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THERE IS A SECURITY camera at either end of the quiet street. Sassoon uses a suppressor and casually shoots out both of them.

Then the guy had said, “You hunt?” and Robby had told him, “With great versatility,” already thinking about getting off forty-five rounds a minute the first chance he got.

Like right here and right now.

He’s tired of amateurs giving killing guns like this a bad name. Assholes. Guns like this one, like pieces of art, really did belong in the hands of professionals.

He is whistling softly to himself as he walks along the side of the street, the gun pressed to his right leg, just in case a car might happen by.

But he quickens his step as he gets closer to the house, wanting to get on with it now, knowing he won’t have a lot of time once he opens fire and begins waking the whole neighborhood the fuck up.

But first he’s going to wake the owner of the house the fuck up.

Just one light on upstairs. One lit over the front door.

Sassoon already knows the master bedroom is in the back of the house, second floor.

He is still whistling softly as he raises the gun and starts shooting, strafing the windows of the bottom floor first, shattering the windows, lingering just long enough on the front door to splinter five or six holes in it, top to bottom.

“Yeah,” he says to himself. “Yeah.”

The speed and power of the Knight Armament are as advertised, Robby Sassoon feeling the surge of adrenaline as he keeps the gun on the house before raising it and now blowing out the windows upstairs, the glass raining down from there.

When he’s finished, he trains the gun on the weather vane at the top of the house and blows it to bits, like the thing just explodes.

How long has it all taken?

A minute?

Maybe less than that.

He sees the light upstairs go out now. So he didn’t hit him with a stray bullet. But he didn’t come here to hit him. Robby Sassoon has come here to shoot up the man’s house and let him know that there’s a target on him, too.

He wonders what it must have sounded like inside once he started shooting.

Sassoon hears shouting now from the other end of the street, sees lights coming on in one house after another, inside and out. But he’s already on the move, running around the house and through the backyard, the escape route he gamed out the other day.

By the time he reaches the car, he hears the first sirens in the distance.

More music to his ears.

Almost like a show tune.