Further enraged, Dad exclaims, “Dr. Finch, I’m calling the po—”
A bullet blazes through the window. Cold dread zaps through my veins as glass skitters across the floor. Bits of brick break off the wall, inches from Dad’s head.
Eardrums ringing, I find my body crushed beneath the steel of Victor’s dominating frame.
“Get down, Dr. Whitson!” he commands.
My father conceals himself behind his La-Z-Boy. “What the heck?”
A stream of blood drips from his ear. My eyes glide from the look of fear one never expects to see in their own father’s to searching the dark blue depths of Victor’s eyes. “I have to check on—”
“No, no, I’m fine, honey,” Dad reassures, bewildered.
“That sniper’s here for you, Whitson.” Victor’s calm tone, which once made me mad, frustrated, even euphoric during sex, envelops me now. “Lux, I saved your life tonight.”
My life?
Victor’s mouth lowers, devouring my worries.
A stunned silence falls over me, and more glass showers over us. Victor captures my bottom lip in his mouth, tugging softly, and his tongue swipes over the agonized flesh. Once I’m a mess of moaning need, fire lights in Victor’s voice. “Lux, right now, I need you to be that cheeky, confident young woman I first met. No fear.”
1
VICTOR TUDOR
THIRTY-THREE DAYS BEFORE . . .
“Three-thousand nine hundred and fifty-two meters ofbloody fucking perfection,” I murmur. With a keen gaze, I stare the lengthy distance through the scope of my rifle. Approximately two and a half miles away, a man’s enjoying libations with a few members of his militia. He’s dead and doesn’t even know it. The blistering Arabian sun pours down over me as I lie on my stomach on top of a clay building at a higher vantage point. A white towel covers my head to deflect the heat, and beige tactical gear camouflages me from head to toe.
Amongst the hubbub of cars, bikes, and pedestrians, the dead man raises a bottle in a toast. I’m aware of the precise second the blood in his veins will stop pumping. Although the wanker will never know he’s on the receiving end of my three thousand, nine hundred and fifty-two meters.A bloody fucking world record.A phenomenon I’ll not boast about either because this is what I live for.
A new mark.
Unsuspecting.
And the contentment won’t fade from his eyes because the chap will never see it coming.
That’s all that matters.
The kill.
Not the fucking world record. I don’t give a bloody fuck what the mark has done. Botcha minor deal or a major cock-up.It’s of no importance. The essential difference between a mark I expired yesterday and the one in my crosshairs today is his ticker is still bloody ticking.
A waiter blocks their boss,mymark, for a nanosecond, dropping another tray of alcohol. Once the waiter is out of the line of fire, my target’s forehead is no longer the focal point of my scope. He’s now leaning back in his chair with a cocksure grin as sweat dribbles down his brown skin. He lights a cheap cigar, looking up at the sweltering sky.
My breath stalls.
The Arab takes the last puff of his cigar.
I squeeze the trigger.
Nice.
A precise hole wedges between his eyes. Smile frozen, the Arab falls back dead.
“Chipper cunt,” I mutter. While drawing their guns, his crew springs to their feet, fire lit under their arses.
“Where did that come from? Fuck! Fuck!” I read their lips through my scope as they speak Arabic. Gripping AK-47s tightly, they point in all directions. Mission complete. Hard work done; time to play.