He went to the closet where he had stored a purchase he had made: it was a can of acetone. It would chemically obliterate any traces of himself on the weapon. Using a cotton ball to blot, he assiduously wiped the steel and plastic down, even if the plastic was favored not to preserve fingerprints. He worked at a slow, sure pace, watching the liquid as it spread to a sheen and evaporated, not missing any plausible surface, taking all traces of Juba with it into the ether. The scope, particularly the turrets, demanded special attention, as it could easily retain evidence if not carefully purified, though he had never touched any part of the weapon with his naked fingers.

Next, he drew out several plastic bags. Each contained DNA-carrying microdebris from the actual corpse of Brian Waters—dandruff, flakes of skin, filaments of nostril and head hair—and applied them gradually to the rifle. A piece of tape yielded a thumbprint, and by applying it to the Thunder Beast suppressor—a long tube with chambers and aperture that would dissipate the sound of the shot—then peeling it off, he transferred the image. He applied and then removed another tape—this one for the sake of the trigger finger—around the trigger guard and the trigger itself. In the end, he had rendered the rifle appropriate to the biological reality of his avatar’s presence and his own invisibility.

He did the same to the iPhone, smearing it with the detritus of poor Mr. Waters. A close investigation would reveal nothing except the FirstShot app and the occasional posts of Mr. Waters on his all-but-deserted Facebook page. He checked and saw that certain pages had come to his cue, and he knew exactly the stroke to send them instantly to post on the Dark Web, where they would be found and tracked to this iPhone and to Brian A. Waters. The pages contained superb screeds of hate and blasphemy, which would make the man’s sickness manifest to all and provide the motive for his crime. Brian A. Waters was about to become the most famous man on earth, as well as the most wanted. Too bad he’d been dead for over three months and wouldn’t be around to enjoy all the attention.

Next, he checked his getaway bag. Yes, passport, ID, cash. He knew exactly his escape route, where he would be picked up by Iranian operatives and how he would be smuggled back to Syria.

It was almost over.

He checked his watch.

So little time.