Colorado.
Kneeling in the same spot for hours resulted in cramping muscles and a dampening forehead. Shifting positions would show weakness. Sweat burned the eyes, not ideal when staring down a scope.
“Any moment now.” Papa’s whispered words drew Jona’s attention back to the bird’s eye view of the school.
The empty tenth-floor apartment in the partially completed residential building afforded the best vantage point at the perfect distance. A couple of school kids pushed open the doors from the auditorium. Around Jona’s age, they seemed carefree while galloping down the stairs. Spoilt Americans.
“Remember what I have taught you.” Papa’s warm hand touched Jona’s shoulder. “I would take the shot, but my hands are no longer reliable.”
This assignment was Jona’s first kill—first human kill. Animals didn’t count, although Jona had hunted alongside Papa in the Finnish woodlands for ten years, since the age of six. That was when Papa was in-country and not on assignment. Otto Kivela was a legend and a mystery to many. And now, he’d become a shadowed soul. The crossover to Tuonela wasn’t long coming. Papa grew weaker every day as cancer ate away at his once fit body and his rapid decline was a worry. As a neopaganist, Jona should feel comfortable with losing Papa, but that was not the case. Otto spoke about the balance of nature and returning to the earth, but where did that leave Jona? Alone on a callous planet.
“Relax. You are white-knuckling the weapon.”
“Sorry, Papa.”
“Concentrate. 400 yards. Wind—five klicks left.”
“Yes, sir.”
Otto pushed up to look through his binoculars. He’d used the same pair for over twenty years—a green rubber, armored Leica Vector pair, with a built-in laser range finder. Like a sniper’s rifle, a good pair of binoculars was vital to the trade. Jona stroked the AI AW rifle with the tactical suppressor and folding stock that could easily fold into a suitcase for a quick escape. This was the first time that Jona would fire the Arctic Warfare bolt-action sniper rifle on the job. Jona’s humble rifle back in Finland wasn’t up to the challenge. Otto refused to use any other model and had relied on the weapon’s accuracy for over thirty years. His firm relations with cartels and criminal syndicates meant easy access to weapons. Otto had never missed a mark with the AW. Over the years, he’d bought and stashed this same model in safe houses in various countries. Back in Finland, on the range, Jona had practiced for weeks with an AW rifle. Finally, the moment of truth was upon them.
“Do not rest the barrel—that will affect the fall of your shot.”
“Yes, sir,” Jona replied, although Otto had said that many times before.
“Aim for a strikethrough. If you can’t take the headshot, aim for the chest.”
“Strikethrough” was Papa’s reference to a clean kill when a bullet enters the skull’s front and blows out the back—the same went for a shot to the heart. Accuracy meant slicing straight through the organ. A perfectly placed round entered at an exact angle and the mark was dead before they hit the ground.
Jona forcibly relaxed as crowds pushed their way out of the school hall and flooded the parking lot. Many made their way to their vehicles. Some milled about as the dipping sun cast shadows on the lot. Still, Jona waited another fifteen minutes. A limousine pulled up, and Jona let out a trembling breath. The targets would never climb into that car.
Two bodyguards led the way. The tycoon followed; his arm wrapped around his teenage daughter. They were far enough away that Jona could barely make out facial features but could feel the daughter’s excitement with her performance at the school play. Her stage make-up highlighted in the telescopic finder as she smiled up at her father.
“Base centered of auditorium,” Otto whispered, alerting Jona to the first mark’s position.
“Seen.”
The mother followed, pausing beside her husband and daughter, her erect posture clothed in a pale-blue designer suit.
“Fire.”
Jona followed the command with a squeeze of the trigger. The first target was the father. Jona aimed for the head‚ knowing the wealthy magnate may be wearing a ballistic vest. The mark fell. Now came the hard part—readjusting aim to the mother. The gun fired again. She dropped but kept moving. Jona swore, as a bodyguard pulled her down the stairs to cover. The limousine now sat in the way.
The daughter... Jona focused on the kid and hesitated. Her screams weren’t audible from a distance, but Jona could feel her palpable anguish.
“Pull the trigger!” Otto yelled.
Jona fired just as a large guard shoved the girl to the ground. They rolled down the steps.
“I missed.” In frustration, Jona took down the nearest watchdog. A headshot dropped the blond warrior.
“You don’t say. We need to move. There will be immediate heat. Pack up! Now!”
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
“We get paid for the three deaths—not one. I should have taken the shot!” Otto used the table to climb to his feet.
“I killed the rich bastard! The wife will die from her injuries.”
“You did half a job.” Papa’s voice sounded thready.
“Let me stay and finish,” Jona begged. “They’re crouched behind the transport. I’ll pick them off.”
“There’s no time. Stop sniveling and help to pack the gear.”
“I’ll ruin your legacy.” Jona scrambled to help.
“My fault. You’re too young—only sixteen.” Face paling, Otto swayed.
“Papa!”
“I’m fine.”
Jona caught the frail man as he fell.
“Leave me.”
“Never, Papa! No.”
“My life… is over. Let me have… the last victory.”
Jona tried to pick up Otto and strained under the weight. They wouldn’t make it. The tycoon’s protection detail, along with local law enforcement, would track them down.
“Go. That is a command.” Otto shoved a palm into Jona’s chest. “We waited too long…. not strong enough.”
“I love you, Papa.” Tears streamed.
“Grow up, child. You know what I expect.”
“Do you want me to…” Jona stared at the rifle in dismay before swiping at a wet cheek. “I can’t shoot you!”
“Let them arrest me. I’ll gloat in those federal pigs’ faces before I die.” Otto smiled weakly.
After adjusting the plans, and hurriedly wiping down the rifle, furniture, and equipment, Jona propped Otto against the wall near the weapon and kissed his clammy forehead.
Leaving without Papa’s beloved binoculars wasn’t an option and Jona tucked them beneath a thin jacket, along with the expensive laser range finder.
Papa’s last order came—the words barely whispered. “Bide your time. Finish the job and kill both bitches.”
“Yes, sir.” Jona never looked back.
The descent rushed by in a blur. After exiting into an alley, then detouring and backtracking, Jona finally sat behind the wheel of their rental car. It smelled like Papa’s cigarettes, and childhood memories came flooding back. God, Papa stayed behind. Otto should never have come on the hunt. Jona should have insisted on leaving him at the rented cabin.
The entire fucked-up operation was all Jona’s fault. That’s what happened when a sixteen-year-old kid stepped into an assassin’s legendary shoes.
Twelve years later. The U.S. Embassy, Colombo, Sri Lanka. “Taylor, what time is it?” Ignoring the burning pain radiating down her left arm, Ambassador Connie Durant sped up as they entered the quiet passage. Her assistant battled to keep up. “Eight-thirty in the evening.” “And my daughter decided to go straight to Martin.” Although Connie trusted Martin Roberts with her life, it annoyed the hell out of her that Chantal hadn’t come to her mother first. Why would she? Their strained relationship lacked the affection they’d once shared. “He is the RSO.” Which was why Connie should feel gratitude. In the past, she’d worked with Martin in DC—established a friendship—and when he’d landed the job at her embassy as the Regional Security Officer a year ago, Connie had breathed a sigh of relief. With twenty-two years on the job, Martin was a seasoned agent with a stellar reputation within diplomatic secu
Three months later.Colombo, Sri Lanka.Gage Hendrix headed across the soft sand with his friend and teammate, Jason Webb. They carried food and paper cups from the nearby street stall and slowed as they reached the rest of his MSD team. The sun hadn’t yet topped the horizon, and aside from a few fishermen, the beach lay quiet.“Wakey, wakey. Eggs and Bakey.” Gage kicked the prone body stretched out on the dunes. “We leave you for five minutes, and you’re already snoozing.”Gannon sat up and yawned, running a hand through shaggy blond hair. “Fucking jet lag is already kicking my ass. I’m not a Spazmanian Devil, like you.” He glanced at the watch on his muscled wrist as Jason walked to the other men at the shoreline. “And you were gone for twenty minutes, bro.”Gag
The MSD men waited in the briefing room for Martin and his RSO team to join them. Happy to be in an air-conditioned facility—deep in the bowels of the embassy, Gage powered up the basic cellphone and tossed the packaging at the trash can.“Ya missed, bro.” Gannon grinned and threw his empty box in the same direction. “New guy cleans up the mess.”Kohen shrugged and stood. Local comms were crucial in the field. MSD agents couldn’t miss a beat when it came to enabling varying and reliable devices. After the briefing, they’d check weapons and their kit, which always remained at the embassy unless in use.“So, what’s the deal?” Kohen tidied up their mess. “We’re playing babysitter for ‘Chanel Five?’”“Chantal. Her name is Chantal, and we’ll get the lowdown in ten.” Gage eyed the newer
Chantal couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched as she climbed into the back of the suburban. It had been a long day, and her feet ached. Thanks to skipping lunch and only having an apple for breakfast, her stomach protested. Exhaustion ate away at her mood, but she forced a smile and greeted her local bodyguards. The workday wasn’t over, and as soon as she got home, she’d change out of her jeans into her sweats. Pulling out a thick customized planner, Chantal scribbled an observation from her last appointment and chose a colored sticker from the back as a reminder for a follow-up. Consistency and self-discipline were both key when offering quality chiropractic services. Only she was in charge of what filled her treatment space and took up her valuable time. Lives were made-up of pattern and routine, and she refused to spend her days on insignificant habits. Kirk, the DS Agent in Charge—referred to in diplomatic
Gage didn’t like her pallor and knew the stunt they’d pulled probably shook her up some. Good. She needed to be a receptive survivor—on top of her game. Her perfume drifted, and he wondered at the familiar notes, picking up a woodsy scent with a creamy coconut vibe. Why did it smell so addictive?Finally, she took his hand. His rough fingers gripped her cool palm, and he felt a tremble. He was the cause. Squashing a sliver of guilt, he smiled reassuringly. A firm grip from a put-together beauty with incredible skin and glossy hair and Gage tried to find a flaw in her armor. And there it was—all in the eyes. She’d never be a good poker player—those large, chocolate-brown eyes held galaxies worth of intel. He released his grip and stepped back. Folding her arms, she backed up against the wall, looking paler than before.“That stunt could’ve ended badly,” Kirk pushed, and Lucius snorted.
Jona collapsed onto the sand and watched the sun rise. This early hour was perfect for a three-mile run. Aside from a few fishermen, the beach lay quiet—a solitary start to the day. Wiping a sweaty brow, Jona acknowledged failure by waiting too long to take out the mother and daughter. It had been twelve years, and Jona had completed fifty-two kills and never failed. Except once… while Papa watched.Standing frozen on the sideline like a procrastinating fucker, waiting to complete this first mission. Why the delay? Because emotions fogged up this unfinished assignment, and Jona couldn’t fail a second time. Between contracts, Jona had stalked the ambassador’s daughter, aware that an assassin should never get too close to their target. Years had passed without action.Chantal Durant had everything in life, and Jona actually liked the spoilt bitch. Chantal had her choice of men—falling over themselves to be with her. Yet, the prissy princess
“We’re waiting for a consignment of wheelchairs, but there is a delay.” Chantal made her last adjustment and moved the right leg, gently feeling around the lady’s severed joint. “How many prosthetics have you worn?”“About ten.”“Twelve,” her husband corrected. “They all cause her pain, and I’m tired of seeing my wife in such agony. She can barely walk.”“Can you stand again?” Chantal helped the fragile woman stand on her good leg, conversing in English with the multi-lingual couple who resided in Colombo. “How does that feel?”“A little better. I feel relief in my back.”“Good. I want you to rest while we adjust the prosthetic. I’ll also need to work on your back for the next two months.”“Thank you, doctor.”“Don’t cry, dear. Let’s fit a temporary limb until your next
Gage watched Wyatt—the new AIC—open the car door for Chantal, and as she climbed out, he glanced over at his team, who were eager to head to the embassy to stow away equipment and weapons. The sun had already set, and they’d locked up late due to a last-minute patient with ulcerations from his prosthetic. “Wait here.” Gage knew it was wrong, but even though they were in the safe confines of the Jefferson House, he chose to walk Chantal back to her cottage. He headed to her side, and she shot him an odd look. “Are you going home?” he asked. “Yeah. Clean-up time.” “I’ll walk you. Let me take your bag. It looks heavy.” She laughed nervously. “You don’t have to. I’m perfectly capable.” “Still, I want to.” She handed it over, and he mock-groaned. “What’s in this thing, bricks?” Chantal laughed. “My planner is the culprit.” “Is your planner a person? Like a