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accurate, his vision rivaled that of a hawk, his sense of smell was as keen as a wolf’ s, and his reflexes andstrength were that of a cobra. No living thing could stop him. He was a vampire of the highest order.
    His kryptonite was his thrill of the chase, then his lust for the blood. Fresh, warm, human blood. It was what sustained him.
    He raised his head toward the sliver of moon, and inhaled the heavy air. It stank of squalor and hopelessness. The people who lived here in the bowels of the nation’s capital, had long ago given up on themselves, as had the people who ran the world’s most powerful government, less than two miles away. The cops didn’t bother coming down here, and neither did the social workers or the charities. There wasn’t a church for blocks in any direction.
    Senator William Rowland’s press secretary was seriously slumming, but it was Wednesday night, after all. Even if it meant walking among the dredges of the nation’s capital, Blalock never missed his Wednesday night boxing sessions: roughing up D.C.’s endless supply of prostitutes before he returned to the swank Chevy Chase town house he shared with his trust fund trophy wife.
    Blalock probably considered himself lucky that the streets were so dark and deserted. Usually the pushers hung out with the hypes and the street whores who couldn’t turn a trick that night. But not tonight. It was as if they knew Marcus was there and they had to stay away if they wanted to live another day.
    They were right.
    Marcus smiled tightly. Tonight, Blalock would come to an end, and his demise would send a strong message.
    He pulled out a pair of black neoprene gloves and slowly put them on, never once breaking his stare from the building. A moment later, a shiny black Escalade skidded to a stop in front of the building. Marcus watched Don “Mageek Wan” Jackson, Blalock’s oversized and over-ornate pimp, drag two girls from the backseat. Like those before them, they were scared and they were young. Marcus’s temper spiked. Nothing pissed him off more than the exploitation of innocence. And they were innocent. Once. Quickly he leashed his anger. No sense getting heated over something he had no control over.
    Life was a bitch. And then? He smiled tightly and watched Mageek shove the hesitating girls through the doors. And then Blalock dies.
    Marcus watched, and waited. Two ghostlike shadows rose eerily from behind the Dumpster. Marcus knew why they were there. He’d smelled the stench of death clinging to their unwashed bodies like rotten trash the moment he’d taken his position over an hour ago. They were career criminals, and the stench of their many kills still clung to them long after the deeds were done. And, like him, they were patient. And it was only because he knew they were there for Mageek and not Blalock that he allowed them to live.
    Several moments later, the pimp returned empty-handed. Marcus watched the two shadows that had been lurking behind the Dumpster leap from their spot and pounce.
    Mageek cursed.
    Twap-twap-twap. Twap-twap.
    In less then thirty seconds, the shadowed thugspumped the pimp with lead and took off with his ride. Marcus stood for a long minute watching the motionless heap on the street.
    How was that for poetic justice?
    A slight impediment to his plans, but one that would play out in his favor. With Mageek now fresh roadkill, Marcus would have to accelerate his game plan. He’d missed his window of opportunity last week when a bunch of dopers had taken over the stairwell leading to the tenth floor, forcing Blalock to change his plans and preventing Marcus from doing his job. He never made his hits look like hits unless he wanted to send a message. And while tonight’s mark was a message to be sent, he was simply going to cap the guy as he walked out of the apartment and lift his wallet, making it look like a simple mugging and setting D.C.’s tongues speculating over what a high-profile senator’s press