Corbis Jordan dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Marino walked away with the .22 still warm in his pocket.

Marino’s cell rung.

“Done,” he murmured, flipping the phone open.

The sniper atop the Mutual Bank Building zeroed in, took a short breath, and fired a .455 projectile downrange, Marino’s way.

The bullet, in a perfect flat trajectory, hit Corbin Jordan’s killer just below the right collar bone practically separating his right shooting arm from the rest of his body.

“Fuck,” grunted Marino as life flickered right out of his nostrils … “and I didn’t have time to rape that bitch…”

Then the darkest darkness wrapped around Marino’s eyes … and he was then sailing, in an instant, high across the river looking down on his own abandoned body on the pier.