Beaufort, South Carolina
March 22
Milo Graves tugged on the leash and hauled the obstinate Yorkie away from the bush he had been sniffing. He had agreed to foster the little dog for this very purpose. Across the street, Twitch’s living room was illuminated with both lights and laughter. Half a block down, two men sat in a darkened SUV.
Pondering the development, Milo scratched his temple with the handle of the prop cane. It seemed his misstep at the mall had prompted action. He followed the little dog to a pristine lawn and waited while he did his business.
The solution to this elementary problem was patience. Twitch and her work associates needed to feel confident the situation at the mall had been an isolated incident: a hopeful paramour, too shy to approach her. His routine surveillance of Twitch at her house had been too well-executed, too covert to garner any notice.
Milo tugged the dog along to the next shrub of interest. It was stupid to have followed her at the shopping center, but in the course of his observations, he had developed something of an attachment to the captivating redhead. She was soft-hearted yet steely, demure yet determined, reserved yet resolute. Milo saw himself in her.
As he approached the occupied SUV parked across the street, Milo knelt to adjust the Yorkie’s little plaid jacket, then continued walking at a leisurely pace. Don’t rush, don’t dawdle. He was certain if the men noted his presence, they quickly dismissed him as a threat. Nevertheless, he would have to curtail his reconnaissance.
Yes, Milo thought as he rounded the corner, in a week or so, this would all be forgotten, chalked up to overzealousness and paranoia. And then he would show them exactly how much of a threat he was.
The taut leash stopped his forward progress, and Milo turned back. The dog was stiff as a board, staring at a laurel hedge and producing a low, steady growl. Milo hauled the Yorkie away before he started barking. The last thing he needed was to be spotlighted because this stupid mutt had sniffed out some creature lurking in the bushes.
Zmeya, Gabriel Lorca’s assassin, stood behind the row of bushes, rolling an unlit cigarette between his tobacco-stained fingers. While he held little regard for American Special Forces, Zmeya knew enough to stay out of sight. More so because this bumbling man walking his dog seemed to be watching the same house that held Zmeya’s attention. It appeared Zmeya wasn’t the only person interested in this group. Although, the Russian suspected the idiot walking the dog had a different agenda. Zmeya weighed the pros and cons of killing this horsefly and concluded the man might be of use in drawing out the scar-faced man—the goat lures the lion.
Either his quarry would come to these people, or they would lead Zmeya to him. One way or another, his bullet would find its mark.