Now, when his mother was being devoured, he was seeing through the lion’s eyes and feeling what it felt. He sunk in his teeth and tore her flesh, pinning her with his claws. He felt the blood in his mouth as he devoured her entrails while she still lived.

Then he felt something strike his shoulder, and he was instantly awake, reaching for both his knife and gun simultaneously.

“It’s time. Do your thing.” Dr. JoAnn Raskin said.

Idris Madeira, or Kruger as he was known professionally, scowled over at the arrogant little American. He knew what time it was, and his internal clock told him that he’d been awakened ten minutes too early. He checked his watch and confirmed the error. Sleep on a mission was often a luxury, and Kruger had learned long ago to take advantage of every moment of rest—because he never could tell when he might have to go days without closing his eyes.

The target would be sleeping by now. He had decided to wait until three in the morning to be sure. His pompous accomplice had complained and argued that 1:00 a.m. would be more than sufficient. But he overruled Raskin on all operational matters. He was the professional, after all, and had carried out similar assignments on numerous occasions.

The patient predator was always rewarded with the better kill.

From the passenger seat, Raskin handed him the syringe and the tube containing the Q-tip without saying a word, like he was some hunting dog being taken off the leash and told to run. If he hadn’t required the American’s knowledge and connections to complete this final job, he would have ended Raskin long ago. The haughty American certainly deserved it, probably more so than anyone else he had ever killed. But such an act of indulgent, emotional violence would have been rash and stupid, and Kruger had learned to play the long game from years of hard lessons and painful mistakes.

He stepped from the van and headed toward the small two-story home. It was blue-green with projecting eaves and a low-pitched gable roof covered in terra-cotta tiles. He had studied the layout of the house and the target’s routines and knew that Fred Little would be waiting in an upstairs bedroom or asleep in his La-Z-Boy in front of the television.

The Americans were so obsessed with their TVs. He and Zarina didn’t even own a television. If he wanted to catch a soccer game, they would travel down to the local sports bar or attend in person. He had better things to do with his time than watch others live their lives.

The preparations were all in place. Fred Little’s house key had been stolen from his pocket, imprinted, and returned. The security system code had been acquired by watching through a window using a telescopic lens as Fred entered it. Kruger simply walked into the house as if he were the owner returning from a hard day’s work.

As he ascended the stairs, he hugged the wall with his size 22 boots, stepping up one foot at a time, knowing that creaks and groans were seldom found on a stair’s innermost edge. His right hand held a black Beretta M9A1 pistol with a sound suppressor threaded over its barrel, although he had no intention of using the weapon. It was merely a precautionary measure.