Prologue

Venice, Italy

David Michaels wanted out of the organization.

It's not that he grew tired of his profession, he actually enjoyed the meticulous work associated with the stalking of prey before being able to go in for the kill. It was soothing, and provided an excellent escape from stress. He didn't understand how somebody could work in an office all day, or even part of the day.

David watched through the lens of the large scope mounted on top of his Barrett fifty caliber sniper rifle, as a black Mercedes Benz pulled to a stop in front of the hotel. A thin blonde exited from the back of the Mercedes, and made for the hotel's large glass entrance.

David checked the picture he had of the target, ensuring that he had the right person in his sights. Once confirmed, he eased back the Barrett's trigger until eventually the pressure became too much, giving way and sending the 5.45 inch bullet out of the gun with an explosion of noise and fire.

David watched through the scope as the bullet landed at it's destination, causing the blonde woman's head to disappear into a cloud of red mist. David knew that red mist to be a sign of success, and very quickly packed up his weapon and gear. As he turned to start the slow march down the hill that served as his killing nest, he found himself looking down the barrel of a well used Colt .45.

The man holding the gun did so without any jitter, and the barrel appeared rock steady, a fact that registered thoroughly in David's mind. How had he not been careful to cover his rear, he wondered, pushing the thought from his mind before it had even had time to resonate. David was a professional, and he knew that it wouldn't do any good to look backward and beat himself up; he needed to look forward and find a way out of this situation.

"Stop! Polizia!" the man with the gun said in Italian. "Non si muovono."

David stayed where he was, watching as the man took out a pair of nylon wrist restraints, keeping the gun steady the entire time. As the man moved closer, intending to make his arrest, David quickly grabbed the wrist that the gun was in, stepping out of the line of fire just as the weapon boomed in the man's hand. Keeping a tight grip on his wrist, David used the palm of his other hand, jamming it hard into the man's elbow. A faint popping noise could be heard, as the gun slipped from the man's hand and he backed away in horror, looking at his broken arm.

David picked up the fallen .45 and quickly disassembled it, letting the pieces fall to the ground. The man with the broken arm looked at him questioningly, a sign of relief spreading across his sweaty face.

"You're not going to kill me?" the man asked uncertainly, a degree of hope in his voice.

"Don't be silly," David said, pulling his own pistol out from the back of his pants and firing two shots into the man's chest. "You made my day slightly more complicated."

CIA Headquarters, Langley, VA

"Sheffield," the man answered simply.

"Rich, we've got a problem," the man on the other end of the line said, his tone urgent.

"Venice?"

"He killed a cop to get away; the police are looking for him."

Richard Sheffield thought about the supposed problem, wondering if there was any need for concern. He was a careful man who hated loose ends.

"What about the job?" Richard asked for the first time.

"It's done," the man replied. "Landy is dead."

"Do nothing," Richard instructed, leaning back in his leather desk chair. "The asset is smart, he'll manage."

Sheffield ended the call, placing the black telephone back into its receiver. He glanced over to the left side of his office, where a small whiteboard stood perched on its aluminum stand. Attached to the board were three pictures, with names scrawled in marker underneath.

Sheffield crossed the room, removing the photograph labeled 'Pamela Landy' from the whiteboard. He then stepped back, staring at the two remaining pictures. The faces of Jason Bourne and Nicky Parsons stared back at him.