Authors: Liliana Hart
Tags: #romance, #suspense, #adventure, #military, #spies, #london, #romantic thriller
Kill Shot
KILL SHOT
By Liliana Hart
Copyright 2013 Liliana Hart
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CONTENTS
Kidal, Africa
William Sloane was a killer. And he liked
it.
He stepped off his private jet into the hot
African desert, adjusted his wide-brimmed hat, and curled his lip
in disgust at the sight before him. Dust swirled in devilish
whirls, and the fine grains lodged themselves in places not meant
for sand. His eyes watered, and though his mouth stayed closed, the
gritty particles crunched like bits of broken shell between his
molars.
Ramshackle huts sat in drunken rows, pieced
together with worn cloth and brittle wood. Crude chairs were
scattered around the remains of long-cold fires, and a thick iron
stew pot lay haphazardly on its side, thickly crusted with old
food.
God, how did people live in such filth?
The horrendous conditions weren’t likely to
bother the people of this tiny village anymore. The body count was
just shy of a hundred—a paltry sum in comparison to some of the
other sites—but every death brought him closer to finding the
original components of the formula.
Each test only improved his chances of
succeeding—the rush of power almost overwhelming with every death.
He walked through the wasteland of scattered bodies, stepped over
emaciated limbs, and barely spared a glance at the remains of a
group of children. There were no consequences to face if the
experiments failed as this one had. William’s reach was vast—his
influence unparalleled—and his pockets were deep.
The cleanup was already underway. It would
take only hours for the bodies to be incinerated. For the crude
huts to be leveled and the ground swept clean of any reminder that
humans had once lived there. His smile of grim satisfaction had
more than one of the workers in grey jumpsuits with the black logo
over the breast pocket heading in the opposite direction.
“Mr. Sloane…Mr. Sloane?”
William started at the high-pitched, nasally
voice of his head scientist and watched with hidden revulsion as
Dr. Alan Standridge lumbered over. Standridge was as wide as he was
short. Sweat stains yellowed his too-small lab coat, and a white
button hung limply by a lone thread, as if it knew its days were
numbered and it would never have the satisfaction of penetrating a
buttonhole again. Standridge’s disheveled hair was dampened at the
temples, and his glasses sat crooked on his pug nose. But under the
layers of fat and distaste was the mind of a genius.
“Standridge,” William acknowledged with a
nod, not bothering to extend his hand. “Are we getting closer?”
“It’s all trial and error at this point.
Every test brings new results.” He pushed his glasses up higher on
the bridge of his nose so his muddy eyes bugged out in their
nervous sockets.
That’s what William liked about Standridge.
Morals never got in the way of an experiment, which was exactly why
Standridge had been let go from his position at MIT. The chemicals
for healing were never quite as fascinating as the chemicals for
killing.
“So what you’re saying is we’re no goddamned
closer to having the formula than we were the last time.”
A cold bead of sweat dripped from the nape
of his neck down William’s spine, and the red haze of anger clouded
his vision. Nothing would be more satisfying than putting his hands
around Standridge’s pudgy neck and squeezing.
“What you’re telling me is that The Passover
Project is useless.”
“Yes…I mean, no.” Standridge grimaced and
shrunk as far as he could into the enormity of his lab coat.
“My patience grows thin, Dr. Standridge.
Failure to complete this experiment is not an option. Do you think
there aren’t other scientists who could do this for me? I already
have your replacement lined up should you continue to fail. And you
won’t be sent to your retirement with benefits, if you understand
my meaning.”
William nodded in satisfaction as
Standridge’s pasty complexion turned even paler.
“You’ve got to give me another chance, Mr.
Sloane. I know I’m getting closer. Maybe two more experiments. I
swear,” the scientist whined. “We can’t rush a weapon of this
magnitude. It has an enormous number of variables, and it’s going
to take time. There’s never been anything like this. The man who
created it has no equal.”
“Obviously,” Sloane derided. “I have
appointments to keep, Standridge. And I believe you need to get
back to the lab. I’ve picked out a Native American tribe in Central
Mexico for your next experiment. I want you to target the chief. If
you manage not to fuck it up, he’ll die a quick death. If you do
manage to fuck it up…well, let’s just say you and the chief will
have a lot in common.”
William Sloane boarded the plane with a
smile on his face.
Colombia
Near the Border of Venezuela
By her calculations, Grace Meredith had
exactly five and a half seconds to take out six targets before an
alarm sounded. She had a round in the chamber and five in the
magazine of her M40A5. Piece of cake.
She ignored the mosquitoes the size of
hummingbirds searching for exposed flesh, and she ignored the sweat
that dripped steadily down her spine as she looked through the
scope of her rifle. The temperature was in the mid-nineties, but
the canopy of trees that blanketed the area held the heat in like
an oven and slowly baked anyone who didn’t have shelter. Her body
and mind were disciplined, so the discomforts didn’t register.
Colombia wasn’t known for its gentle
climate. Or gentle anything for that matter. Gemino Vasquez was
Colombia’s baddest arms dealer, and lately his biggest client had
been North Korea. But Vasquez had something Grace wanted very
badly. Something that would bring in a big, fat paycheck from the
South Korean government.
She shifted slightly, and the bark of the
large tree branch she’d lain on for the last four hours ground
against her stomach. But her focus was absolute. Not even the
hundred-and-fifty-foot drop to the ground could distract her.
The orange sun blazed just over the tops of
the trees, but it would disappear completely in another twenty
minutes. By the time it was gone, she’d have the flash drive in
hand and already be across the border to Venezuela.
Grace did one final check of all her
equipment and took a deep, steadying breath, slowing her heartbeat
so her pulse would be in time with each shot. She’d hit the sentry
at the top of the Vasquez compound first and then take the rest in
order from left to right. She pushed her feet against the tree for
balance. The clock ticked in the background of her mind as she put
the slightest amount of pressure on the trigger.
“One,” she whispered. She didn’t wait to
watch him fall but moved to the next target. Five seconds until the
report from her rifle reached their ears. Five seconds for five
more kills.
Two…
Three…
Four…
Five…
Six…
Grace didn’t stop to check the accuracy of
her shots. She never missed. She hung her rifle on a tree branch,
already missing the feel of it in her hands. Time was of the
essence now, and she couldn’t afford to be burdened with too much
equipment; she’d have to leave it behind. The new guards would be
driving up soon for the shift change, and she had to be long gone
by then.
She unzipped her supply pack, pulling out a
lightweight pipe no longer than her forearm that looked completely
worthless at first glance. In reality, it was a military prototype
she’d borrowed from her former life. She hit the button on each end
of the pipe and it expanded in length until it was almost as tall
as she was, and then she hit the button in the center and waited as
wings made out of a synthetic material unfurled to complete the
hang-glider.
“No time like the present,” she said,
swallowing as she perched on the edge of the tree and looked out
across the jungle. She had a straight shot into the compound, but
any shift in wind would have her hurtling into trees. Falling to
her death wouldn’t bring her the money she needed, so she had no
choice but to take a leap of faith. Literally.
Fifteen minutes until all hell broke
loose.
Grace grasped the bar and jumped. The bottom
dropped out of her stomach as she free fell for just a brief
moment, and then the air caught beneath the wings and she soared
through the treetops like a phantom. It took all her strength and
concentration to keep the glider on a straight path to the compound
roof, and when her feet touched the ground her muscles were
fatigued and her skin coated with perspiration.
She hit another button on the long metal
tube and the glider folded itself back up until it was small enough
to fit back in her pack.
The body of the first sentry she’d shot lay
face down in the greenish-blue water of the swimming pool. A hazy
cloud of blood ballooned from under him, and his arms and legs
floated like waving ribbons.
Her eyes and ears were alert, but all that
greeted her was growing darkness and silence. Even the animals and
birds in the jungle knew bad shit was about to go down.
Grace unhooked the harness and pulled her
Sig from a thigh holster. She stood silently next to the gray door
that led from the roof down a set of stairs to the main floors of
the house. Two heartbeats passed before she opened the door and
slipped inside. It was quiet, but that wasn’t unusual at this time
of the day according to her intel—six sentries on duty surrounding
the compound, only two guarding Vasquez’s private suite of
rooms.
Vasquez’s stupidity only made her job
easier.
Grace walked silently down the thickly
carpeted hallway as if she weren’t about to steal the schematics
for a new superweapon—a weapon that used state-of-the-art laser
technology—and sell it to another country. But the closer she got
to Vasquez, the more her spine tingled in awareness that something
was wrong. That tingle had saved her life more than once, and she
never ignored it. The hallway opened up into a landing just as she
reached Vasquez’s private rooms. Weak light filtered through the
windows and cast rainbows as it pierced the glass chandelier that
hung overhead.
She saw firsthand exactly why her spine was
tingling.
Both sentries were slumped against each
other—a dead man’s embrace—one with a broken neck and the other
with a hunting knife in his carotid. Efficient work considering the
size of the sentries.
She pushed the bodies out of her way with
her foot and eased the door open, her finger on the trigger of her
Sig. All that mattered was the flash drive. If she didn’t produce
it, then she didn’t get paid.
The smells of new death were thick and
cloying in the heat, and she could taste the fresh blood in the
back of her throat with every breath she took. Dust mites danced in
the air, and long shadows were cast in the fading sunlight.
Grace waited for her eyes to adjust and
listened for sounds of footsteps, but all she heard was the gentle
whir of the wicker fans that rotated slowly on the ceiling. She
moved silently, staying close to the wall as she checked each
room.