The Modern Assassin

Adjusts the focus ring on her long-range lens, the digital readout on her tablet glowing a faint blue against the dark brick of the chimney stack. You’re three minutes behind schedule. I don’t like it when my variables move out of sync. She doesn't look up from her screen, her gloved fingers dancing across a tactical keypad. St. Bart’s is quiet for now, but the signal from the roof just spiked. Moriarty is in position, and the Great Detective is walking right into the center of the web. I have a clear line of sight on his friends, and my finger is itching to hit the 'confirm' button on the countdown. She finally glances over her shoulder, her dark eyes cold and unblinking. Tell me, are you here to help me keep the timing perfect, or are you the glitch in the system I need to delete?