Kill Shot

by Liliana Hart

  Kill Shot

  Liliana Hart

  Grace Meredith is the CIA’s most deadly assassin. Too bad she’s gone off the grid and become a mercenary for hire. After the death of her daughter by a sniper’s bullet, Grace can no longer stomach the demands of agency life or keep herself from blaming the only man she’s ever loved. Her mind and body are fragile, and she knows she’s just a step away from breaking down completely.

  KILL SHOT

  By Liliana Hart

  PROLOGUE

  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.

  CHAPTER ONE

  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 e
xpanded 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.

  Vasquez’s bedroom was bigger than her whole apartment—the furniture oversized and ornate, the colors garishly red. He was set up for sex. The interesting kind of sex by the looks of it. Restraints and various whips and other tools lined one whole wall, and torn condom packages littered the floor. It looked like Vasquez had had a busy morning. Too bad his afternoon hadn’t turned out so hot.

  Gemino Vasquez’s body lay spread eagle on his bed. He was naked, and his eyes were open and unseeing. A single gunshot wound to the heart bled sluggishly. He hadn’t been dead long. She couldn’t stop the bitter disappointment when she saw the flash drive was gone from the chain on his right wrist.

  “Dammit,” she whispered and moved to check the covers of his bed just to make sure it hadn’t come off in the struggle. But she knew in her heart it was long gone. She knew the signs of a professional hit, and this job reeked of it. What pissed her off even more was that whoever did it managed to sneak in right under her nose. He had to have known she was watching and snuck in through the one blind spot she had at the back of the compound.

  The stir of air behind her was the only warning she had before an arm locked around her throat.

  “Looking for this?” a deep voice whispered in her ear, holding the flash drive in front of her face.

  He pressed close against her back and squeezed his arm tighter around her throat so she had to breathe shallowly through her nose. Grace winced as he pressed his fingers against the pressure points of her wrist, and her pistol fell uselessly to the floor with a dull thunk.

  Fear never had a chance to take hold. It was anger that drove Grace. Anger that had kept her alive the last couple of years. And she knew how to wield it. She threw her head back and aimed her heel at his knee simultaneously. He dodged her blows as if he’d been expecting them, but the distraction was enough for him to loosen his grip. She swept her leg and brought him to his knees, reaching down for the knife in her boot. The blade gleamed once in the fading sunlight just before it was knocked out of her hand and across the room.

  He outweighed her by close to eighty pounds, and he had a good eight inches on her in height. They grappled and rolled, each one blocking the other’s strikes with only seconds to spare. It was a well-choreographed dance.

  A familiar dance.

  The surprise of recognition took her off guard, and she looked up into laughing blue eyes framed by thick, dark lashes she’d always been jealous of. She had time to register that he’d let his hair grow—a shaggy mane of ink black that curled just over his ears and collar, and a face that was covered in a short, stubbled beard—just before her legs went out from under her. She hit the carpet with a thud. A hard body pressed her into the floor, and he held her wrists captive above her head.

  “Hello, Grace.” His breath whispered against her skin, and she couldn’t stop her traitorous body from reacting to his familiar scent. Her nipples hardened, and she arched against him. “You’ve been practicing. Who’s your new sparring partner?”

  “What do you want, Gabe?” She tried to act as if his growing erection against her thigh wasn’t having any effect, but she could tell by the way he shifted against her that her attempt failed. She bit her lip to stifle a moan as he pressed against the very heat of her. He knew exactly how to weaken her resolve. They’d always been able to read each other much too well.

  “I want you, of course.” His lips glanced across her cheek to the corner of her mouth, and she sucked in a breath that brought her body even closer to his. After everything he’d done, he was still the only man who could make her feel less than whole when their bodies weren’t fused together. She hated him for it. She hated herself for it.

  “Go to hell.” She struggled against him, but he just shifted his weight to hold her down.

  “I’ve been there, thanks. Christ you feel good. Stop wiggling and we’ll talk. Don’t you want to at least hear my offer?”

  She stilled her body and relaxed, hoping he’d get distracted long enough for her to make a move. “I don’t want anything you have to offer. Just give me the flash drive.”

  “I figure we have exactly four minutes to get out of this place before the new guards show up for the shift change and Armageddon begins. All I’m asking is that you come back with me and listen to my offer. If you hear me out and still turn me down, then I’ll give you the flash drive with no hard feelings, and you can claim your bounty.”

  Grace stared at him and tried to decide if he was bluffing. “I don’t trust you.”

  “You never have. But what I’m offering will pay you more than double any of the jobs you’ve recently taken. Just hear me o
ut.”

  “Fine. Just move your hard-on and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Darlin’, I have scars on my back from the last time you asked me to move my hard-on. Be careful what you wish for.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “So you’ve told me before. Let’s go before Vasquez’s men get here. I’ve got a pickup scheduled in twenty on the other side of the border.”

  Grace had no choice but to follow him out of one hell and into another.

  * * *

  The woman hadn’t changed a bit in seven years. She still kept her deep auburn hair braided tightly down her back while she was working. But he knew what it looked like spread across his pillow, and he knew what it felt like as it slithered like silk across his chest—glorious. He couldn’t have helped his body’s instant arousal at the touch of her if he’d wanted to.

  He looked at her critically, trying to decipher exactly why his cock always stood at full attention when she was near. It wasn’t just one thing, but the entire package. Her face was thinner now—her cheekbones more pronounced—but it was still the face of a sea goddess. Eyes the color of emeralds, slightly tilted at the corners, and full lips that he’d dreamed about for the past two years. She was every desire he’d ever had wrapped in one tiny package.

  He let his gaze drift down her body. She was thinner all over. The lush curves that had haunted his memory were gone, replaced by a compact body of pure muscle and athleticism. She glanced back at him and raised her brow at where his eyes were glued.

  Gabe smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He’d been wrong. She’d changed a lot. There was a hardness about her now that hadn’t been there before. When she’d first started with the CIA, there had been hope and an ideal of the greater good. Now there was just emptiness—a cold, green stare that didn’t believe in anything, and it scared the hell out of him. Because it was no one’s fault but his own.