Dodge Zelko

I go bounding up the macaroni curve of an on-ramp in soiled underpants. Traffic is heavy. A fife-and-drum rally has just let out at the Arcadium. The bleating horns of astonished onlookers wash over me as I drop to my belly in the breakdown lane, shouldering a long-range rifle. The scope confuses me. I keep eyeing it, then pulling away, eyeing it, then pulling away, until finally I train the crosshair first on the proper building, then the proper floor, then what I hope is the proper window, which, according to my intel, the mark is scheduled to pass in 28 seconds, right after locking up the MacGuffin in its laser-guarded vault.