Then, a heartbeat appeared at the edge of his sensory range.
About 180 meters away.
To the north. Approaching.
Resting heart rate: fifty-four beats per minute.
Exactly the same as that "Jack Miller" from the clinic two days ago.
He was here.
Alone.
No team support.
This time, Kingpin had sent a lone wolf.
Ryan—that was the codename Lynn gave him in his mind—spent fifteen minutes circling around from the north to the factory's east entrance.
His route was highly professional, using the blind spots of surrounding buildings to avoid any possible surveillance.
He stopped outside the east entrance for about two minutes.
Lynn could hear the faint sounds of him adjusting his gear: the click of his night-vision goggles' head strap buckle, the soft clink of metal tools beneath his clothes.
Two short knives.
Carbon fiber, judging by the frequency of the friction sounds.
And something else.
A small metal container tucked behind his waist.
Throwing weapons.
The thing Bullseye's type excelled at most.
Ryan came in.
He chose to climb through a broken window on the east side, controlling the sound of his landing until it was nearly nonexistent.
His method of movement was completely different from Shadow Crow's. Shadow Crow relied on teamwork and advanced in groups.
Ryan was a lone traveler. In the darkness, he moved like mercury flowing through cracks—silent, formless, natural.
The night-vision goggles dyed everything green.
He swept his gaze across the first-floor workshop.
Rusty machine bases, collapsed steel frames, scattered broken bricks and shattered glass.
No one.
The target wasn't on the first floor.
He began moving toward the second floor.
Lynn stood behind a load-bearing pillar on the west side of the first-floor workshop.
At their closest, less than eight meters separated them.
He did not strike.
He was waiting for