The weight of anxiety that had been pushing down on Marcus ever since this ordeal had started was beginning to lift as he took up his carefully planned position on a street corner opposite the building, and in it's place was a cold, steely determination. The position was perfect, close enough to still have a good view of the area and a short closing distance, but far enough away as to not draw too much attention. The time of year meant that it was already dark out, which further worked to Marcus' advantage. Finally, he was in his element again. Stalking through the shadows with a purpose and a plan, he was a ghost once more. He noticed an empty bottle of Scotch, wrapped in a brown paper bag, discarded in the gutter at his feet. Even better, it would make a great prop. If the target saw him he would be just another drunk; throwing his life away on that God forsaken street corner. He took one last chance to memorize the face in the photo before stowing it away, and making sure it and all the other things he was carrying were carefully concealed. He was ready, there could be no mistakes.
The feeling carried him back to one of the few pleasant memories from the orphanage. There had been this kid, Ryan, who ran the place like a tyrant behind the adults backs. While Marcus had done a good job of staying out of Ryan's way, many of the others weren't so lucky. Tim Rockwell (one of the very few people Marcus had considered a genuine friend) didn't sleep right for over a week after he and Ryan were involved in an 'accident', which followed the day after Tim had lost Ryan's soccer ball.
This was the last straw for Marcus. The problem was that Marcus was still only eight, whereas Ryan was fifteen, and Marcus knew he stood no chance in a fair fight (not that Ryan ever fought fair anyway). So he watched, waited, and plotted; and it wasn't long before he discovered Ryan's weakness.
Ryan still slept with a teddy, which was the only connection he had ever had to his parents (Marcus had broken into Ryan's room, at great personal risk, to find this fatal evidence). Knowing Ryan like he did, Marcus knew that he would be distraught if his tough guy reputation were to be shattered by such an embarrassing secret. However, he couldn't risk taking it in daylight. So he hid in the top compartment of Ryan's closet for what must have been four hours, until he heard his victim come up to bed, and eventually drift off into a series of comically loud snores.
When Ryan awoke the next morning, the teddy that had been clutched so tightly in his arms when he went to sleep was gone. After minutes of frantic searching around his room, the tree outside his bedroom window caught his eye.
Hanging from a branch by a crude rig of string and safety pins, was the teddy's disembodied head. Its button eyes were gouged so they hung around its cheeks; and for good measure, a cardboard sign had been pinned to what was left of its neck that bore the legend 'To Ryan, from Mommy and Daddy' in red paint.
It wasn't long before Ryan discovered who was responsible. That afternoon Ryan came for him by the swings (many just stood and watched in stunned silence, certain that Marcus was about to die). Unfortunately for Ryan, his rage had blinded him from spotting the fallen tree branch in his path, that he proceeded to trip over and fall into the dirt in front of a jeering crowd. His reign of tyranny ended with him sprawled at Marcus' feet. All that was left for Marcus to do was to smile dryly down at Ryan, before stamping on his face hard enough to break his nose. He hadn't just beaten Ryan, he had humiliated him. He was a hero to all the other kids there, and for the first time in his life Marcus felt truly powerful. He had since spent his entire adolescent years and a few of his adult ones trying to recapture that feeling, and now he had.
Back to the present, and Mr. Mark was exiting the building and crossing the well lit parking lot. It didn't take long before Marcus was certain it was him. He stayed hidden, and bided his time until his target exited the parking lot, and began to walk away down the much darker street. It was time to make his move.
