The stucco walls had probably been white decades ago and a row of scarred windows faced a street known for violence. He’d slept in worse, and the idea of unguarded slumber in a real bed after weeks of catnaps on the cold ground was damn appealing. But if all went well, he would only be here a handful of hours. Then he’d be on a plane back to the States. Back to Brea and their baby. And on to his future.
If it didn’t go well, he’d be captured, tortured, and killed.
One-Mile glanced at his watch. Just after seven p.m. Time to set up was running out.
He checked in, bribing the front desk clerk with extra cash to forego the ID requirement. Within two minutes, he walked up the darkened stairs to the third floor, key in hand, and entered the room he’d requested.
Last week when he’d followed Montilla into this slum, he’d scoped out this motel, walked it inside and out, figuring out exactly which room he needed to finish this job—and this asshole. The unit he’d chosen had a big window with unfettered views inside the building across the street. It also had direct access to the interior stairwell that led either down to the multiple exits in the lobby or up to the roof. And bonus, if he had to go up to avoid detection, he could climb to the adjacent parking garage from the top of the hotel, disappear into the alley behind, and be gone in under a minute.
Escape routes weren’t a problem…unless he fucked up.
Glad for his water-repellant backpack and the plastic tarp he’d wrapped his gun case in before he’d tucked it inside, he set up his MK on its tripod at the window, attached the scope, and focused on the front of the run-down gray-brick business across the street, pinpointing a second-story opening. This week, a redhead half Montilla’s age waited for him, pacing.
After double-checking his equipment and perfecting his angle, One-Mile opened the old-fashioned window, heedless of the damp chill. The downpour had dried up to an occasional spit. Even better, the hotel’s external light above seemed to have burned out, leaving him in charcoal shadows.
Breathing through an adrenaline rush and his pounding heartbeat, he hunkered behind his scope and set in to wait.
He was ready.
At precisely nine p.m., the girl across the street suddenly jerked and reluctantly opened her door. And what do you know? Montilla walked inside, right on time, as he had every other week, sporting a lascivious leer and a boner.
Only a lowlife drug lord worth millions would come to a slum for a ten-dollar teenage prostitute. Depraved fuck.
Montilla didn’t say anything before pulling off her T-shirt. Since she wasn’t wearing a bra, her small breasts popped free. Then he pushed her down to the bed, lifted her skirt, and spread her legs before shrugging out of his water-beaded jacket.
The redhead closed her eyes, bracing herself, as his hand dropped to his zipper and he yanked it down.
Maybe he could have let Montilla have one final good time before he bit the dust, but One-Mile knew people had always thought of him as an asshole. Why break form now? After what Montilla had put him through, he gave zero fucks about robbing this son of a bitch of one last orgasm, one last chance to cheat on his wife, and one last opportunity to take advantage of someone smaller, weaker, and poorer than him. Pity the fucker would never know what hit him, but getting the satisfaction of his face being the last thing this lowlife saw was Hollywood shit.
His job now boiled down to aligning his shot and pulling the fucking trigger.
That’s murder, Logan reminded in his head.
Fuck him. If his boss couldn’t see that the world would be much safer without this violent, drug-manufacturing rapist roaming it, then he’d definitely lost his edge. As far as One-Mile was concerned, he was performing a fucking public service. Sure, he’d be saving Brea; that was his first priority. But he’d have a clean conscience when he left here because this girl would have one less john and Baby Jorge would have the chance to grow up with his mother.
Too bad no one had helped his own mom before it was too late.
At the memory, his anger spiked. His heartbeat surged. He breathed, trying to calm it while Montilla dropped his pants around his ankles. But One-Mile’s palms were unusually clammy. His hands shook. He couldn’t fucking compartmentalize this mission like he had all the others. He wasn’t killing this asshole for his unit or his country. This was personal. If he made this kill shot, months of fucking torment and worry would be over. He could finally go home, meet Brea’s daddy, wait for their baby, and love him or her forever. That was more than enough incentive for him.