Dexter stayed at the Alibi until nightfall. He checked the time, then glanced at Terry Milkovich, who was inside the bar playing pool with two of his buddies. Dexter smiled quietly, said goodbye to Kevin, and left.
After stepping out of the bar, he grabbed a quick, unremarkable dinner somewhere nearby, then returned to his hotel to prepare for the night's work.
Taking out Terry wasn't something to treat lightly. It required careful planning and thorough preparation. One wrong move, and he'd be spending the foreseeable future behind bars.
So—gloves, a balaclava, a hat, brand-new clothes, brand-new shoes. He needed a completely fresh look. On top of that, he'd already picked a spot where he'd ditch the motorcycle and stash a second set of clothes for changing afterward.
Killing Terry wouldn't be hard.
Getting away with it was the hard part.
Even in America—where gunshots were practically a daily soundtrack.
Time flew by.
By a little after 10 p.m., every preparation he could think of was complete.
Dexter was crouched beneath a stretch of elevated light-rail tracks along Terry's route home from the Alibi, tucked into an especially dark corner. He'd even scattered some trash around himself, making it look like he was just another homeless guy, waiting quietly.
Before he realized it—
Snowflakes began drifting down.
It was snowing.
Dexter smiled helplessly. Nothing ever comes easy.
The temperature kept dropping. It was freezing.
He curled in on himself as much as he could, gritting his teeth and enduring it.
More than half an hour passed.
Finally, Terry's loud, obnoxious voice drifted over from not too far away.
The moment Dexter heard it, his blood started boiling. He subtly turned his head toward the sound.
After sitting in the dark for so long, his eyes had adjusted.
He could clearly see Terry.
Terry had a cigarette in his mouth, laughing and joking as he walked with two of his brothers.
Seeing that gave Dexter a headache.
With other people around, taking a shot would be way too risky—unless he killed all three of them.
Granted, Terry's two buddies were no angels either. They deserved it just as much.
But killing one person versus killing three?
That was a completely different level.
Gun down three people in one go, and he'd officially be a serial killer. If the local cops couldn't catch him, this would almost certainly get kicked up to the FBI.
That would be a nightmare.
After thinking it through, Dexter decided not to kill Terry's two companions and instead wait patiently for an opening.
For one thing…
Those two didn't live with Terry. Sooner or later, they'd split up.
It was just a matter of when—and where.
If nothing worked out, he'd walk away and try again another day.
Decision made, Dexter took several deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down.
He waited a bit longer.
The three men walked farther ahead, putting some distance between themselves and Dexter.
That felt close enough.
Without wasting time, Dexter stood up, quietly pulled off the dirty cloth covering the motorcycle lying on its side nearby, lifted it upright, and climbed on.
He didn't start the engine right away—just kept watching.
The three kept walking. Still no split.
Damn it.
He held on for two more minutes.
Bingo.
Terry's two buddies said goodbye and headed off in another direction.
Dexter grinned.
He started the engine and pulled out—but didn't rush. He rode slowly, waiting until Terry's companions were truly gone.
Now.
He twisted the throttle.
Vroooom—
The engine roared louder than he'd like.
There was no helping it. He'd already picked a bike that was relatively quiet, but a motorcycle was still a motorcycle.
He'd considered using a car.
Problem was, cars were easy to track. A bike was far more practical.
In no time, Dexter was closing in from behind.
Late at night, the street was dead quiet.
Naturally, Terry heard the motorcycle and turned around, looking at Dexter with mild curiosity. That was it. He glanced once, then looked away.
Dexter, helmet on, grinned and slowed slightly.
A few seconds later—
He was less than three feet behind Terry.
No hesitation.
Gun out. Trigger pulled.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
At that distance, five shots—all of them hit.
In the next instant, Dexter holstered the gun, turned the bike, and sped off along the pre-planned escape route.
Terry's face froze in shock. Blood poured from his mouth as he slowly collapsed.
One second. Two seconds…
About ten seconds later, the front door of a house roughly two hundred meters ahead swung open. A middle-aged man in pajamas stepped outside, startled and confused, looking left and right.
Then he saw Terry.
Blood pooling beneath the body, staining the pavement red.
"Holy shit!" the man shouted. He didn't recognize Terry and didn't dare get close. He rushed back inside and called the police.
More people began stepping out of nearby houses.
A couple of minutes later, the street in front of Terry's body grew noisy, voices overlapping in alarm.
Around then, Mandy woke up, irritated by the commotion, and stepped outside.
She saw the body.
Recognized Terry.
Her whole body jolted. Her expression changed instantly, and she froze in place.
"Mickey! Mickey! Wake up!" After a brief stunned pause, Mandy snapped back to reality and ran inside, pounding on Mickey's bedroom door and screaming.
Mickey had been dead asleep. He woke up annoyed. "What is it?!"
"Dad's dead—hurry!"
Mickey: "!!!!"
Mickey moved fast. In under a minute, he and Mandy were standing next to Terry's body.
Terry lay in a pool of blood, lifeless.
"Fk!!!" Mickey stared at him, his head buzzing so hard he nearly lost his balance, cursing through clenched teeth.
Mandy covered her face, devastated, unable to believe what she was seeing.
Wooo—wooo—
Police sirens approached.
---
[Merit +3865!]
Riding the adrenaline high from the boiling rush of blood, Dexter was still on the move, heading toward his planned destination.
When the notification appeared, he broke into a huge grin.
"Hell yeah."
The rush doubled.
He kept running.
Fifteen minutes passed in a blink.
After safely reaching the spot, Dexter got off the bike, tipped it over, opened the gas tank, and lifted it as much as possible so the fuel would drain faster. Then he changed clothes, tossed everything he'd been wearing onto the gasoline-soaked ground, and lit it.
Whoosh—
Flames shot up.
The motorcycle and clothes began to burn.
No explosion.
The area was completely deserted. Dexter waited a moment, then turned and walked toward the nearest light-rail station.
After more than twenty minutes on foot, he boarded the train.
11:55 p.m.
Dexter arrived back at the Alibi.
Kevin was working late that night and was still there. Seeing Dexter walk in so late, he looked surprised. "Man, what are you doing here at this hour?"
Dexter smiled. "Got a little hungry. How long till you're off? Want to grab something to eat?"
Only four hardcore drunks were left in the bar.
"Probably gonna be a bit," Kevin replied apologetically.
"No problem," Dexter said with a nod, smiling calmly.