This being a dream, his frantic efforts to change the course of events proved completely futile. He was trapped in his own body, forced to repeat history as he moved through the sunlit house toward destruction. His subconscious could have at least had the decency to make it rain and storm outside, match the background to the mood, but no. It had been a bright and sunny day then; it was a bright and sunny day now. The walls were painted white, the hardwood floor was smooth and honey-colored, birds were twittering outside, insects buzzing, and Riley was going up the stairs like a convict to the execution chamber.

He turned his head and saw two shadows ghosting along with him, only one of them his own, but when he glanced behind him, there was no one there. That was new. Riley blinked, but then his foot hit the landing and he forgot about the twinned shadows in the face of the much more pressing fear. There might’ve been a subtle smell of gun oil and blood, but it was hard to tell from the omnipresent stink of rotting vegetation.

The corridor was longer than Riley remembered and the door at the end was open wide, but other than that, everything was exactly as it had been. He could see Misha on the couch, talking to his friend Andrej, and he wanted to stop and take a moment to drink in the sight of Misha, happy and relaxed in the sunlight, smiling that beautiful smile of his. But his feet carried him forward and his gaze was drawn away from Misha’s face to the dark, hideous shape on his lap. The sniper rifle was a long and bulky thing,

dull and dark, and it rested in Misha’s hands as though it belonged there. He was checking it over absentmindedly, those strong, clever fingers handling the weapon expertly and without need for visual confirmation.

“He’ll be at home,” Andrej said, in that annoyingly nasal New York accent he had; so much stronger than Misha’s, who’d spent more time in the South and had adapted somewhat. “He won’t be wearing body armor.”

“Why take the risk?” Misha retorted, patiently, as if this was a discussion they’d had before. Not worrying about a planned crime so much as talking about an upcoming job. “Tap him in the head, fuck whatever he’s wearing under his shirt. I can make the shot. I did before, no problem.”

Even though Riley knew the price he’d pay, he still made that little noise that had betrayed him the first time round. It was only a quiet huff that had accompanied the punched-in-the-gut feeling that had come with the realization of how badly he’d misjudged Misha, but it was enough to make those two handsome heads come up and swing around like Terminators.