Bullet to the Heart (2 page)

She practiced every day. He praised her and she got extra rations if she hit all her targets. If she missed, she went to the water pit. Even when the targets popped up on her out of nowhere she had to hit them. She imagined they were the men who had killed her mama, daddy, and sister. She hit them in the middle of the forehead every time now.

A broken cry drew Bullet’s attention from the gun. Julio had grabbed Ninka by her hair and pulled her up. She couldn’t stand, and her tiny body was like a cooked spaghetti noodle. Bullet’s gaze found the other girls. They lay there immobile, eyes closed, all except for Bone, whose eyes were narrowed on Julio. The ropes Bone had been tied with dug into her body, and though she’d struggled against the bonds all night, she’d done nothing more than scrape her skin raw.

Another cry, this one of pain as Ninka began to flail in Julio’s grip. He shook her hard by the shoulders, then harder, and her head bobbled on her tiny body, back and forth. Her bright, wheat-colored hair had been like the yellow crayon in Bullet’s Crayola box at home. Now it was dirty and matted to her head, nothing but the ends swinging as Julio continued to shake her.

“You’re such a stupid child! Why can’t you learn to be quiet?” he demanded in broken English. His voice was like the devil.

Ninka wasn’t making a sound anymore. He stopped shaking and threw her on the ground. She collapsed at his feet, laid there unmoving. Bullet wondered if she was dead, and the thought made rage move like a thunder storm through her.

Ninka sang sweet songs and always snuck into Bullet’s bed at night. She liked to hug close to Bullet in the cold dark, her soft hands folded between them as if in prayer. Bullet’s mother had prayed exactly that way.

Bullet wondered if the person named God had ever answered. She’d asked Ninka if she was praying and the other little girl always replied she wasn’t, her hands were just cold.

Bullet’s gaze flew to Ninka’s hands. They were open on the dirt, not folded but probably freezing. Bullet should warm them.

Julio reared back and kicked the little girl. Bullet’s hands clenched. She wished for a gun. Ninka coughed after he kicked her, spit up blood. It was bright red on her pale lips. Her eyes lifted and Bullet was caught in their blue depths. Like the ocean she’d picked sand dollars beside, Ninka’s eyes were deep.

“Help me, Bullet,” she cried out and reached for the one she clung to in the night.

Julio kicked her again and she squealed in pain, her back bowing under the onslaught.

“No,” Bullet whispered. She was so cold. Why had they taken her clothes?

Over and over he kicked until the sounds of his boot meeting the small girl’s body were more than Bullet could bear. Ninka was all that was sweetness and light. And he was hurting her so badly.

“Do it, child,” the black-eyed man taunted.

“Stop,” she whispered unable to tear her eyes away from the evil man hurting her friend.

Julio leaned down and grasped Ninka’s head. He looked at Minton, who simply nodded. The expression on Julio’s face was happy. Then he began to squeeze her little head. He squeezed until her cheeks nearly met each other and still her gaze remained on Bullet, pleading. He began to twist Ninka’s head, it seemed slow motion to Bullet, and then a hole blossomed in his forehead.

The feel of the weapon in her hand, the tang of gun powder in the air, made her smile, and so did the sound Julio’s body hitting the ground.

But Ninka fell too. Silent and unmoving, her head at an odd angle, eyes sadly dim. Bullet didn’t breathe, feared the noise would cause punishment. Julio wasn’t holding Ninka anymore, wasn’t kicking her. Why wasn’t she moving? Singing?

“You are an amazing shot, child. You’ll have extra rations for hitting the target,” the black-eyed man said and the note in his voice made her brain shriek. “In fact, you did so well, I won’t punish you for making the loud sound. Now give me the gun, Bullet, and untie your sisters. There’s training to do.”

She’d not put on the thing called a silencer. And he was giving her a pass. Bullet stilled inside, recognized the magnitude of her error. She’d do better next time so there’d be no chance of messing up. Extra rations were good. Sometimes she even got the bitter chocolate.

“The gun, Bullet. Give it to me.” His voice was hard now, mean.

She looked up, back down at the gun, and then handed him the weapon as she bowed her head.

“Good, child. Now do as I’ve said and get back to camp.” Then he and Minton were gone.

She untied the others, taking care not to hurt them. The knots on the cuffs were tight, and her hands were cold so it took her a long time. She eventually got them free. All of them banded together to pull Julio’s heavy dead body to the edge of the clearing, and then they walked back to Ninka.

“She’s dead. Why wouldn’t she shut up?” Bone asked as she sat down beside Ninka’s still body.

“She was breaking,” Arrow answered.

“We can’t break,” Bullet said as she wiped wetness from her cheek.

“She was a stupid girl and we are already broken,” Bone replied in a tired voice.

Blade bent over Ninka’s head, lifted it, and placed it in her lap. “We can bend. Like the steel that is used to make my long blades, we can bend.”

“We have to hide her so nothing can hurt her anymore,” Arrow said as she sat down too and began to stroke Ninka’s dirty hair.

“Then we’ll have to say a death prayer, but the God of my fathers doesn’t listen to my prayers anymore, so someone else will have to,” Bone replied.

Bullet rubbed her chest. Her heart really hurt. She wanted to fold her hands and pray, talk to the person named God so he could take away the cold in her bones. Instead, she kneeled beside Ninka’s body, moved in close, and grabbed her hands, flattened them between her own, and bowed her head. Blade stroked Bullet’s hair, too.

Time passed, and there was a shadow of warning in Bullet’s brain—they should hide Ninka and get back to the camp before the black-eyed man came for her and took away the rations she’d earned a few minutes ago. Arrow whispered in a foreign language. It sounded like the same thing over and over, but Bullet didn’t speak like Arrow did, so she didn’t know what the other girl was saying. Bone stared at the ground, but her hand was on Ninka’s arm, squeezing and letting go, squeezing and letting go.

They were all there, but Ninka was gone from them. Five had become four. Bullet looked up at the sky, the very blue color so bright it pierced her eyes, made them water again. Then she leaned over the girl’s head which still rested so peacefully on Blade’s lap, placed a kiss on her brow, and whispered, “I’ll kill them, Ninka. I’ll kill them all.”

Seattle, Washington

Present Day

Remi watched the rain dance and slide along the barrel of her rifle, and lowered her eye to the scope. She’d been on this observation deck for five days, waiting. Her target was due to leave in another hour. He’d depart from the front entrance of the Columbia Center along Fifth Avenue, and attempt to enter a limousine that had been scheduled two days ago to take him to the airport.

He wasn’t going to make it to the airport. He wasn’t even going to make it to the limousine. She toyed with the phone at her side, breathed deeply. Once the kill was made, she’d have roughly six minutes to get out of Smith Tower. She’d be cutting it close, but there was no way the men with her target would sit around and wait on the cops. They’d come for the shooter.

She pulled the tarpaulin tighter around her. It’d rained every minute she’d been in this city. The sky wept, but surely it wasn’t for the man she’d come to dispose of. She was stiff with the waiting. The only time she moved was to use the bathroom in a little container she’d brought for just that purpose. Eating had been put on hold the last two days though she kept hydrated with her camel-pack.

She’d give most of what she owned for the rain to stop. Most. But not all. She shifted her weight to her left hip, settled the rifle, and once again peered through the scope.

She’d studied Rand Beckett for a year. The man had a very interesting past, but the bottom line was he was an enemy to her employer. His company, Trident Corporation, had been a thorn in The Collective’s ass for nearly eight years. Remi would have thought the loss of his wife and daughter would have ended the man’s mission to destroy The Collective.

It hadn’t. If anything, it had made him more tenacious. He and his brother-in-law were both slated for termination. It’s why she’d been sent here to begin with. She sighed, Mr. Beckett’s face floating through her mind. Rough-hewn features, strong jaw, high cheekbones, and the most startling shade of indigo eyes she’d ever seen. They’d taken her breath when she’d first seen his picture seven years ago. Joseph had watched her closely, as he always did when he gave her an assignment, and in his pitch black eyes there had been a flash of interest at her reaction. She’d masked it quickly, but with Joseph it was hard to hide everything. Not that it mattered this time. Bastard.

Her left hand clenched and she felt the phone. She had a four-minute window from the time it rang with confirmation of the target’s departure before she’d make her shot. She’d have one of those minutes to set her objective in motion.

She closed her eyes, felt the rain glide against the exposed skin of her right wrist. It was cold, bitterly so, but she’d endured worst. Five days of waiting and scoping had given her time to come to grips with her decision. Too many deaths weighed on her soul now. It had ceased to matter that those deaths were warranted, that the people she’d killed were more-than-likely rotting in hell.

She’d pulled the trigger and sent them there. The heaviness of that was staggering. She’d recently begun to falter under its load. It was time to make sure old wrongs were righted, and then she could rest. The others agreed.

The phone vibrated against her hand.

“Yes?”

“Your four minute window is confirmed,” a woman said in a calm voice.

“Affirmative,” she replied and disconnected.

She moved back to her stomach, settled in, and gazed through the scope once more, making infinitesimal adjustments so her range wasn’t off.

Movement behind the large glass doors of the Columbia Center gave credibility to her caller’s information. Remi lifted the phone and punched in a number she’d memorized a week ago for just this moment. One minute more and she’d press dial, give him the only warning he’d ever get from her.

She breathed in deeply, felt the cold air move through her body, settling all the places that needed to be cold for this moment.

“
Bayu-bay
, all people should sleep at night,” Remi whispered and smiled to herself. “I see you. . ."

Rand’s phone rang, and he glanced at the readout. It was a number he didn’t recognize.

He answered it anyway. “Yes?”

“I would suggest you duck,” a woman’s lyrical voice said through the phone. Her voice stroked him from the inside out.

“Who is this?” he demanded as he walked out of the building. Two members of his security team were with him, one in front and one behind.

“That isn’t important. What is important is that you duck,” she responded, and in the tone was a touch of frustration now.

He wanted to smile for some odd reason. “Look, whoever this is—”

“Fine,” she huffed. “But I’m only making one shot and if I take you out with him, it’s on you.”

The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He was in the crosshairs. Rand turned swiftly, pushed the man behind him down, and ducked. In the next instant a shot rang out. Had the bullet been meant for him, he would have been way too late. As it was, Donnie Parker’s head exploded in front of him, and the man fell lifeless to the ground.

“Fuck!” He took cover behind the limo. “Dobson, get back in the building and call Ken,” Rand instructed the other security man.

“Yes, sir!” Dobson yelled, and raced back into the building.

Rand looked around, and in a split second made a determination of where the shot had come from. “Get in the building and call the police,” he instructed the shocked limo driver. The man just sat there, dazed and confused.

“Call the fucking police, goddamn it!” Rand yelled to get the man’s attention, and then he gave up.

The shot had come from somewhere southwest of his location. He began to move, calculating distance and looking for anything out of the ordinary. She’d said one shot. He obviously hadn’t been the target, which made zero sense. Parker hadn’t been with him long, but he’d been clean.

Rand made it across Fifth Avenue, making sure to keep cars between him and any straight line of site. He zigzagged, narrowly avoiding a city bus, the entire time feeling the sting of adrenaline course through his body. Everything sharpened, tapered. His breath quieted, though his lungs expanded to draw in more air. His every aim and intent was to get to the towered building a block north of his location. There were sirens in the distance but no other shots split the late morning. He ran once he reached the cover of the buildings across from Columbia Center.

He came to Smith Tower and halted against a column outside the entrance. People milled to and fro, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a man had just had his head blown to kingdom come a street over. His gaze searched for anything out of the ordinary. It had been less than five minutes since the shot. He reached for his phone and dialed Ken.