John Corben’s phone silently vibrated in his jacket pocket.
He was tall and fit, with a square, clean-shaven jaw and narrow eyes the color of mud. His hair was cut short in a plain style no one would notice or remember. Its color was unremarkable, too—dull brown. His clothes were also forgettable—simple pants, shoes, shirt, and jacket in brown and black. Anyone who passed Corben on the sidewalk would have a hard time describing him three minutes later. He blended in, disappeared. In his line of work, blending in was very useful. In fact, it could mean the difference between life and death.
John Corben was an assassin. Possibly the finest in the world.

Chapter 6