My apartment is exactly the way I like it.

I'm not sure if those words properly convey the full meaning of what I'm saying here. Any time you're dealing with someone who uses the phrase 'just the way I like it' or similar derivatives, there's two possible ways it can go. Either the person has made due with what they have, convincing themselves that what they've ended up with is perfect for them, or the person actually has the means to put together everything they want, and in precisely the manner they want it.

I fall into the second category. A big freaking clue as to how serious I am - I own the entire apartment building I'm living in. Through shell companies, of course.

Honestly, it's a great setup. The bar is downstairs by the street entrance along with a couple of small shops, some of them empty. I rent a couple of the second and fourth floor apartments to various tenants, and my own apartment is on the third floor. Well, actually, I suppose it would be more accurate to say it is the third floor.

The whole space is nicely furnished, but not in such a way that would cause you to think it was professionally done. I've never brought anyone here, but if I did they'd probably say something to the effect of, "Wow, nice place!". In addition to the private elevator I'd installed, there are two less than obvious ways inside, as well as four well hidden emergency exits, one of which I sincerely hope I never have to use. I have this thing about sewers.

There are chairs to sit in, tables to eat at, a kitchen to cook in, a bed to sleep in - just the sorts of sturdy and well-constructed things you'd expect to find in an apartment. Nothing out of the ordinary or unusual, except for the overall shape. My apartment floor plan kind of resembles a large, square donut, with all of the available living space wrapping itself around the two old elevator shafts located in the center of the building.

Of course, there's no elevators there anymore. What's there instead is an impossibly safe, impossibly secure, James Bond inspired childhood fantasy come to life. It's what I mean when I say that my apartment is exactly the way I want it.

I call it The Room. It's where I keep my 'stuff'.

It's a room-sized steel vault wrapped in concrete, and it spends most of its time somewhere around the second floor, tucked neatly below my third-floor apartment. When I need to access it, I swipe a magnetic card through a slot on the kitchen phone, enter a nine-digit PIN, and the whole thing rises up in the center of the room, displacing the concrete walls that are usually there. It takes less than a minute, and it doesn't make a sound. In fact, there's only ever been one thing I don't like about it - I can't ever show it off to anyone.

Well, actually, there's one other that I show it to. Myrrh, the cat who adopted me a couple of years ago. He thinks it's pretty cool.

However, if anyone else were actually to get inside of this particular room and see some of the things inside, they'd glimpse enough weapons, counterfeit documents, explosives, illegal ammunition, poisons, other evidence and whatnot, that if they testified at my trial they'd get me locked up for about seven-hundred years. I've got guns ranging from a playing-card sized, two-shot Remington derringer, all the way to a fully converted Calico M960 submachine gun, all resting in smooth, contoured outlines that have been recessed into the walls. There are cabinets for ammunition, compartments for explosives, shelves for poisons and other chemicals, a soldering table for detonators and other electronic devices, and, generally speaking, enough raw, destructive power to give Charlton Heston a hard-on.

And yes, I'm aware that he's dead.

So, as you can probably imagine, I have fairly tight security. Even my tamper-proof security system has a tamper-proof security system monitoring it. I've got safeguards in place that would make even the most paranoid conspiracy theorist feel relaxed and at ease.

Of course, in this line of work, there's no such thing as paranoia - if you don't believe it could be true, you're slipping.

I was sitting in my comfortable office chair in The Room, drinking a hot cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain, staring at the cork board where I'd pinned up the photographs of my current assignment, Stevie. I'd pinned up all sorts of other necessary stuff as well - addresses, names, phone numbers, his last three credit card statements, and a well-marked map of the Baltimore area. There was also a short list of friends in the area, but a note in the file indicated that he wasn't on good terms with any of them any longer. Besides, there's an unwritten rule most assassins will never break if they can help it - never tag a guy when he's with friends and family. Even the mafia respects that one.

Most of the time, anyways.

It looked like I had pretty much everything I needed. I'd made a half-dozen phone calls with a pre-paid cellphone that I'd incinerated about a half hour ago, and I had a couple of reasonable plans present themselves to me as a result.

"Mrrrowr?" asked Myrrh, staring up at me from the comfort of my lap.

"Yeah, I know," I said, idly stroking his fur with my free hand, placing my coffee cup back onto my desk with the other. "The problem is that if he's smart he'll probably do one thing, but if he's stupid he'll do another. So which is he?"

The mottled black and brown cat stared up at me, as if considering, and then said, "Mreow."

"True. Very true. But there are exceptions, aren't there? I mean, Hendrix did drugs. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Ozzy Osbourne, Sherlock Holmes . . . although," I frowned thoughtfully, "Sherlock was fictional, so I'm not sure he counts. Still, drug use isn't necessarily a guarantee that we're dealing with a stupid person. Sometimes it's the exact opposite, according to some studies."

Myrrh, deciding he'd heard enough, did a full turn in my lap and lay back down in what he probably felt was a superior spot to where he'd been lying a mere ten seconds ago. After a few moments of settling in, he leaned his head out so he could sniff my armrest.

"Oh, don't be like that. It wasn't like I said it was a bad idea," I said, reaching over and scratching the underside of his chin lightly. "I'm just saying that we can't use that information to assume anything, that's all."

He looked up at me briefly before looking away, sighing hugely, and then resting his head in between his paws. I stroked his fur for a while.

"Okay, okay. We'll try it your way. He did pay for that ammo on his credit card, after all. That was kind of silly." I picked up the page with the timeline that my software program had drawn up for me. "Bought ammo two weeks before the attempted hit on him, used his credit card at a few restaurants, and then nothing. Laying low, I'd guess." I traced my finger to a week later. "Then, he kills another of Diavolo's guys, presumably one of the ones who tried to off him. So, he's dumb, but he's smart. Most importantly, he's angry. What's he gonna do next?"

I pondered a while, studying the thumbtack-adorned map, sipping my coffee.

Honestly, the job made a bit more sense now that I had a chance to think things over, as well as learn some of the details. A botched job means a wary target - someone who has had a near brush with death and a chance to consider their own mortality. Generally speaking, that's not the most ideal situation for an assassin. You want your mark going about their business like normal, following the familiar daily patterns that define their lives - patterns you can pick up on, and exploit.

Once someone's tried to kill you, things like a routine business meeting, a night at the pub, or even a birthday party invitation start to look like some kind of setup. Marks become extra wary, and avoid the sort of routines that make my job easier.

When I was young I saw a sign in a mechanic's workshop that advised that the hourly rate for general car repair was forty dollars per hour . . . unless you worked on it first. Then it went up to sixty. In some ways, I can see parallels with my own line of work - sometimes an amateur can mess up what could have been an easy job, make it much more difficult than it needs to be. It certainly looked like it was the case here.

Myrrh studied me for a bit, then stood, arched his back, and yawned in a manner that threatened to make his entire head disappear. Once done, he hopped down onto the floor of my office-vault, and padded his way over to the waiting bowl of water located near his half-open window.

"Yeah, you're right. Time to make a decision," I said, tossing the papers onto my desk and glancing at my wristwatch. Four-thirty-nine in the afternoon. Sunset wasn't until eight-oh-two that evening, but I needed a couple of hours to set up.

I looked at the picture pinned to my cork board, studying Steven's face.

"I'm gonna go with . . . smart, but stupid. Brash. Also known as 'cocky'. You're gonna try to send another message, make Diavolo wish he hadn't messed with you. And your most likely target is probably gonna be . . . this guy." I tapped a name beside one of the phone numbers I'd called earlier. "Sack. He's scared, and he thinks he's seen you once or twice already, and unfortunately for him, he's gotta be at the same run-down warehouse at exactly the same time every night. Alone." I scowled a little. "For reasons nobody would explain to me."

Freaking mobsters. They had more useless rules and secret rituals than a teamster's union composed entirely of freemasons.

Still, it was as good a place to start as any. There wasn't any time limit in this job that I'd been told about, they just wanted it done. Assuming that Diavolo's men weren't complete dumb-asses, they could take care of themselves while going about their day-to-day routine. I wasn't their bodyguard or anything like that. What I'd be watching for was someone who might be watching them. If I happened to save someone's life in the process, well, maybe there'd be a bonus.

Piece of cake.

I stared at the map.

"Sack it is, then," I said, picking up a blue pin from my desk and pressing it through the thin paper marking the industrial end of the pier. "Blind, stab in the dark. Lovely. Gonna need throwaway identity, throwaway kit, a suppressor, and some new glass for the rifle."

From outside my office, I heard a plaintive "Meowr."

"Right you are. I should brew some coffee to take with me. Thank you." I sighed quietly, selecting a passport and driver's license from the drawer marked with an 'F' on the front. "I'll probably need it, too. Chances are it's gonna be a long, long night."