Even as he lays his sniper against the tripod, Floyd's thinking of a meticulous way to kill you. A richochetted bullet would hit your head. In half an hour, he'd be onto his next victim and collecting his cash at the end of the day. Except, as he stares at you down the sights, his finger remains off the trigger.

You're interesting. He'd been following you for a while, delaying the time to strike. He doesn't take the hit just yet. Who would want you dead? He wants to see you himself, in person.