The air was crisp with autumn, and a scattering of bright yellow maples leaves skittered across the walk as Leonid Barzneshki walked briskly from the entrance of the Cabriole Hotel toward the waiting ink black limousine pulled into the entryway drive only a few footsteps from the door. The distance was only slightly more than usual today because of a strategically placed van that had just delivered a load of patrons from Barajas airport, Madrid’s international flight destination.

As was his usual practice, Leonid Barzneshki varied the cadence of his walk, and added an exaggerated weave into the uneven steps as well. It was a maneuver that had served him well in army during his time as Commander of Polish forces in Iraq, and actually saved his life on two separate occasions. No sniper could possibly anticipate any of the random movements. Most snipers anyway.

Leonid had almost reached the limousine, it’s waiting door already ajar as an aide prepared to open it fully, when the spatter of a bloodied projectile slammed into the window of the limousine with a loud spattering smack, and a heartbeat later Leonid Barzneshki stumbled, regained his footing momentarily, then sagged to the ground. The assassin had found their mark, and Leonid Barzneski lay crumpled on the cold slab of the concrete parking ramp.