This is the kind of night that was made for him, moonless and full dark. The fog rolling off the bay obscures the streetlights, and the clouds overhead blot out the stars. He’s been out of the Agency for years now, but he can’t strip the feeling from his bones. These are the kinds of nights made for renditions and terminations, for the type of orders that will be neatly redacted from official memos, concisely omitted from quaint tell-all books.
This is a night for killing. For killers. For things that skulk in the dark and lurk around the edges.
“Beautiful night, isn’t it, Mr. Reese?” Harold says beside him.
“Sure, Harold,” John agrees easily. “If you say so.”