 Dreamscape presents Marvel's Daredevil, Predator's Smile, by Christopher Golden, narrated by Deon Graham. It was autumn, yet it was still quite warm in Venice. A band played, badly, on the patio of a trittoria in St. Mark's Square. The tables were packed mostly with tourists and business people, and a few couples danced on the cobblestones of the square. It was a clear night, the tiniest of stars visible far beyond the brighter ones, and the moon hung casually, unobtrusively, in the sky. A breeze with the slightest whisper of winter blew across the square, and tourists shivered briefly, then relaxed again as the warmth returned. The wine, no doubt, helped. All the shops were long closed, of course. Venice locked up early, except for restaurants and trittorias. The extraordinary face of St. Mark's Basilica loomed over everything in the square, and opposite it, the open arcades led to other parts of the city, to alleys and canals. On either side of the square, shops and offices were dark, but the square itself had lights, otherwise it would not be a safe place to be at night. Thieves and assassins, you know. If you walked down the steps of the Basilica, and to the left, a wide section of the square lay open to the Grand Canal, and the gondolas that bobbed there in the dirty water. Even the smallest waves sent seawater splashing across the stones by the docks, but there were no gondoliers there that late. There was no one to ferry through the night. In the pitch-black moon shadow cast by the Basilica, a madman slipped from the water, the slick Kevlar of his uniform drying almost instantly. It was more black, but his gloves and boots, his belt, and the wide circles around his neck were stark white. From a waterproof bag he removed his Glock semi-auto pistol, still in its white holster, and strapped it to his leg. He rarely used it since it took the fun out of everything, but he valued insurance. In the center of his forehead, in white, was a bullseye. Dario Panetta sat patiently at his table, suffering the disharmonious efforts of the restaurant's tone-deaf entertainment, with tenuous restraint. Panetta was not a man known for his restraint, nor his patience for that matter, and he was quickly tiring of waiting for the courier. It was a great discourtesy on her part, considering that Panetta had never paid so much for the services of a courier, and, as the moments ticked by, he was quickly deciding that he had paid too much. Far too much, and she did not have the disc for him. Sample complete. Ready to continue?