the storm that had raged around him in the early hours of the night had continued to ride along as though it might have been set on the destruction of all that was, as though confirming his rather darkened train of thought the instant it swept through his mind the thunder rolled and the intensity of it shook him. paranoia was an interesting creature. it ate at the mind until there was little left but that constant wonder of things that start screaming in the night. though sometimes such a state of mind is justified, as now even with the wolf in the safety of his own den. somewhere, a conference of some sort further north than here, a man had spoke on the processes of paranoia. later he was nothing more than a foot note in the psychology books and a headline on the second page of the newspaper, maybe he should have taken his own advice rather than shake hands with the devil. something that he'd said, however, drifted back to the sniper now. paranoia comes from the greek language and literally translates to "outside the mind." that was possibly the most polite way he'd ever heard a man call and entire room full of people crazy without being met with some form of resistance. the alpha idly let his thoughts wander back to the scene that was playing out before him like god's orchestra, at least if the world intended on ending this even devon had front row seats to it's demise. the alpha stood, whiskey in hand, before a wall of clear crystal. a cityscape that rivaled that of new york, but didn't quite touch the same place within the man, stretched out for what seemed like miles before another building stole that breath taking view from him. at his back was room that layout like a law firm corner office with all the trimmings. it was lit only by the comfortable glow of the stock reports, evening news, and computers running searches wile he waited. rather than a commotion of noise every screen was muted and the silence replaced by a classical jazz that ran rivers through the air and though it's intent was to calm his nerves, it did little. the jungle cat turned wall street returned to a leather chair and his emerald gaze slipped over the monitors. a plane coming from out of country into the city every two hours, in country every hour. twenty-nine hotel bookings in the last two days, seven properties had changed hands, and none of it felt quite right to him. sometime in the last forty-eight hours andrew had slipped into his city under his radar. the paper work to prove that rested on the desk to his right. now the sniper just needed to find out when and, substantially more importantly, where. a sigh escaped his lips and that hardened glare returned to the destruction of the world going on outside his window. fuck.