there’d be some distance between the dog and Sanderson. The dog didn’t seem particularly nervous, but might well sense a man waiting in the night.

Comes the dog.

The shooter went into his routine, squaring his feet, the deep breath already taken. He exhaled slowly, held it, and the dog was there, ten feet out, turning his big head toward the shadow-the alarm, or curiosity, or something, in his eyes, he knew something.

THE SHOOTER was in his shooting crouch, arms extended, and the gun recoiled a bit. There was a fast snap sound, like an electrical spark, and a mechanical ratcheting as the gun cycled. The dog dropped, shot between the eyes, and the shooter vaulted from the shadows, moving fast, right there in Sanderson’s face in a quarter second.

This was no TV show, and you do fuck with the Man. Sanderson’s eyes just had time to widen and his hand went to his pocket-he never really thought he’d need the pistol.